All my love
Your proud Pa
I was unable to speak. I had no more tears to shed, but tiny particles of light fell before my eyes, and the muscles in my jaw tingled. I gave it to Howie to read, and picked up the other letter. ‘Dear Pears’. I read it twice and then passed it to Howie with a shocked expression on my face. ‘It can’t be,’ I gasped in a whisper. ‘A Warlock! Everyone’s heard of him, haven’t they?’
‘Christ.’ Howie’s eyes widened. ‘I knew it was good, but I had no idea it was that good. It’ll be worth something in the millions.’
‘What!’
‘That’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s dead. Committed suicide about ten years ago. Bit of an oddball. A junkie with a troubled head.’
I swallowed with disappointment. ‘So the story can never be told, after all. Maybe it’s fate. That it was never meant to be.’
And that was that. I had to accept closure and I stood up sharply. Angela and her convoluted story were lost to the world for ever.
Howie and I got back to The Hall, both in a sort of a dream. For me, musing over the verified facts, as told in Pa’s sweet letter to me, and the obvious love he’d had for Angela. But the big news was that she was a singer. A mezzo like me. And, as we’d thought, my dear mum must have been instantly forgiving, even though he’d made a flippant little joke out of it. Howie, too, had become silent with the shock of discovering its value. Both of us shaking our heads, preparing ourselves for some joker to pop out of a cupboard, tooting a party blower, and screaming with laughter that we’d been taken in by the hoax.’
‘You must get Sotheby’s to value it,’ he said. ‘And in the meantime it’s got to come off the wall and be hidden. There’s so many strangers crawling all over the place and who can you trust these days.’
I agreed. ‘Will you do it, then?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll sleep with it under the bed.’ He took me in his arms and kissed my nose. ‘And talking of bed ...’
How much I wanted to say yes. The warmth and comfort of his body would have been the most perfect, life-affirming relief to wind off a day of high emotion. But I shook my head. There was no time. I had to pick the boys up from school, and get them ready for Beavers in Watlington at 5.00pm. ‘Will you come down tonight?’ I said. ‘After eight when the boys are asleep.’
‘Aye. I’ll be there.’
One last smooth slide of my lips to his and I picked up my handbag. ‘See you later. Thanks for everything. And Howie. I love you. I really mean it.’
‘Sarah, men find it difficult to say, “I love you”, and really mean it, but I do.’
EPILOGUE
November 2014
Classic FM Magazine – ‘The Story of a Fortuitous Discovery’ By Andrea Hansbury
The mezzo-soprano Sarah Penney opened the front door of Old Priory Hall to greet me. A tall, stunning woman, with a short Peter Pan haircut, and a wide white smile, so reminiscent of her famous father. She was accompanied by her two small sons, Shea, 9, and Finn, 7, and an unwieldy Border terrier puppy rushed round her heels. ‘His name’s Geordie,’ she laughed, ‘and he really is a nightmare. Let’s go and sit in my father’s favourite place.’ I followed her through a long corridor, to a large light-filled room that had been Sir Piers’ music room, with stunning views over the Watlington valley. Her partner, Howard, a horticulturist, arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits, and took the boys (and the dog) off into the garden; a beautiful twenty acre site that had been the creation of her mother Merryn. She then told me the incredible story that stunned the art world.
‘When my father died in March,’ Sarah explained, ‘my three sisters and I knew we had to sell The Hall. It broke our hearts but it’s the usual thing that happens with bereavement. It was even worse for us, not only because of our deep love for the place – a real home, with so many memories of the incredibly happy family we were – but because of my mother’s garden.’ Her bright expression dropped at the mention of her mother, Merryn Hughes Madoc, a Welsh harpist, who is now suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s and is in a local nursing home.
‘So the house went on the market,’ she continued, ‘and my sisters and I reluctantly began to deal with the contents. It was only then that we discovered my father had made only one individual bequest in his Will, and that was to me. A painting that had hung in his music room all my life. It was called, ‘Angela Listening To Stuart Henry,’ and we had no idea why he’d left it to me personally.’
‘So what happened then,’ I asked. ‘I presume you soon discovered it was a genuine Warlock.’
‘Yes, that’s right. There was a letter of provenance proving without doubt that he gave it to my father as a personal gift in early 1973. Again, we had no idea why, although Pa had known the Warlock family for years, through his connections with Tavistock College. Sir Charles Warlock was the Master of the college in the Sixties, and Pa had known Garvie since he was a child. Sotheby’s verified it as genuine and were able to give us some background information. That he’d painted it when he was an art student at a technical college in Oxford, just before he went up to St. Martins.’
‘So it was a very early work,’ I said.
Sarah nodded. ‘And that’s where the excitement began. Some publicity came out in the press, and we let it be known that we’d like to find out more about Angela Zendalic, the model. It became something of a cause célèbre, not only in the art world, but nationally as well. We were bombarded with information from her old school friends and choir members, Warlock’s fellow art students, neighbours of their families, and Oxford academia, all who had little snippets and stories to tell us. We were even contacted by Warlock’s sisters, and we were gradually able to piece the story together. That he and Angela were teenage sweethearts, and had lived together for about three months in Aston Street, a bohemian area of student-land. Their relationship had been very volatile, and they parted acrimoniously. Sadly, she died in a traffic accident, not long after. We also discovered that the picture was part of a modern triptych, and the other two had hung together in the Tate Gallery for several years. Angela Asleep and Angela Looking Out Of The Window. Ours was the missing piece.’
‘And I believe that Sotheby’s put a value of £3.4 million on it.’
‘Yes, that’s right. But we were beside ourselves with shock, when the auction price ended up at £7.5 million.’ At this her eyebrows raised. ‘Can you imagine what sort of a state we were all in?’
‘And the fortune was personally yours, wasn’t it?’
‘It was, but there was only one thing I wanted to do with it. We took Priory Hall off the market and I bought it for The Penney Foundation. And that’s what we’re in planning for right now. Designating practice rooms and accommodation, buying everything needed for teaching students and fitting it out with all the latest music technology. My three sisters (the renowned Magdeberg string trio) have decided to retire from public performance and are to be the directors, so we’re definitely keeping it all in the family.’
She then got up, and swept her hands across the green panorama of the garden. ‘And all this is saved as well. Safe in the hands of my partner, Howie. He’s co-ordinating it to be part of the National Gardens Scheme, so we can open it to the public as soon as we get approval. Life couldn’t be more perfect.’
I looked out over the wide vista to see her little boys and Howie in the distance, shoving tackles into each other as they played football. ‘And I believe Mark Monahan, your ex-partner, is also something of a celebrity these days.’
She laughed. ‘He’s re-formed The Renaissance Men, if that’s what you mean. He and Antonio Alessi of the original group, plus two new members. They performed in Hyde Park at a Proms concert last month, and caused a real sensation. They’re going to tour Australia soon.’
‘So everything’s turned out really well for you?’
Sarah Penney smiled her stunning smile. ‘Everything’s just wonderful. Please come back in a year or so, to see the school when it’s up
and running, and we’d be delighted to put on some sort of concert for the Classic FM Charitable Trust.’
‘And can I presume that congratulations are in order as well.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you very much. I can’t really deny it, can I? We’re thrilled. It’s due in February.’
This is a story to warm anyone’s heart. It was delightful to meet Sarah and her lovely family, in a setting of such beauty, and as a future home of the Arts.
‘Are you going to continue to live in the house?’ I finally asked.
‘For the moment we are,’ she said, ‘but only until The Foundation have been given a completion date. Currently Howie and I are waiting for planning permission ourselves. We’re going to build a house to incorporate the small medieval chapel, lower down the garden. An amazing design with loads of glass walls to combine the old and the new. And a view to die for as well.’ She laughed. ‘A real Grand Designs project. I can’t wait to get started on it.’
I shook her hand. And we will certainly be back next year to monitor the progress of The Foundation, and to take her up on her generous offer of a charity concert.
*
Edie and Len Zendalic both died with bitter memories. She, remaining stubborn and unforgiving. He, wishing that he’d had the courage to stand up to his obstinate, intransigent wife, and offer his much-loved little girl the understanding he so wanted to show her.
Ted Rawlings, having been permanently excluded by Peggy, sold up in Jericho and transferred back to the London Met. He lived alone in a small flat in Maida Vale, until his death, at the age of seventy-nine. The neighbours said he was a cheerful old man, who kept himself to himself. He left his substantial estate to Dr Barnardo’s.
After the death of Angela, her Goddaughter, Peggy Edwards resigned from the library service on grounds of ill health. She died six years later, at the age of fifty-two, from alcoholic liver disease. Having lived as a recluse she died alone, and her body wasn’t discovered until three weeks after her death. Her diamond ring had been sold to fund her addiction.
And today, Sarah Penney, soon to be a blissfully happy Sarah Sinclair, is in the process of piecing together the complex story of her parents love affair from a vast raft of old friends, choir members, Jericho neighbours, and the Warlock sisters. Each being able to call upon their lifetime of memories about Angela and Garvie, Piers and Merryn, The Zendalic family, and the dear little dusky baby called Angela.
The new owner of Angela Listening To Stuart Henry generously donated it to The Tate, to hang with the other two in the collection, and be displayed together as the priceless Angela Zendalic Trio.
About Mary
Mary Cavanagh spent her childhood in the leafy climes of North Oxford, and amusing memories abound of eccentric academic neighbours, most of whom were struggling to make end meet on 1950’s austerity.
Being a pupil at St Barnabas Junior School in Jericho was both a privilege and a delight: an experience she feels honoured to have shared with such friendly and unpretentious classmates.
Milham Ford Girl’s Grammar was another story. Being lazy and academically challenged she was grateful to show a clean pair of heels. A hedonistic working life followed as an office clerk, trainee graphic artist, barmaid, au pair, lab assistant and other forgotten nightmares, none of which she took at all seriously. She married Bill (they’re still married after forty-five years!) and had two sons. With her children starting school, she finally got her act together and trained to teach at Westminster College, Oxford – now part of Oxford Brookes University – but she soon discovered she was not a natural teacher. Thus, her working life was spent, very happily, in medical administration.
When asked ‘why did you start to write’ her oft-told tale is that she was inspired after the tail-gate of her Volvo came down and hit her hard on the head! She still has a dent in her skull to prove it. Having heard a story of a man who was struck by lightning, and suddenly found he could play the piano, there might some truth in it!
She describes her writing as strong commercial fiction, born out of her observations and experiences, her fascination with the strange and secret life that is lived within the mind, and mankind’s battle with close relationships.
Her work has been compared to Susan Hill, Henry Fielding, Virginia Woolf, Joanna Trollope, Anita Shreve and Pat Barker (what a diverse mix!).
She is a member of the Oxford Writers Group (OWG), Writers in Oxford and Abingdon Writers.
Also By Mary Cavanagh
Novels
The Crowded Bed (Transita 2007)
The Priest, His Lady and The Drowned Child (Thames River Press 2013)
Text Book
A Seriously Useful Authors Guide to Marketing and Publicising Books (Troubador 2008)
Anthologies with the Oxford Writers Group (OWG)
The Sixpenny Debt and Other Oxford Stories
The Lost College and Other Oxford Stories
The Bodleian Murders and Other Oxford Stories
Get in touch with Mary on her website marycavanagh.co.uk
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 28