Who Was Angela Zendalic (16 page)

‘The letter, Dr Penney. Will you tear it up? I can't bear my parents to know what happened. It'll be even worse for them than it was for me.'

‘Yes. Yes, I agree. Save alot of broken hearts and mud-slinging, but I'll let the Warlocks go through the process. When Garvie delivers it I'll tell him you want the matter strictly contained.' When they got up, he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked her firmly in the eyes. ‘Darling, you're beautiful. You've got the voice of an angel, and your life will be full of amazing things. You
will
get over it.'

‘I'm over it all ready,' she said, smiling widely. And she was. Any hatred by a sad, damaged boy, had been cancelled out by Dr Penney's tender sympathy, his arm around her waist, the warmth of his corduroyed thigh pressed close against her bare, summer legs, the touch of his hair on her cheek, the sweet smell of his skin, the clasp of his hand, and now his sweet words of admiration. He'd told her she was beautiful, and most wonderful of all he'd called her darling.

The next day, around 3.00pm, a tall, fair-haired boy stood at the door of No.55, holding a bicycle. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Zendalic, I was wondering if Angela might be in?'

‘I'm afraid not. She's up at St. Paul's rehearsing for the summer show. And who might you be?'

‘I'm Garvie Warlock. My father's Master of Tavistock. I met Angela yesterday on the zoo trip, and she said she'd help me join the theatre group.'

‘I see. Well you'll have to go back up to Walton Street, turn left, and St. Paul's is the big building with the stone pillars opposite the Post Office, but go in quietly mind, and don't disturb the rehearsal.' The boy thanked her and pedalled off.

‘A lad just called for our Angela,' she said to Stan.

‘What do you mean? A boyfriend, like.'

‘I'm sure of it.'

‘Well, she's far too young. I won't allow it.'

‘Neither will I, but he was dead posh with lovely manners.'

‘Makes no difference. He can sling his hook.' He tutted with bewilderment. ‘Our girl's growing up to be a right stunner and I think we're going to have trouble when she gets going.'

‘What do you mean,
gets going
.'

‘You know full well what I mean. It's the swinging sixties, isn't it? They grow up far too fast these days, and fast is the word. Skirts up round their pants, and all that talk of free love.'

‘Well, our Angela won't be part of that cheap rubbish. We've brought her up to be a good girl and she won't be misbehaving herself.'

‘All I'm saying is that it's going to be tricky. She looks much older than she is, already.'

‘Well, we never had no trouble with our Brenda.'

‘Edie, love. Brenda grew up when the world was a sane and sensible place. Mark my words, we'll be in for a rough ride.'

‘What about her doing that television commercial work, then? Larking around with a lot of actors, and the like. We've told her she can do it if she passes the audition.'

‘And we won't be going back on our word. Miss Daley assured us she'd be properly supervised.'

Edie exhaled loudly. ‘It doesn't seem two minutes ago when she was a helpless little dot in nappies. I thought that was the hard part, and it always used to be.'

Stan shook his head. ‘I'm just worried we've bitten off more than we can chew.'

‘Don't be so bloody stupid. We've just got to keep our guards up.'

But Stan stared into space, knowing that the ‘old guards' really
were
being swept away by an army of mouthy, spoilt, immoral radicals he knew they'd be powerless to oppose.

April 2014
Monks Bottom

I
opened
the French doors to let Howie in, trying to laugh off the mess I must have looked.
     ‘I just wanted a wee word.'

‘Come in Howie. You look frozen. I'll make you a cup of tea. Let's go into the kitchen. Pull your boots off, and throw your coat on the floor.'

The kitchen was, like everywhere else, cold and unlived in, but I turned on an ancient fan heater, and got together a tray of tea. Whatever the ‘wee word' was, it seemed to have been forgotten, with both of us crouched over our cups at the kitchen table, conversing with the ease of old friends. It might have been small talk, but it was deeply comforting to hear him speak about the garden with such obvious love. What was fully out in flower, and what was poised to bloom. What was thriving, what needed urgent attention, and his admiration for Mummy as a brilliant plantswoman. ‘She was a gifted artist,' he said. ‘Her eye for colour and form was superb. Some garden designers just cram stuff in for an instant show, but she planted for maturity, seeing the big picture in future years. This place really ought to be open to the public.' He then shyly told me of the thoughts he had in the quiet of his evenings, facing the fact that he'd soon have to leave the gardens behind. ‘I suppose I'm in love with the place,' he said, but his sweet words jerked my fragile state into action, and I began to cry again.

‘Hey,' he said, moving his chair close up to mine, and placing a hand on my arm. ‘Dinae fash yourself,' he soothed, which was probably Glaswegian for, ‘don't get yourself into such a state'. I held my breath, trying to stop myself, but I was in for a full bawling breakdown. Poor, darling Mummy, and her lovely garden, were the last straws that broke my camel's back of miserable overload. God knows why what happened, happened. It was all me. I couldn't stop myself. I moved my face to his and kissed him on the lips. And I really kissed him, putting my hand to the back of his neck, pressing my lips hard against his, opening my mouth, and finding his tongue. His returned kiss was just as eager and willing, and his strong stubble grazed my cheeks.

I pulled away, seeing his face was wet with my tears. ‘I'm sorry,' I blustered. ‘I don't know why I did that.'

‘You needed it, that's why you did it, but you dinae need to go all Victorian on me. It was very nice, though.'

He smiled at me, even mildly laughing, and I looked at him with scrutiny. His eyes were crystal green and his face strong with intelligence. His teeth were white and even. How did this man of such obvious strength and sensitivity slip into the gutter? I drew in my breath with a shudder, trying to haul myself into sensible state, nervously embarrassed that I'd made more than a fool of myself. ‘I'm so ashamed,' I said. ‘I don't normally go around throwing myself at strange men.'

‘I'm actually not that strange, Mrs ...'

‘I'm not Mrs anything. I'm Miss Penney. Miss single-parent-and-shat-on. I've been on my own for a year now and it's ...Oh, it's not the sex. It's ...'

‘It's the loneliness, isn't it?'

I nodded. ‘You won't tell anyone, will you?'

‘Oh, aye. I'll go in the pub tonight and brag I shagged ye.'

‘You wouldn't!'

He laughed loudly. ‘Of course I wouldn't. I don't go to the pub anyway.'

‘Because of the demon drink?' I said, before I could stop myself.

‘No, lass. My name's Howie Sinclair, and I'm
not
an alcoholic. It's just that my contract with the project forbids it.' He got up. ‘Best I be off, the now.'

‘What was the word you wanted?'

‘Oh, aye. I told Father Crowley you wanted me to stay on. He said he saw you yesterday and you didn't mention it, so I just wondered if you'd changed your mind.'

‘I forgot. Truly. Alot on my mind. Of course, we want you to stay on. My brother-in-law's dealing with it by official letter, but I'll ring Lawrence and confirm.'

‘Thanks.' He stood quite still for a moment, and I thought he had something to say – maybe trying to think of a parting shot that would sign off my ‘silly mistake.' But all he said was, ‘Goodbye, Miss Penney. And thanks for the tea.'

‘Goodbye, Howie.' I went to say something as well – no idea what – but he put his finger to his lips and moved out of the kitchen.

I sat down again, my body glowing, and with what must have been a dopey expression on my face. Well. How lovely was that? Why ever did I do it, but what a bloody treat. I also had to conclude that if he'd shown even the slightest sign of ‘taking things a step further' I wouldn't have had the strength to say no.

August 1967
Jericho

G
arvie
entered the echoing space of the large old church where the company were rehearsing the musical,
Summer Holiday
, word for word, and note for note, of the popular film production starring Cliff Richard and The Shadows. But if Garvie was expecting Angela to be cast in the minor role of flaky Barbara, the love interest, he was in for a shock. No. She was playing Don, the Cliff Richard lead part, and hardly ever off stage. Her tall, slim figure perfect for the role, wearing tight jeans, a boy's loose check shirt, and her hair pulled up beneath a straw pork-pie hat. Her voice, both speaking and singing, grittily low, and animated with the confident tones of a professional actress.

He secreted himself in a darkened corner to watch her climbing out of a flimsy plywood set-prop of a London bus, exchanging jokey dialogue with the chorus, and launching into a rendition of
Bachelor Boy
. Even dressed as a boy she was pretty cool. And how cool
was
this fab brown girl. Why had he been a perfect pig to her?

The cast broke off for a pep talk from the director, but she was so absorbed in going over movements with the group he couldn't catch her eye. At last a halt was called, and after goodbyes, and goodnights, and last minute comments, she slung her duffle bag over her shoulder and walked, unaware of him, towards the large double doors that led out onto the wide Palladian forecourt.

Angela was just going down the steps when she heard a voice calling her. ‘Angela. Angela.' She stopped and turned, jolting with shock. Why was that dreadful boy here? Was he going to be spiteful again, or maybe he'd come to say sorry. She thought quickly, and decided to be confident and icily acerbic.

‘What do you want?'

‘Dr Penney said we could tear the letter up, but he suggested I apologise to you properly. So here I am.'

‘Why bother?'

‘Because I was ...well ...I was pretty nasty to you.'

‘Yes, you were
.
You knew you were being hateful and horrible so why did you do it.'

‘I just do things I don't mean.'

She paused. ‘Then you must be a lunatic. Right. You've said your piece. Was there anything else?'

‘I wondered if I might join the theatre group. I can paint a bit. Do scenery and design things.'

‘Aren't you away at school?'

‘I'm here for the long vacs with not much to do. I'd like to get involved.'

‘Too bad. We've got all the stage hands we want, thanks.'

‘Oh. Oh, well ...'

She turned on her heels. ‘I must be off. Back home to the slums.' She walked off without looking back, elated at her witty, put-down words. And why would she want him to stick around anyway. She was in love, love, love. Deeply in love with someone she was sure was very much in love with her too.

Early October
1967

T
he
choir had assembled and, as usual, Piers rang a small hand bell to call order. ‘Good evening, choir. Before we start I have some very sad news to announce. Our dear Master, Sir Charles Warlock, sadly passed away from a stroke last night.' A loud gasping was heard, followed by whispering words of sorrow. ‘His support of the choir was immense, and you gave him huge pleasure in performance. I will now be preparing the music for his memorial service, and you will, of course, be taking a major part. I'll certainly be including Faure's
In Paradisum
, so I thought we could re-visit it now. Angela, could you please hand out the scores.'

At the end of the session, when everyone was filing out, talking in sad voices about Sir Charles, he called her over. ‘How are you feeling now about that bother with Garvie?'

‘Oh, I've forgotten all about it,' she beamed. ‘He came and apologised, actually.'

‘Good. I was wondering if you'd be happy to sing a solo at Sir Charles's memorial. The
Domine Deus
from Vivaldi's
Gloria
. It was a piece he loved, and he so admired you. Your voice is becoming a true mezzo, and I think you're ready for it.'

With a mixture of pride and passion Angela gazed at him, beaming broadly and feeling a huge magnet of what
must
be his deep love for her. ‘Of course I'll say yes,' she gushed.

‘Do you know it at all?' She shook her head. ‘Then can you spare an hour or so on Saturday? I'm tied up with the choristers all morning, so can you come to my house around one o'clock. Just round the corner. 25, Savile Road. Merryn and Carrie are down in Wales with her parents, to rest up before the babies come, so we can have a spot of lunch together and be nice and quiet.'