Who Was Angela Zendalic (22 page)

With ten weeks to go before ‘P' day it was time go and see Nigel Barker, the stand-in choirmaster who lived in the basement flat of Garvie Warlock's house. Ha! Everyone knew old mother Warlock was so hard up she'd been forced to let out some rooms. Good. Nice to see her knocked down to size. So tomorrow evening she'd drop by to see NB (as he was known) and announce her plans.

Angela was familiar with St. Veep's, the Warlock's house in Crick Road, situated in the heart of the prestigious Norham Gardens enclave; a large detached Victorian villa, built in the early 1870's, and designed by the renowned architectural team of Wilkinson-Moore. Of perfect proportions, and unique grandeur, it was set in its own walled grounds, twisting and turning in an unbridled showpiece of Gothic architecture; an asymmetrical, rambling fanfare of mellow russet bricks, sculptured finials, and pointed gables. Originally designated for the large family of a University grandee, it was by far the most flamboyant in the road, with a stained-glass panelled porch and a turret topped with a weather vane.

Lady Warlock opened the door to her knock, and stared coldly. ‘Can I help you?' she snapped, delivered in a belligerent blast that implied her surprise visitor was trespassing.

‘I've called to see Dr Barker,' Angela replied politely.

‘Have you an appointment?'

‘No, I just wondered if he was in.'

‘Then I think it best if you made one. It's certainly not the done thing to just turn up,' but Garvie suddenly appeared, and pushed his mother firmly to one side.

‘It's Angela Zendalic,' he said, with a tiresome snap. ‘Don't pretend you don't know her. She sang at Pa's Memorial.'

Yes, I did, thought Angela. My usual old standby,
The Three Ravens,
and not the wonderful Vivaldi solo Piers had planned for me, cancelled by the birth of the terrible twins.

The snotty bitch immediately retracted her bigotry with a smarmy smile. ‘Oh, of course. Yes, of course. She's actually called on spec to see Nigel. I suppose it'll be alright if she pops down.'

‘Of course it'll be alright,' Garvie sighed. ‘Why wouldn't it be? He's not the Lord God Almighty.' And turning to Angela. ‘He's got his own front door. Round the back and down the steps. I'll take you.'

With a shrill ring of the bell Nigel Barker appeared. ‘Young lady to see you, Nige,' Garvie called down. ‘Try to behave yourself.' He left with no further comment, leaving Angela on the doorstep.

‘I'm Angela Zendalic,' she said, lowering her eyes, and using her most seductive tone. ‘I used to be a member of Tavistock Choral. You might remember me. I wondered if I can have a word.'

‘Yes, Yes. Do come in,' and Angela entered the small flat, thick with the smell of ground coffee. Being a young virginal man, who suffered excruciating shyness with the opposite sex, NB could hardly articulate his words. ‘I've ...I've just made a pot of coffee. Can ...can I offer you a cup?'

‘Thank you. That would be lovely.'

Once sitting with cups, she turned to him. ‘Dr Barker, I left the choir about eighteen months ago. Dr Penney had suggested that I might try for a scholarship to The Royal Music Institution, but to be honest I was too young to know what I wanted. I was really silly, and I gave up the choir, but now I'd like to re-join.'

Nigel peered at her and nodded, but by his expression she was quite sure that he was, like every other man she met, weak with desire and would agree to anything she wanted. ‘I remember you very well, Angela,' he said, ‘and I also remember your exceptional voice, but if you don't mind me saying, you've changed a lot. You're ...er ...completely grown up.'

She waited patiently for an answer, but all he did was look at her with a simple smile on his face. ‘Well,' she said, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Will it be all right?'

He shook himself awake and addressed her with bashful pleasantness. ‘The choir will be delighted to welcome you back, but sadly I won't be in post. I've been appointed as choral director at Salisbury Cathedral, and we've just heard the reins are being taken over by Dennis Dunn. You'll remember him as organist and bass baritone at Christ Church ...'

She interrupted him. ‘But Dr Penney's coming back.'

‘Ah. You've not heard yet. Piers has resigned from Tavistock. Everything went very well for him at Harvard, and they've offered him a head of department. And joy of joys, Merryn's having another baby.'

Stunned with disbelief Angela gaped for several seconds and then leapt to her feet. With a thumping heart she ran straight out of the flat, howling like a banshee, and rushed past Garvie who was hanging around outside. ‘Angela, wait,' he yelled. ‘Angela, come back,' but she fled blindly into the road. With the power of an Olympian he chased after her, caught her up and tried to grab her, but she turned, kicking out and screaming falsetto, seeming to be possessed with a manic madness. Her foot caught him full in his crotch, felling him to the floor, where he crouched on all fours, groaning in agony.

Angela continued to run, and run, and run; a mist veiling her eyes and vomit rising in her throat. Into the University Parks she fled, down the gravel path to Mesopotamia and over the bridge to the footpath that led to Marston. With all breath gone she collapsed with exhaustion, hanging onto the trunk of a tree, retching. Her eyes blind, her lungs in agony and a black key locking her heart.

1.00am. After two hours of silent anxiety, Stan leapt to his feet. ‘I'm ringing the police?'

‘Shouldn't we try Ted first?'

‘Oh, I don't know, but we must do something.' Thirty seconds later an urgent banging on the door was heard. It was Connie Beale from Walton Crescent.

‘Come quick,' she gulped. ‘Your Angela's slumped on the pavement. I think she's drunk. I heard a car screech to a halt, spewing out loud music fit to burst my eardrums, so I shot out of bed and went to the window. I saw these coloured boys throwing her out of the back seat.'

Both Stan and Edie ran out into the night. She was indeed drunk. So drunk she was slurring, dishevelled and practically unconscious. Connie's son and Stan awkwardly picked her up and carried her home like a wounded trench-soldier, manoeuvring her awkwardly up the narrow stairs, and laying her on her bed.

Having been anxiously attended to all night by Edie, Angela regained consciousness around dawn, suffering from nausea, thirst, and a pounding headache.

‘What a state to get into,' Edie scolded with disgust. ‘I want to know where you were.'

‘With friends,' she replied, her voice dry and croaky, and all sounds bouncing like whip cracks.

‘Some friends to get you into that state,' Edie snapped. ‘Connie said it was a gang of coloured boys. Threw you out of a wrecked old car like a bag of rubbish.' With her eyes narrowed to slits she glared critically. ‘Oh, Angela. I hope you behaved yourself.'

‘'Course I did.'

‘That better be the truth. I've brought you up to be right and proper, and no girl of mine's going to get into trouble. Who were they?'

‘I met them at the Caribbean Club on the Cowley Road.'

‘The Caribbean Club! How do you know about places like that?'

Angela looked away and puffed out with resignation. ‘I did a gig there with the SuperStars a couple of weeks ago.'

‘You did what!'

‘The night I told you we were at Wolvercote Village Hall.'

‘So you lied to us, you wicked girl. You said Mr Taylor was taking you in his car, and picking you up again. I take it the Taylor girls lied as well.'

‘We sing MoTown, Mum. Black music. I wanted to be with people like me.'

‘People like you!' Edie shouted, causing Angela's head to vibrate with genuine torture. ‘They're no more like you than the man in the moon. They might have dark skins, but that's all. And don't think they want to hear you sing your heart out, neither.' With her voice rising she pointed an accusing finger. ‘They only want you for one thing and I don't need to spell it out, do I?' With poignant, heavy steps she left the room.

Angela lay with her head throbbing. Nothing
had
happened last night; nothing in the way that her mother had dreaded. As drunk as she'd been she was sure about that, but it could have. The Caribbean Club, that had been such fun when The SuperStars did their gig, had been a frightening place full of leering, gold-toothed old men, fat women with squeaky high-pitched laughs, and young men talking patois she could hardly understand; smoking dope, pouring her weird sweet drinks, kissing her with their stinking breath and putting their hands inside her clothes. She vaguely remembered a terrifying car ride, with tyres screaming round corners and the sound of loud music, but it was all a disgusting fog. Her mother was right. She didn't belong there.

She slept for several hours, had a long bath and washed her hair, and by late afternoon came downstairs with a small-voiced apology. ‘Sit at the table,' Stan ordered. She sat and he stood. ‘On this occasion we're going to forgive and forget, but there'll be no more nonsense like that again, my lady. You're lucky I don't give you a good leathering, which is what I got as a kid for much less than you've put us through. From now on you can stay away from the Cowley Road. It's a dangerous place.' And then with a softer, beseeching voice. ‘Angela. We can't cope with another scene like that. If you want a boyfriend, find yourself a decent boy from a nice family. Heaven knows you get enough phone calls and knocks at the door.'

Angela sniffed deeply and began to cry quietly, but it soon changed to a gulping and groaning for air, and a collapse onto the table with an open-mouthed howling. Decent boys? Nice families? The spotty-faced army all chasing after her. It was only Piers she wanted. Now the stupid bonkers wife was expecting another baby and he was never coming back. Her face, already swollen by her hangover, became puffed and ugly, her throat became so tight she could hardly breathe, and she began to retch. ‘Mummy, mummy,' she groaned. At five foot eight she was far too big for Edie's lap, but she sidled onto her, sobbing.

‘It's all right, love,' she whispered. ‘All done and dusted. Connie and Alec Beale won't breathe a word. Come on, duck. Just something silly that won't happen again. Everything's back to normal.'

But Angela knew that nothing would ever be back to normal. She would never see Piers again, and at seventeen-and-a-half years old her life was over.

In early evening a loud knock summoned Edie to the door. A tall boy stood on the pavement; a boy with such outstanding looks Edie was quite stunned. Thick blonde hair that fell down his back, even white teeth, smooth tanned skin and the sound of his voice was so dead posh and confident it impressed her even further. ‘Good evening, Mrs Zendalic. I was wondering if Angela might be at home.' Now, thought Edie, this really
was
the sort of boy that Angela should be looking for. A good haircut would have been nice, but they all looked like girls these days.

‘Oh, yes, she is,' said Edie, bobbing her head like a budgerigar and smiling a warm welcome, ‘but she's not been very well today.' Angela then appeared, washed-out and unsmiling, with an expression of, ‘what the hell do you want'.

‘I wondered if you'd like to come out for a drink,' he said.

She was about to say a perfunctory no, when Edie piped up. ‘Why not pop round to the Bookbinders, dear. A bit of fresh air might do you good.'

Angela shrugged. ‘All right, then.'

‘You look crap,' he said, as they reached the top of Nelson Street.

‘I feel crap,' she replied. ‘I got so drunk last night I don't think I'll ever eat again.'

The pub was virtually empty, apart from a few seasoned regulars who used it as a second home. She knew them all, but chose not to say hallo, finding a table in a corner and turning her back. A pint of beer for Garvie and her request of a cold fizzy lemonade. ‘So what was yesterday all about, then,' he asked.

‘Mind you own business,' she snapped.

‘You bloody hurt me, you vicious cow.'

‘Serves you right.'

‘I was only trying to help. You were out of it. Nigel said you went berserk when he told you Piers Penney wasn't coming back. Sounds like you're broken hearted. It's more than obvious you fancy him.'

She averted her eyes, pursing her mouth in a petulant moue. ‘I don't fancy him.'

‘Yes you do. I've known him since I was a kid, and women fall at his feet. God knows why. All I can see is a poncey poof, flopping around like Lord Byron in his velvet suits. Well, I'm afraid you've had it. He's not coming back, and he's what's known as happily married, anyway. The Mrs is a right weirdo as well, but she looks like Susannah York so I wouldn't say no if I got the chance.'

‘Why don't you shut up? What's so special about you?'

He moved closer and spoke into her ear. ‘What's special about me is that I actually fancy you, and I'm not a sad daydream you're never going to get. I'm here. Sitting beside you.'

‘What about Caroline,' she sneered. ‘And the others. Everyone knows what a two-timer you are. Except stupid Caroline.'