Who Was Angela Zendalic (23 page)

‘None of them mean a thing. I want you. Always have.'

‘You might two-time
me
.'

‘Never. I'd be too scared. You're a bit too nifty with your right foot. Next time you'll have my nuts clean off.'

Garvie was acid and vain and spiteful, but as hung-over as she was, Angela had to laugh. Why not go out with him? She had nothing left in her life. ‘Alright then. I must be insane, but any nonsense mind and I'll be hanging your little boys' bits out on the clothes line.'

‘Not so little, actually. I'll show you soon if you're a good girl.'

‘You mean a bad girl.'

He slipped his arm around her waist, and kissed her neck gently. ‘Oh, Angela Zendalic. I think you'll enjoy being a bad girl.'

‘Enough of that,' called out the portly landlord.

‘Piss off, you fat slob,' Garvie retorted with the speed of a bullet, pulling Angela firmly to her feet, and giving him a vigorous V-sign.

‘You weren't long,' said Edie when she came in.

‘I think I need an early night, don't you?'

‘Now
he
was a nice boy. A
very
nice boy. Much more like it.'

‘Well, you'll be pleased to hear we're going to the pictures on Wednesday.'

‘Oh, that
is
good news. What's his name?'

‘Garvie Warlock.'

‘I remember the name.'

‘His father was the old Master of Tavistock. The one who died.'

‘Oh, I remember. You sang at his whatsit concert, didn't you? What does he do? He's too old for school, isn't he? Does he go out to work?'

‘He's at the Oxford Art School. He did a foundation course and he's half way through another in life drawing. He's hoping to go St. Martin's next year. That's a famous art college in London.'

Edie sighed with a little disappointment, wishing he'd been a solicitor or an accountant. ‘Hmm. Sounds like a lot of airy-fairy nonsense to me. Well, he seems alright, but I'll be keeping an eye on him. Slightest bit of bad behaviour mind, and he'll have me and your Dad to answer to.'

Angela groaned. ‘Do you know, Mum, I think if I brought Prince Charles home you'd still be umming and aahing.'

April 2014
Henley-on-Thames

H
ave
you ever seen that old classic film
Klute
? There's a scene where Jane Fonda, a hooker and would-be actress, and Donald Sutherland, a detective whose shadowing her, are moving through an open street market in New York. It's the most sensuous connection between a man and a woman I can remember. They're looking in completely different directions, stopping to touch things, and seeming to be having separate thoughts, but at the same time they're in complete body contact, brushing against each other, and touching each other's clothes. It was like that with me and Howie as we shopped in Henley. A cheap pay-as-you-go phone, an electric shaver, some bathroom items, and in the absence of a Marks and Spencers some replacement clothing from an upmarket men's shop, more suited to my father's generation. Multi packs of socks, T-shirts and boxer shorts, and then two of everything; Viyella shirts, moleskin trousers, fleece tops, and some jogging bottoms from the sale rail. ‘£385.00, please, madam.'

We dawdled. We idled. We bought huge cartons of hot chocolate, and drank them on the hoof. Easy in each other's company with what I was now terming, ‘The Klute Connection' and by the time we got back to the car I realised I didn't have time to take him back to the village.

And so we picked up the boys together. A brief explanation that Howie was the gardener at The Hall, and he was living there because his flat had been damaged by a fire, but they didn't seem at all interested. ‘We're going to be late for Daddy,' shouted Shea anxiously. ‘He's coming at four and it's nearly that now.' Good, I thought. Let him sit outside in his fancy car and wait my convenience. ‘I'll phone him, he said. ‘Let him know we're on the way'. He then addressed Howie. ‘My Dad's got a Porsche, It's metallic silver with red leather seats, and it does a hundred and ninety miles an hour.'

‘And he's got a huge whopping wet room in his flat,' added Finn. ‘It's lovely and warm, and big enough to play water fights ...' Oh, well. At least they had no fascination that their mother was in the company of a man. Just anxious to get home, to see their father, and get off on a fun weekend.

Mark, as expected, was sitting outside the cottage in his flash-bugger Porsche. The boys flew out as soon as I pulled up, waving and shouting, rushing over to Mark to be gathered up in his arms. His Ray-Bans lodged on his head, and his expensive highlighted hair pulled back in a band at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a long, floppy kid-leather coat, with a white fringed scarf round his neck, and I could tell that Howie thought he looked a right joke.

‘Seems like a nice man,' he said quietly.

‘He's a cheating bastard,' I said out of the side of my mouth. ‘Don't be fooled.'

‘If he cheated on you then he's the fool,' he whispered, but the moment was overtaken with the boys, their noise, and brief introductions. I was sure I caught a look of interest in Mark's eye; probably the obvious one of, ‘was I sleeping with him', and he was hoping (as we had both agreed) that I was keeping to the rules of no overnight guests in front of the boys. Alright for him, with an empty flat and a bachelor lifestyle. Not alright for me, the single parent in a doll's house.

Howie, distancing himself from the family fracas, removed his bags from the boot. ‘Thank you for everything. I'll away and walk up the hill. By the way, I managed to grab my memory stick last night. Is it OK if I use the computer to work on my dissertation?'

‘Of course it is, and I can't wait to read it.'

He nodded to all of us and moved off with bags in hand while Mark swanned around in a proprietary way, collecting up the boys' overnight gear, and giving them a running commentary about the weekend he'd planned; hyping them up to the endless excitement they would have at Legoland, and MacDonald's, and the new Super Mario games he'd bought.

With both boys tightly wedged into the rear half-seat of the fancy car, I was grateful to see them go. Another minute of the irritating show off and I'd have hit him. He could have bought a standard family car, but he hadn't – he'd bought a ‘look at me' babe-magnet. He could have bought a family-friendly little house with a garden, but he hadn't – he'd bought a glass and steel penthouse apartment in a converted mansion near Chesham, ‘so he could be within close travel of Monks Bottom.' Sounded so generous, but how often had the boys stayed there since he'd moved in six months ago? Apart from the emergency couple of days when Pa died, precisely twice.

I went indoors and poured myself a glass of wine. A bit early, but fuck it. I needed it. I also needed some dreamy think-time. What
was
I going to do about my growing obsession with Howie? He would have reached The Hall by now. It was nearly a mile on foot, up a very steep hill with lots of bags, but it would be no bother to a man of his fitness. What would he do? Go up to the (my) dear little nursery and unpack. Maybe have a long shower and a shave. Come down in a fleece and jogging bottoms, light a fire in the enormous inglenook, sink down in front of the telly, and watch some silly wind-down nonsense. How I wish I was curled up beside him on the huge Knole sofa, watching the cedar disappear with fall of night, and anticipating a blissful night in his bed. Seeing him and Mark in the same setting was really weird, and chalk and cheese didn't come into it. The glamorous, flambouyant show-biz boy, and the quiet, unassuming misfit. According to Shea's sad little confession, Mark still loved me. But did I care? No. It was the mystery of the misfit that won hands down.

Early September 1971
St. Veep's, Crick Road, Oxford

T
wo
weeks after Angela's first date with Garvie. An Indian summer afternoon, ensconced in his attic rooms at St. Veep's that he'd colonised as his own ‘space'. His mother out at her bridge club. The open windows overlooking the bricked-walled rear garden of the lovely old Victorian house; a large apple tree heavy with fruit, a rambling tangle of clematis on a pergola, and old roses giving off their powerful perfume. In the distance the outer reaches of the University Parks could be seen, backed by the greensward of the Cherwell Meadows. The threat of an electric storm, and the buzz of lazy bees.

To say it wasn't planned was the excuse she gave herself. It had to happen, in fact she wanted it to happen, like it had happened to most of her girlfriends, including Diana, who'd had three ‘blokes' already. She'd passed on how wonderful the thrill of sex was, but all the same Angela was petrified. Hence, several empty bottles of cider on the floor.

Their near-naked bodies lay together, clothes having being gradually discarded in the overpowering heat, her eyes closed and her head fuddled while they kissed. At last Garvie began to run his fingers up the inside of her thighs, mumbling indecipherable words of the ‘you're so lovely' variety, and her only thoughts (unspoken) were ‘just get on with it'. ‘Getting on with it' involved his clumsy kneeling up, putting what he called his big boy in her hand (Jesus Christ!) and finally getting to the painful bit with lots of ooh's and aah's, and gritting of teeth. OK, that done, it was the worst thing over, and the room spun while he thrusted and groaned, but then ...oh, oh. This is actually very nice. More than nice ...it's ...Oh, my God ...With an unstoppable surge she gripped his shoulders until an overwhelming pleasure came. He then dropped down to kiss her, covering her face and neck and breasts with rare tenderness. ‘I love you,' he gasped. ‘Oh, God, I love you. Tell me you love me.'

Angela lay back with insurmountable happiness. Diana was right. It was fabulous, but every move of the journey had been with Piers' body, every kiss from his lips, and his wonderful face was pressed hard to her cheek at the divine moment. With her eyes tight shut she talked aloud to him. ‘Oh, yes, I love you. I love you so much I want to crawl inside you.'

‘Sorry I didn't use anything,' Garvie said. ‘Their such shite it wouldn't have been nice for you.'

But now she was alerted to the reality of Garvie. ‘What if I get pregnant?'

‘Fingers crossed you don't, but you'd better go on the pill. Bit of a problem there. You can't get it on the NHS until you're eighteen. Well you can, but your mum has to go with you. No chance of that, I take it.'

Angela giggled. ‘No. No chance at all.'

‘Then it'll have to be the private clinic in Beaumont Street. It's about five quid for an appointment, and you have to pay for the prescription as well.'

‘Not a problem. I've got some money from my modelling jobs.'

Dr Harwood, the lady GP in Beaumont Street, was large and motherly, and not a jot censorious. After a deep discussion, and a full medical examination, Angela stood on the pavement with a prescription in hand. Safe now to indulge in the eyes-closed dark whenever she wanted; thrilling to every kiss, fingertip move, and thrust from the fantasy of her darling Piers.

Mid-September 1971
Bevington House

I
t
was the first day of the new autumn term and Angela had been called to an audience with Miss Tredgood, the headmistress. ‘Angela. I've been looking through your file and I came across a letter I received back in the spring from Dr Piers Penney. It said you had a very good chance of a scholarship to the Royal Music Institution.' Angela's stomach gripped. A letter? Back in the spring? What! She'd had no idea he'd written to Miss Tredgood. That would have been nine months after he'd left Oxford, and well over a year since the never-to-be-forgotten tea party in his rooms. So he
had
been thinking about her after all! Darling, Piers. Of course he had, despite his permanent exile and the new baby (which had to be a disastrous accident, forced on him by the nutter).

The headmistress shook her head ruefully. ‘Angela, it would be such a waste if you didn't build on your talents. Your chosen ‘A' levels of Music, Mediaeval History, and Latin will dovetail perfectly to a music college, or any University you might want to apply to, actually. The only thing you must consider is that Dr Penney says you'll need another instrument, and he's suggested the lute. If that's the case you'll need to start lessons right away, so can you have a good think as to how you might proceed?'

‘Miss Tredgood, I really don't know what I want to do. One minute this, one minute that.'

‘According to Dr Penney's letter he'll be back in Oxford soon, so it might be a good idea to arrange a summit conference with him and your parents.'

‘He's not coming back, Miss Tredgood. He's taken a permanent position at Harvard.'

‘Oh, that's a shame. Well there must be someone else who knows the ropes. Keep me posted on your thoughts, but don't delay for too long.'

But what were her thoughts? In all honesty she was becoming more than a bit fed up being a schoolgirl.