Who Was Angela Zendalic (27 page)

He began to softly sing.

There were three ravens sat on a tree,

Down a down, hey down, hey down,

They were as black as black might be,

With a down.

With a breaking voice she joined in with the second verse.

The one of them said to his mate,

Where shall we our breakfast take?

With a down, derry, derry, derry down, down.

He stared hard at the piano keys. ‘I've often thought about you.'

‘And me you,' she whispered.

‘The little girl with the voice and beauty of an angel. The little girl I wanted to turn into a world famous mezzo.'

‘I'm going to disappoint you,' she stuttered. ‘I left school in February. I'm a waitress in a café.'

If he, too, was disappointed he didn't show it. ‘It's not too late. I can still help you. I've just been appointed Regius Professor of Ancient English Music, so I'm back in Oxford for good.'

‘I heard you have another child.'

‘No. Merryn lost our little boy at late term.'

She faltered. ‘Oh, Piers. Oh, that's so sad. And where ...where are your family.'

‘Merryn and I have separated. She and the children are living in Wales. With her parents on their farm.'

An electric shock of delight now rigoured her body. She gripped her knees, and let out a small agonised sound. ‘I'm really sorry,' she said softly, trying to sound credible, but concealing a gulp of joy.

‘It would be nice to talk, wouldn't it? I've got a new set of rooms in Tavistock. Will you come back with me for a drink?'

She nodded, her lungs so tight she could hardly breathe. ‘Yes. Yes, I will.' She gathered up her bag, and turned to him. ‘I'm really sorry about the baby.'

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘You're very sweet. But you always were.' As they left he placed an arm firmly around her shoulders, un-noticed by anyone except old Edgar.

As busy as Edgar was, with the scrum of last orders, every move of the gorgeous Angela had been noted. He recognised the man. A Don from Tavistock. Hadn't seen him for quite a while. Forgotten 'is name. Bit of a dandy. Drank gin and tonic. A pansy's drink, but women were always fawning all over him. Lucky bugger. Sailing off with the sexiest bit of crumpet in the town. No doubt 'e was 'oping to give her one. Well, get in there my son, and blow that wanker Warlock out of the water.

The phone rang, and he cupped his ear against the background roar. ‘No, I won't be able to give 'er another message. She's just left with a man. A real toff what looks a fuck sight more 'er type than you are. 'E was all over her, so you've shit out, mate.'

‘The front doors of college will be locked, so we'll go in the back way,' Piers said, guiding her up the short alley to the street, to pass under the Bridge of Sighs and left down a dark, stone-walled lane. He produced an iron key, and they stepped through a centuries old wicket gate into the shrub-filled college garden, lit up by the lantern of a full, yellow moon. The perfume of lilies and orange blossom filled the warm night air as he led her around the quad and through a long cloister, pausing at a wide wooden staircase. She followed him up, holding onto the hem of his jacket, feeling as if she were in a state of stupor, her mouth shaking and her muscles as tight as drum skins.

His new rooms were much larger than before, as befitting his prestigious appointment, already in a state of sheet music clutter and furnished with all the old familiar pieces arranged as before; the baby grand, the shabby tapestry chair, filled bookcases, a wide oak desk and the ubiquitous
chaise longue
. He switched on a large floor lamp and drew across a pair of thick chenille window drapes.

‘Coffee? Or maybe something stronger?'

‘I'm thirsty. All that smoke in the pub. A cold beer would be nice.'

‘I've got a can of lager in the fridge.' He looked at his watch. ‘Will your parents be wondering where you are?'

‘I've actually left home. I live in Aston Street with ...with my boyfriend.' She had to tell him. How could she not tell him? Best get it over with, even though he'd be shocked to hear who her boyfriend was. ‘Actually ... actually, it's Garvie. Garvie Warlock.' She shrugged. ‘We came to know each other again. You know. Boy meets girl.'

He nodded. ‘He was always a very attractive boy. But unpredictable. Perhaps you should go. He might be getting anxious.'

‘He's away for the night. We're on the point of parting anyway. It's been a big mistake for both of us.'

‘I see.'

‘I don't love him, Piers. I never have. He was just an excuse to ...well, I suppose to get away from home, and leave school, and get the space I needed. And I still need.'

Why were they talking like this? She wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to feel him, to live out her dreams and claim him as her own. She sat on the
chaise-longue
, trying to rid herself of Merryn's pregnant image, recalling the last time she'd sat there, now twoand-a-half years ago. He'd wanted her then, even though she'd only been a silly little girl with fanciful ideas. And with Merryn evaporated (what heavenly bliss) he surely wanted her now. But what
was
behind the glorious news of their split up – not that the facts really bothered her. As long as he was free she had nothing to concern herself about. And could she really care less about the lost baby. Of course not. It was one less complication.

She leaned back, arranged her hair, and crossed her long bare legs. He poured himself a gin, handed her a can and a glass, and sat himself in the shabby chair. He swallowed, sucked his cheeks, sipped his drink, and shifted his position. With great effort she remained still, her chin lifted, holding firm eye contact, and aware of what seemed like his discomfort.

Piers, having told Angela he'd often thought about her, was telling the truth. Of all the young adoring students, who'd come and gone over the years, he'd seduced none of them. Faithful to his vows, and with a beautiful, easily aroused wife, he'd had no need to cheat. But Angela was the only one he'd wanted as well. Since when? He'd loved her since he'd first laid eyes on the dear little girl in the yellow dress and short white socks, and he'd wanted her since ...he was ashamed to admit he'd first known on the day he kissed her forehead in the South Park, when she was not yet thirteen. And how he ached for her now; this stunning beauty, with her sensual bird-in-flight lips, and perfect white teeth. Her wide coat-hanger straight shoulders, her small hard breasts, and her long brown legs that he now wanted wrapped around his back.

Angela looked at him, staring unflinchingly into his eyes. ‘Why don't you come and sit with me.' He got up and moved over. ‘Is it really all over with Merryn?'

‘Yes. I'm afraid so.'

‘Were you were unfaithful to her?'

‘No. It was she who was unfaithful to me. She's also become ...' He threw a hand in the air. ‘She's had a serious nervous breakdown and it's all irredeemable.' He seemed to shudder nervously, but she didn't move, apart from opening her mouth, and licking her lower lip. ‘Angela ...' He put down his drink and she put down hers. He slowly turned towards her and pulled her shoulders forward until he was kissing her; kissing her, mumbling incoherently, and brushing a palm across her breasts.

It was going to happen. What she childishly used to call ‘the thing'. The thing she'd wanted with him for so many years. There would be no breaking off for second thoughts. No need for any further delay. She dropped her hand and attempted to undo his belt buckle. ‘Are you sure,' he choked, but she didn't answer.

And so, with man and woman in animal desperation, they bent and stretched, lifted, re-arranged, removed, parted, and exposed. The power of thrusts, and loud groans of desperation, that neither of them could hear. No pretend Piers any more. He was hers at last. No-one else in the world. Her trump against silly, stupid Merryn, and the ghost of the bloody
chaise-longue
banished forever. Forever, forever, forever ...

Piers heard the noisy, rising cries of her pleasure as his own release thumped into her. And then the heart pumping and hard breathing of their fall to earth, to hold each other with tight legs and arms, and to kiss. A long sweet meaningful kiss. She was his. His Angel. His darling, dreamed-of little raven.

Angela woke in his bed to hear the soft breaths of his sleeping body, to stare at his perfect face, and see the smile on his lips. Heaven had truly visited earth, and he
was
a God. She loved him so much she knew she would die loving him. She woke him with her playful hand, turning him over to slowly touch, and clasp, and thrust into each other again. To press her mouth into his neck, to lay her arm over his chest in firm possession before a return to a sated sleep.

Garvie, ecstatic that he'd sold two paintings of Angela's naked body for thirty pounds each, had celebrated in a haze of weed and alcohol, but with the news of Angela leaving The Turf with another man he'd thrown himself into a jealous rage. He'd sobered up enough to catch the milk train from Paddington to Oxford, and having clanked slowly through every station on the route, it arrived at dawn. With no taxis or buses available, and still in a jealous hung-over rage, he'd been forced to walk the three miles to Aston Street, humping a third painting he'd decided not to sell; one of Angela looking so incredibly beautiful he wanted no-one else to ever own it.

He wasn't surprised to find her missing when he arrived. Cow! Bitch! His mother was right. She was a low-life slut. There were more women in the world than grains of sand. Why settle for garbage. She could sod off. And she was crap in bed anyway. With red-faced anger, he poured bleach on all her clothes, and threw them out of the window. The Roberts radio followed, along with her vinyl records, all smashed underfoot. Her pills – a new prescription of six months' worth – removed from their blister packs and flushed down the bog. Ha! She could get herself up the duff with whoever ‘the toff' was, and he hoped she did. That'd stop her nonsense. A bun in the oven would serve the scrubber right. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

However, ten minutes later saw him sitting on the end of the bed, with head in hands, sobbing.

At nearly midnight Dulcie Warlock was shocked to see the dishevelled sight of her son standing on the doorstep, having unloaded his belongings from a taxi. Wavering, he appeared to be drunk. ‘Didn't work out,' he slurred.

In anxious-mother mode, and delighted that his ménage with the Zendalic girl had clearly crumbled, she welcomed him back with open arms. ‘Oh, darling ...' But any scenes of an affectionate re-union were scotched.

‘Got to go somewhere,' he mumbled.

‘But, Garvie, it's midnight ...'

He didn't answer, and lurched off, leaving her to deal with his luggage.

Intense banging and loud shouting woke Edie and Stan, and on opening the front door Garvie was standing on the pavement, waving his arms in the air. ‘Oh, God,' Stan said. ‘Is there trouble with Angela?'

But Garvie hadn't come for any sort of rational conversation. ‘Where is she,' he yelled, pushing passed them into the narrow passage. ‘I'll kill the bitch. I'll fucking kill her.' Both Stan and Edie, powerless to stop him, could only watch as he ran upstairs to thump and bang, and to hear the crash of the small items on Angela's dressing table being swept off with anger. An innocent, simple couple, now buffeted with such violent aggression they were motionless with terror. ‘We don't know where she is,' Stan yelled up the stairs. ‘Honestly. No idea. What's happened to our girl?' Without answering Garvie charged down, ran out onto the other side of the road, gesticulating and shouting obscenities. Stan flew to the phone to get Ted. ‘Come quick, mate. Now. Right now. Garvie's going berserk.'

Peggy, also awakened by the commotion, saw him from her bedroom window, running into the small front garden of the house opposite that was being renovated. A pile of bricks were stacked up on the pavement, and he began to hurl them, with very little skill of aim, at the windows of No.55.

Minutes later, when Ted appeared, every brick had been thrown and half of the windows were broken, Garvie was kicking a leaking bag of cement powder around the middle of the road, with Stan and Peggy imploring him to calm down. ‘Let's grab him,' shouted Ted. Together they restrained him in a half nelson, dragged him inside, shoved him face down on the stairs and ordered Edie to phone 999.

Within minutes a Panda car arrived, and he was handcuffed, slurring loud protestations. ‘This is my case,' Ted said to the two bobbies. ‘Take him to the nick. I'll follow on and deal with the little bastard personally.'

‘Yes, Inspector Rawlings,' they said, and sped away to the Oxford police station.

It was dawn before Ted returned. ‘He's been arrested, though God knows what'll stick. The charge sheet read, ‘
threatening behaviour and damage to private property whilst under the influence of drugs and alcohol,'
but in laymen's terms he was so pissed and stoned he could hardly stand. The duty doctor reported signs of a serious mental state as well, and recommended he sees a shrink. I'd recommend a smack round the ear, and a short sharp sentence, but I know we'll have to kow-tow to the psych's report. Bloody farce.'