Who Was Angela Zendalic (28 page)

‘Never mind him, Edie snapped. ‘What about our Angela.'

Ted shrugged. ‘He was mostly spouting rubbish, but I picked up he was in London on Friday night at some art exhibition. The landlord of The Turf told him on the phone she'd left the pub with an unknown man at closing time. He got home around dawn and she wasn't there, so he flipped. I've been round to Aston Street and the little bugger's chucked all her stuff – and I mean everything – into the front garden. All ruined.'

‘Then where is she,' Edie wailed.

‘I knocked up the other tenants and no-one's seen her since Friday afternoon.'

‘Oh, my God. She might have been murdered,' said Edie, bursting into tears. Peggy too began to groan with desperation.

‘Calm down for God's sake,' he said. ‘Let's get this into perspective. It looks like she's gone off with some man, but she's bound to surface soon. I've left her a note at the room, told her what's happened and asked her to get in touch very urgently. That's all we can do for now.' He rose to go. ‘Right. I'm off home now, for a cuppa and a kip, and then I'll go round to The Turf to see what the landlord can remember. Meanwhile meladdo's in custody, waiting to be mollycoddled.'

‘That dreadful boy's wrecked her life,' Edie whimpered. ‘And ours.'

‘Don't worry, Ede,' he said ‘I'll find her. I promise.'

But Stan spoke up firmly. ‘No you won't, Ted. This is my call. You've done enough. I'm her dad and it's up to me now.'

Late April 2014
Monks Bottom

S
unday
morning. 9.00am. The luxury of a long lie-in, without the usual dawn chorus of the boy's mock fighting, and mock tears. And of course, guilt then consumed me that I was actually enjoying myself without them. Oh, damn it. It happened so rarely, and surely I was allowed to indulge myself occasionally, especially as Mark had every morning to himself (or with any overnight bed-sharer he'd picked up). Thoughts immediately came into my mind of Howie. How absolutely lovely he'd be as a bed-sharer. His burly body, and strong legs, and the other thing I could only fantasise about. But was I creating him as a figure of desire because he ‘was there' and my range of vision pathetically narrowed to mother-chat at the school gates, and small talk with the checkout lady at Waitrose? Where had the proud, vain Sarah Penney gone? The feted daughter of the revered Sir Piers. The bold, wide-shouldered mezzo, who would sweep onto the stage with a full white smile and long, carefully straightened hair, blinged up to the heavens in a fancy designer evening dress. To give a first class performance to rousing applause and fawning compliments. How long was it since I even practiced my scales? But no. I was under no illusion. The
real
me fancied the pants off him.

I wondered what he was doing, and one thing was certain. He wouldn't be lolling around with his feet on the kitchen table, stuffing his face with toast and marmalade, and dreaming of me. He'd be out in the garden, of course. He'd said yesterday that late April was a quiet time; all pruning and lopping done, and Mother Nature's powerful agenda surging ahead, but the weeds in the herbaceous beds required the hoe, and the vast long lawn needed an urgent mow. I snuggled down again, giving myself another five minutes before I had to get ready for my duty of the day; a visit to my sweet little mum with some flowers from The Hall garden.

I got up to peer optimistically in the mirror. Rested, definitely. Bags under eyes much less obvious. I'd have a long bath, wash my hair, and choose a selection of down-stated but ‘look-at-me' clothes; a scarlet cashmere sweater tucked into tight, stretchy jeans, a wide leather belt and heeled ankle boots. To impress my mum? Of course not. She wouldn't notice if I'd been stark naked. Every effort would be for the heavenly Howie.

En route to The Hall I stopped at the post box in the village, withdrew the letter I'd written last night to Michael Zendalic, and stared at the address with a little shiver of dread. Before I had a chance to change my mind, I shoved it in the slot.

Howie was, as I'd thought, powering around the lawn on the sit-on mower. I waved and walked down to him, but why was I taking every step like Heidi Klum in full raunch? Because, I couldn't help myself. He stopped and turned off the mower. ‘Hello Howie. I'm off to see my mum and I've stopped off to pick her some flowers. I suppose most of the spring stuff's gone over.'

‘Not at all. There's a lot left if you know where to look. I'll away and get you some.'

I laughed, mocking him. ‘And I'll away to make some coffee.'

He returned, ten minutes later, with an exquisite armful of tulips, kerria, bergenia, iris and aquilegias, intermingled with spotted laurel and spurge. ‘Here you are. A bouquet (he pronounced it
bookie
) fit for a truly brilliant plantswoman.'

‘You really do rate her, don't you,' I said.

He nodded. ‘Aye, I do.'

I wrapped the flower stems in soaked kitchen paper, and when looking for a polythene bag I noticed the large pile of photograph albums at the bottom of the dresser cupboard; the ones that showcased the renovation of the garden from its congestion of wild elder trees and brambles. A labour of love that had taken several years. I handed them to Howie. ‘Something to look at on a quiet night. The history of The Hall gardens.'

‘That'll be great. Thank you.'

‘Let's go out and sit on Pa's patio to drink our coffee.'

We pulled our chairs out of the summerhouse to enjoy the hot sun, and he pushed up the sleeves of his new sweat top. Wonderful strong forearms with no tattoos, which was a pleasant surprise. Didn't most shaven-headed, super-fit men like him have some sort of adornment? Maybe he had a full Celtic design on his back? Well, I might find out in the fullness of time ...Oh, stop it, Sarah.

He sipped at his cup silently. I, too, could think of nothing to say, apart from going over the old ground of, ‘had he settled in' and ‘was everything all right.' He then started to haltingly speak. ‘Look, you know I don't have any money, and everything's funded by the charity, but I do get small wages that are put in trust for me until I'm independent. I'd like to offer you something for that painting in your father's room, the nude. If you can wait for the money, that is.'

I shook my head. ‘She's hung on that wall all my life, and she's so much a part of Pa's music room I guess it'll be one of the things we'll all want.'

‘Oh. I see. Well, I hope you don't mind me asking.'

‘Of course not.'

‘It's a brilliant work, but unsigned. Any idea who the artist was?'

‘Just someone Pa knew from yonks back.'

‘Well, he's damn good.'

‘Might be a woman?' I giggled. ‘Lesbian art.'

He laughed too. ‘I don't think so.'

I drained my coffee and got up. ‘I'm going to have to go.'

‘Look ...' He hesitated. ‘Would you mind very much if I came with you. I'd like to tell her I think her garden's spectacular, and I'm going to suggest it gets opened to the public.'

‘She won't understand, but of course you can come.'

He picked up the albums. ‘I'll bring these to show her.'

‘Howie, she really
won't
understand.'

‘I'd still like to try.'

Mid-May 1972
The Turf Tavern

W
ith
beer fumes hitting Stan full in the face, he entered The Turf Tavern at opening time to see Edgar Stubbings behind the bar, whistling and dropping bags of change into the till. ‘A pint of bitter and a quiet word, please?' he said modestly.

‘There's your pint,' said Edgar, placing a foaming glass on the bar top. ‘That'll be twelve pence, please. So what's this word about?'

‘I'm Angela Zendalic's father.'

‘Well, I'm blowed. Take the pint on the 'ouse. I must say you've got a bootiful girl there. And we both like the same music, don't we.' He stopped to do his bad impersonation of Billy Eckstine, and laughed. 'Ow can I 'elp you?'

‘Thing is, there was some serious bother at home with her boyfriend last night ...'

‘Say no more,' Edgar interrupted, holding up a nicotined finger. ‘'E's a right bad-tempered little tosser. I've often asked her what she sees in 'im.'

‘He turned up around midnight looking for her. Drunk as a skunk and put the fear of God in us. Chucking bricks through our windows and the like.'

‘Bloody 'ell. I know 'e's a pain in the arse, but I never thought 'e was a
real
psycho.'

Stan shrugged. ‘The police think he's gone bonkers. He managed to babble out that you saw her leave on Friday night with a man. No-one knows where she is and I just wondered if you knew him.'

Edgar screwed up his face. ‘Well, I know 'im, and I don't know 'im. ‘E's a Don from next door. Tavistock, that is. 'Aven't seen him in ages. Alot older than 'er. Tall, with dark 'air to his shoulders. A real gent, though. Speaks like one of the royals and always ponced up in fancy suits. Music geezer, I feel sure. 'E obviously knew her quite well. 'E was all over 'er.'

Stan knew it could be no-one else. ‘It sounds like Dr Penney, her old choirmaster. Oh, Lord. Not more complications.'

Edgar leaned down on the bar. ‘Look, mate. Your daughter's a bobby dazzler. There's not a man in the world who wouldn't get the 'ots for her. If she is up for it 'e'll be on her tail like a jack rabbit.'

Stan glared at him, banged his glass hard down, and slopped the contents on the bar. ‘I find your comments most offensive. That's my daughter you're talking about. Not some common scrubber.' He walked out, his colour rising, and his chin set fair towards Tavistock College. He didn't have far to go. Up to the top of the alley, a right turn, and round the corner onto the ancient cobbles of Long Wall.

The lodge porter, Ron Hopper, leaned out of his small glassed-over cubby-hole. ‘Can I help you, sir?'

‘I'm looking for Dr Piers Penney. I was just wondering if he was in residence again.'

‘Yes, sir. That would be Professor Penney, as he is now. If you'd like to take a seat on that bench over there, I'll ring his rooms. Who shall I say is enquiring?'

‘Mr Zendalic. Stan Zendalic.'

Piers and Angela lay in bed, hard breathing in post-coital bliss as the phone blared out to disturb the idyll. ‘Ron Hopper, sir. There's a gentleman wishing to see you. A Mr Zendalic. Might it be convenient?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Will you tell him I'll be down in a few minutes?'

Piers dropped the phone. ‘Your father's downstairs.'

Angela leapt up, open mouthed. ‘No! How on earth did he find me? This is mad. I've not seen either of my parents for three months. What shall we do?'

Piers contemplated. ‘Get dressed, leave through the side gate, and go to The King's Arms. I'll bring him over.'

Piers walked forward to greet Stan with his hand extended. ‘Delighted to see you Mr Zendalic. Let's go over to The King's Arms and have a chat.' With a hand on his shoulder he carefully steered him out of college, more than anxious to spirit him away before Ron Hopper got too interested. Once on Longwall, Piers reassured him. ‘There's nothing to be concerned about. Angela's waiting for us.' As they entered the pub together Angela rushed forward to fling herself in her father's arms. ‘Daddy. Daddy.'

‘Oh, Angie. Thank God you're all right.' And so with Angela cuddling her dear old dad, and Piers playing the perfect consort, the story was told. Declarations of love from both of them. Assurances from Piers that although this would be ‘second-time-around' for him, he was in love with Angela. He would provide her with a home and solidity, and firmly stated he would be doing everything to encourage her to a classical singing career.'

‘Look,' said Stan. ‘All we want is her happiness, but there's been a right old pantomime going on. Garvie knows about ...' He nodded at Piers.

‘Oh, that'll be Edgar shooting his mouth off,' puffed Angela.

‘Well, that's right, actually. I've just spoken to him and he gave me all the gen. That's why I'm here. Don't think I'm up for a row but Garvie's gone right loopy. Turned up at ours last night – drunk and disorderly as they say – scared the life out of us and chucked a load of bricks through the windows. Ted came to the rescue, thank God. Rushed round like a dose of salts and arrested him. We got Charlie Wright in this morning to fix the damage up and he reckons it's going to cost ten quid.'

Angela sighed. ‘Oh, I am sorry, Dad. I really am. So where is he now?'

‘He was taken off to the Oxford nick. Ted went down and they said he needs to see a trick-cyclist.' Angela groaned and dropped her head on her hands.

‘I've actually known the boy for years,' Piers told Stan, ‘and he's always had complex problems. I think it would be a good idea if I go down myself and see what's going on. I can give the police some background to his past, and plead that they give him a second chance. I know this sounds frightfully liberal but Sir Charles was a lovely man, and I wouldn't want his good name and the college, being dragged through the mud.'