Who Was Angela Zendalic (31 page)

Of course, I want to see you and Uncle Ted. Why don't you come to tea? Is this Sunday, the 6th August, possible? The cottage is tiny but very cosy, and afterwards we'll take you over to see our house – Old Priory Hall – so you can see how lovely it is, and what a lucky girl I am to be given such a wonderful home. (With the kindest, most loving man in the world).

We're on the phone here – 0491-66543 - so maybe you would like to ring up and speak to me?

Lots of love to you, darling Auntie,

Angela

7th August 1972

My darling Angela,

Uncle Ted and I want to thank you for the truly wonderful day we had with you and Piers yesterday. It's a day I'll remember all my life, and our hearts were lifted to see the deep love that radiates from you both. I have never seen two people who look more happy. Piers had a permanent smile on his face and even when he thought no-one was looking he didn't take his eyes off you for a second.

As for the house, who could ever imagine that our little girl would be the Lady of the Manor? And all that garden! My goodness you're going to have to keep a long lead on your little son or daughter.

I've just written to your mum and dad with news of the baby, laying it on really thickly that Ted and I have been to see you, and how happy you and Piers are. As we discussed yesterday we hope they'll be back from Bournemouth soon, and arrange to see you. You know how your mum loves babies, so I'm sure that will be the carrot and stick she needs. Can you see her taking a back seat when there's a bundle of joy to fuss and cuddle?

If you're in Oxford one day soon maybe we can meet up and buy some bits and bobs for the baby.

So, my angel, until we see each other again, make sure you get lots of rest. I've already arranged to have the phone put in, and I'll let you have the number the minute it arrives.

In the meantime, all my love, darling,

Auntie Peggy

10th September 1972

Dear Angela,

The GPO STILL haven't put the phone in. It seems I will have to have a party line so they are sorting that out.

I did so enjoy our day out last week – what fun we had in Mothercare – and thank you again for the lovely meal with you both at The Randolph. I can still taste the salmon. What a treat. You are both so kind.

Now, I have some rather disappointing news. I had a letter from Brenda this morning. Your mum is still in a state with what she calls ‘her nerves' and your dad has developed a varicose ulcer on his leg that needs daily dressings. She said that at the moment they were staying down there, so she can look after them. I shall write back to say that your mum might get over it if she lets bygones be bygones, and at least wrote to you. I'm sorry, my love, that it's not better news. My only suggestion now is that you find the strength to write to them yourself.

So, dear. I will meet you and Piers next week, as arranged, at the new John Radcliffe maternity home. I've heard it's marvellous, and I'm so pleased you'll be having the baby in such a clean and modern place. I've read up all about ‘the scan' and you can actually see the baby moving on a screen! I can't wait. I wonder if they'll be able to tell if it's a boy or a girl.

All my love,

Auntie Peggy

12th September 1972

Folly Farm Cottage

Fair Cross Green

Dear Mum and Dad

It has taken me alot of soul searching to write to you, but I really do want us to be happily reconciled. I'm sorry to hear that dad is unwell and you're not coming home for a while, but maybe you can find it in your hearts to write to me. I know Auntie Peggy has told you I'm expecting a baby, and we are so looking forward to him or her coming into our lives. Can you please try to understand that Piers and I are just like any other normal couple. We're very much in love and really, really happy together.

You were quite wrong in imagining that we had any sort of relationship when I was young, and it wasn't until we met up again in May that we were able to admit our love for each other. Please write to me at the above address, so we can all re-unite again. This letter is all I can do, and if you insist that you'll never speak to me again, then I will have to accept it.

With much love, your daughter,

Angela

April 2014
Monks Bottom

N
o,
we didn't just rush into the house and throw our clothes off. There were no lip-bruising slobbers, or a quick hard union up against the wall of the hall. No. It was lovely. Slow and careful. One of the guest rooms chosen, with the warm April sunshine coming through the window, and God, did I gasp at his wonderful body, hard-firmed by hours of intense physical work. ‘I might be a disappointment,' he said, averting his eyes. ‘I've not had the kick of caffeine for a very long time,' but there was only sweet smiles and kisses between us.

Love in the afternoon. The blissful, hot slapping of our sweat soaked bodies and perfect fulfilment for us both. Love? Sex? Love and sex together is what man and woman were created for. Maybe. But does love really have to be part of the equation? What I felt for Howie, and what he felt for me, wasn't really love, was it? It was a deep yearning for bodily pleasure. For whatever reason it had been many years for him (had to be prison) and for me a year of angry withdrawal from any sort of human touch, but what I felt was a kind of loving that we drowned in. An erotic dance that evoked every memory of passionate thrill for me, and giving to him what I tried to be an act of deep intent. And just in case you're wondering there was not one dot of blue ink to be seen on his beautiful skin.

Lying together, in quiet exhaustion, I could have asked him what his past was all about, but I didn't. It was neither the time nor the place. Now he was just Howie. My lover. My guilty secret, and I was his. Did that heighten the passion? No. Not at all. We were as one, and love – the heart-stopping lurch of real love – may or may not have been hiding round the corner.

We got up in the late afternoon, shoved a couple of ready-meal curries in the microwave, and I produced a bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘I've been off the stuff for so long two glasses will make me pissed,' he said. And they did, so we went back to bed.

At six o'clock, with Mark and the boys due back, I reluctantly got out of bed, drew my clothes on, and leaned down to look into the deep green of his eyes. ‘I really don't want to go but I've got to. It was amazing. Wonderful. No regrets.'

He pulled my head down, and we kissed gently. ‘It was. It was bloody great. No regrets either.'

When Howie heard the front door close, he quickly ran across to his nursery bedroom to watch her go. To watch, with wonder, every tiny movement of her lovely body, and her long curly hair bouncing down her back in a bird's nest of chaos. Probably the best deal he'd ever had from a woman, and he could tell she'd really wanted him as well. She, like himself, had been damaged by betrayal, and was hardened with anger, but she had the sweetest and most loving side, as just demonstrated by her love making, and the soft, kind attention she'd given to the poor lost soul that was her mother. Would it happen again? Yes, it would. He was certain of that. He was sure he could trust her. Any revelations that got back to Father Crowley would mean his contract was torn up, and any testimonials or references denied, but the end was in sight, anyway. And that reminded him he had to get a move on with his dissertation. He'd now add that he'd met the garden designer herself,
‘although sadly she is now suffering from a debilitating condition, and can no longer cope with the physical demands of gardening'
.

He dressed, removed his memory stick from the bedside table, and walked to the music room, pausing again to look hard at the painting of ‘
Angela'
before he booted up. He now wanted that painting more than ever. The model's body was a duplicate perfection of Sarah's.

I got back to the cottage just before Mark and the boys arrived back in a whirl of noise and excitement. Ten minutes of manic chatter followed about the huge displays they'd seen at Legoland; a Viking ship, the Houses of Parliament, a motorised cart circuit that they'd had ten ‘goes' on (and had beaten Dad every time) and an army-type assault course. Even a scary fairground ride. ‘They've eaten,' Mark said, cueing the boys to tell me about their McDonalds Happy Meals, a Dr Who goody-bag they'd been given, and other gabbled information about their fun-packed weekend. ‘Come on,' I said. ‘You're both worn out. Say thank you, and big hugs to Daddy.'

‘I'll help you bath them,' Mark said brightly, gathering the boys up without looking at me. The last thing I wanted was for him to stay, but the job was always a chore, and I was, (quite understandably) a bit zonked out with tiredness myself. So up to the bathroom we went as we'd always done as a couple; he attending to one boy, while I did the other. The story read, with us both taking turns, but tonight they were too sleepy for much. Cuddles and kisses all round. Promises from Mark of, ‘see you soon', two little voices mumbling, ‘I love you, Dad,' and their little eyes closing.

Once downstairs he didn't make to go. Oh, Mark, I pleaded silently, just bugger off. Leave me alone with my thoughts of the afternoon; to dream up my memories of Howie's lovely body, and the utter bliss he'd given me. ‘Sarah,' he said, in a gently pleading sort of voice. I sighed. What was coming now? ‘Marie-Claire and me. It's all over. Really over.'

‘I know,' I said. ‘It was all over weeks ago. You told me. Not that I give a shit.'

‘Please don't be like that.'

‘Like what!' I shouted. ‘Like I really care. Like I really give a toss about the ins and outs of your sordid love life.'

He swallowed. ‘Sarah, you and that chap. The one who got out of the car yesterday. Is he ...is he a man in your life?'

‘Don't be ridiculous!' I snapped (hoping I wasn't protesting too much). ‘Of course he's not. He's on that rehab thing that Father Crowley runs. They have to behave like monks or they get kicked off. And even if he was, what business is it of yours?'

‘I was just hoping that we might become a bit closer. And so do the boys.'

My mouth dropped open. ‘Have you been putting ideas into their heads?'

‘No. Well, a bit. We did talk about how lovely it would be if we were all together again.'

I shoved his shoulder so hard he had to grab a chair to stay upright. ‘Get out, Mark. Go back to your poncey flat. Leave me alone. Just as I've been for the last year while you've been screwing your tart.' I lowered my voice and spoke with venom. ‘Sod off. And don't ever think about happy families again.'

He walked out, clearly shaken and without reply. His car door slammed, and as he roared off I found I was shaking with anger, but when I turned round both the boys were standing at the bottom of the staircase, crying.

I gathered them in my arms. ‘Darlings, Mummy and Daddy won't ever be living together again. It was very naughty of Daddy to say what he did. Lots and lots of other boys and girls have parents who've split up, and they all have to find a way of working round it, but we both love you very, very much.' I got them back to bed, bribing them with ‘a Kit-Kat feast', (sod the teeth) and half an hour of what's called ‘quality time', trying to bluff my way into a gentle explanation that their father and I could be ‘really good friends' if we could only ‘sort our corners out.'

With tears over, and being somewhat appeased, the boys rediscovered their tiredness and snuggled down. ‘Night, night, sleep tight,' and after lots of kisses I put out the light.

Dear God, it was exhausting. I got to the bottom of the stairs and with no misgivings lifted my mobile. ‘Howie. Will you walk down? Please. I've had a humdinger of a row with my ex, and I'm in a right old state. Please, Howie.'

He was there within fifteen minutes. Dusk was falling and I drew the curtains. He held me gently and I stroked his smooth shaven head for comfort. No sex. No passion. Were we putting our toes on the nursery slopes of love? My fingers gently ran along the small strangely jagged scar that sat between his eye and his hairline; noticed by Shea who'd giggled that he had, ‘a Harry Potter scar, so he must be a grown-up wizard'. ‘How did you get it,' I asked.

He shook his head. ‘
Sub judice
.'

‘Please Howie. Tell me. Tell me something about yourself.'

His voice was firm. ‘No. Not yet. I'm off the hook soon, and then I'll tell you everything.'

October 1972
Folly Farm Cottage

‘
H
ello
Auntie'
     ‘Hello darling. Give me a tick to settle myself down on the stairs. Any answer from mum and dad?'

‘No. Nothing at all. I wrote to Brenda as well last week but she hasn't answered either. Oh, Auntie, I really can't do any more, can I? If they don't want anything to do with me then we'll all have to get used to it.'

‘Ted said things are getting ridiculous. He said if you didn't hear by Saturday we're going to drive down on Sunday and put a stop to all this nonsense.'