Who Was Angela Zendalic (35 page)

He arrived back just before 3.00pm. ‘Sorry, Prof. No message and nothing to report.' He went up to his rooms and rang home to Stable Cottage, but there was no answer. The anxious but controlled thoughts at the back of his mind now became a serious alarm, so he rang the Maternity Hospital.

‘Yes. Hello. I'm rather worried as I can't get hold of my wife. Our baby's due in three weeks and I need to check if she might have been admitted for some reason.'

‘Please hold, sir. I'll transfer you to admissions.'

‘Admissions department. Can I help you?'

‘I'm anxious about my wife, Angela Zendalic. I was wondering if she's been brought in with a problem.'

A short delay. ‘She's not here yet, sir. She's on her way up from the Radcliffe Infirmary.'

‘Why? What's happened?'

‘I'm not sure, sir. We've just heard from the casualty unit that she's being transferred up to us very shortly. Can I put you through to them?'

‘Yes! Yes! Put me through.' He drummed his fingers and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. ‘Come, on. Come, on.'

‘The Radcliffe Infirmary Casualty Department.'

‘I'm asking for news of my wife, Angela Zendalic.'

‘Yes, sir. She's been admitted.'

‘Why? Why? What happened?'

‘She was brought in after a serious road traffic accident.'

‘I'm on my way.'

Piers dropped the phone, ran out of the door, down the staircase, across the quad, past the porter's lodge, and out onto the cobbles of Holywell. A fast sprint to the Broad Street cross roads, up the long length of Parks Road, left down Keble Road, over St. Giles and into the scruffy alley-like entrance of Casualty. It had taken him eight minutes.

‘My wife,' he shouted to the receptionist. ‘Angela Zendalic. Where is she?' Stopping to pant heavily, he then noticed the small figure of Peggy, sitting in the waiting room, hunched over her handbag. Grabbing her, and pulling her to her feet, he shouted again. ‘What the hell's happened? And more to the point why wasn't I contacted straight away.' She hung her head, muttering. He pushed her back down roughly, and turned to the glass wall of the reception window. ‘Take me to her. Take me to her.' In response to the shouting a senior nurse arrived.

‘Come with me, Mr Zendalic.'

Angela was in a small ante-theatre attached to a complicated network of tubes and leads that led to a purring machine. A bag of blood transfusing into in her arm, an oxygen mask over her face, and a plastic tube in her mouth. A group of doctors and nurses stood over her, and as he entered one of the doctors approached him. ‘Tell me what happened,' Piers howled out. ‘How long's she been like this? I didn't know. I didn't know. What about the baby.'

‘She was knocked over by a car just before midday ...'

‘But that's over three hours ago. No-one let me know.'

The doctor indicated a couple of plastic chairs. ‘Let's sit down quietly and I'll explain. It appears she was coming out of the Ladies lavatories in Watlington, and was hit by a car at fairly slow speed. It's likely that she struck her head on the kerb as she fell, and she's been deeply unconscious ever since. We have something called a Glasgow coma score, and she's showing a dangerously high reading. The baby's fine, though. This machine is just a precaution, so we can get the baby delivered by caesarean section as a matter of urgency. Right now we're preparing an ambulance to transport her up to the new maternity block in Headington. Afterwards we'll bring her back here and assess the situation.'

‘Is she going to die?'

‘There are no signs at the moment that she's deteriorating further, but she stands a much better chance of recovery if we can get the baby born. Her mother has already signed the consent form.'

For a few seconds Piers was confused. ‘Is her mother here, then?'

‘She's sitting outside in the waiting room. Maybe you missed her.'

Piers raised his eyes, and shook his head with bewilderment. ‘That isn't her mother. It's her
God
mother. Now let me have another consent form, and I'll sign it as her fiancé and father of the child. And my name is Penney. Professor Piers Penney.' The form was signed. ‘Will I be allowed to go with her?'

‘Of course, but there'll be no room for the other lady.'

‘Too bad.'

As Angela was being prepared for transfer, Piers, his head tight with tension, walked out to the reception area to find Peggy again. He sat down beside her, quietly controlled. ‘Angela has been in this state for over three solid hours. Why wasn't I told?'

She coughed nervously. ‘Because you're a liar and a cheat, and we don't want anything to do with you. Ted'll be here soon, and you'll get what you deserve.'

He stood up, shook his head, and gave her a look of pity. ‘Whatever you're waffling on about I've got more on my mind to care. I'm off to accompany her to the maternity hospital, and you're not welcome.' But then he turned. ‘And what was this so-called urgent matter you all needed to speak to me about?'

‘The facts of your infidelity ...'

Piers, always slow to anger, reared up with disbelief. ‘My what!'

‘Don't deny it,' Peggy stuttered. ‘Ted saw you in a country pub yesterday, cuddling another woman.'

‘Oh, you stupid delusional simpleton,' he shouted. ‘The whole lot of you are ignorant idiots. Just stay away. Leave us alone.'

But as he strode out to join the waiting ambulance he collided with Ted and a shocked look was exchanged. Ted, stone-faced, and determined not to speak. Piers, equally stone-faced, but determined to rent his fury on the catalyst of Angela's tragedy. He held up a hand and pointed a finger. ‘I hold you responsible for all this. You! You interfering, blundering fool.' He raised his voice even higher and jabbed the air. ‘I don't want you anywhere near her. And if she ...if she dies I'll hold you responsible.' He walked off with long strides.

Ted found Peggy, weak and deflated, in the reception area. ‘I've seen him,' he said. ‘How did he find out?'

Peggy shrugged. ‘Got worried when we didn't turn up and rang round, I suppose.' She looked up. ‘He's told us to stay away.'

‘Stay away, my foot. We're going up. Come on.'

Peggy shook her head. ‘No, Ted. We're going home. Let the baby be born in peace, with its parents. Let Angela have some dignity. No shouting or accusations today. That can all come later. I'll walk home on my own if you don't mind.'

In miserable surrender, she slowly left; denied her rightful place at her daughter's side, and excluded from the birth of her grandchild. She walked, exhausted, down to the back entrance of the hospital, and turned left onto Walton Street. Past St. Paul's where she'd attended the Girl Guides before the war, and Angela had spent so many happy, smiling years as the leading light of the musical youth theatre. Past the University Press, where her father, and grandfather, and Stan, had spent all their working lives. Past Mr Crysecowiz's delicatessen, (yes darling, of course you can have a piece of apple strudel). Past Summerbee's, the bespoke tailors, where no-one she knew had ever been rich enough to order a suit. Past Wally's second hand shop, where she'd searched for ‘treasures' with a chatty mop-haired little girl (Yes, darling, of course you can have the chipped chalk ornament of a poodle). Now down Walton Crescent, and across to Nelson Street. The key turned in the lock of No.56. Home at last, where sweet ghosts whispered stories of her happy childhood. The bitter disruption of the war. Married and widowed after nine days to a man she couldn't remember a thing about. Spending years alone, after her mum and dad were both yanked from life before their time. Falling in love with a coal black man, and the deep, shaming pain of her daughter's birth. Thereafter a dreary life of hidden secrets, with Joseph's picture on the wall, and a valuable diamond ring in an eggcup. A shiny, vinyl disc of
Petite Fleur,
and the sound of Angela picking out its melody on the piano, as a five-year-old. With Edie and Stan's departure a few short weeks of happiness, and today her strength of admittance;
I am your mother, and you are my daughter
.

Without taking off her coat she reached in the sideboard for the sherry bottle.

A tumbler poured half full. A deep swig, and a short wait for oblivion.

May 2014
Monks Bottom

A
cheap
white envelope with loopy, old-fashioned handwriting, was on the mat. It could be from noone else. My hands shook as I opened it and removed a sheet of flimsy lined paper. The news delivered was short, and not at all sweet. Hard, nasty and dismissive, from a woman whom I instantly hated. A letter I'd opened with breath-stopping anticipation, hoping and praying that I would now, at last, find the elusive Angela.

Miss Penney

Yes, your mother, Angela, was adopted by my parents. She was knocked down by a car on the day you were born, and died the day after. Her death was a terrible shock to my parents, but she had put them through so much misery I'm sure they were hurried into early graves. For myself I could not grieve. I could only be relieved that their nightmare was over. After your birth your father swept you off and never told them anything about you – not a single word – not even your name. He didn't even tell them when Angela's funeral was either. He just told them (by a solicitor's letter) to leave you and him alone. So they did, and were glad to do so. It also seems that he excluded YOU from the truth about it all as well.

My mother died three years later (from a broken heart) and my father two years after her. I was then glad to throw out every single thing of theirs that had anything to do with Angela, so I've nothing to pass on.

Please do not write to me again as I have no wish to stir up bad old memories.

B. Brown

I rushed up to the bathroom and was sick down the toilet. I clutched my stomach, and was sick again. I cried a gut-wrenching howl of misery, feeling as if my face had just been smacked against a hard wall. Not only had this woman been spiteful and heartless, she'd delivered the worst news possible; Angela was dead. Her young life cut short in truly shocking circumstances. Darling Pa, left in misery, and little me, warm and oblivious in my incubator.

I sat down, staring into space, unable to move. Angela was dead, so why hadn't I discovered this fact from the Ancestry websites? With tears stinging my eyes, I rushed downstairs and booted up, called up the deaths section and looked again. Nothing. Not there. Why not? Her death
must
have been registered. I tapped in the exact death date (the day after my birthday, of course) her Christian name, and place of death as Oxford. Within a split second there it was, leaping onto the screen! Angela
Sendalic
. An incorrect spelling. I rushed to my car and threw myself behind the wheel.

When I got to The Hall there were two strange cars in the drive, doubtless prospective buyers. Howie was nowhere to be seen so I phoned his mobile, hardly able to press out the number with my shaking fingers. ‘Howie, Howie,' I gulped.

‘I'm nailing some loose boards on the bridge,' he said. ‘There's something wrong, isn't there?'

‘Yes. I'm on my way down.'

Desolate with grief I threw myself into his arms, but he didn't ask any questions; just gathered me up, and held me until my tears began to subside. ‘Hey. Wheesht, wheesht,' he murmured. It was several minutes before I stopped crying, but he still didn't ask for an explanation. He just guided me up to the little stone chapel, steadied me to sit down on an old wooden bench and waited for me to speak.

‘Howie, please forgive me. I've been less than honest with you. You're not the only one with a past.' With a sore throat, and my head hung down, I explained my convoluted life story, but if he found it as far-fetched as a soap opera, he didn't show it. ‘I'm really sorry,' I concluded. ‘I twisted your arm to know your story but I didn't have the guts to come clean about myself.'

‘Right,' he said. ‘As with every story there'll be many versions of the truth, and you've only heard the view of this one bitter woman.'

‘But she's my one and only lead,' I said. ‘I've nowhere else to go now. Angela's dead, and the story of her life is as dead as a Dodo as well.' But maybe, as something of reflex factor, I began to realise that Angela and I were never going to be confronted with any pain or embarrassment. There would be no cautious, stomach churning reunion and no possibility of her rejection either; of her turning her back, and walking indifferently away from the child she had no wish to be reminded of. The child conceived in what was either a genuine love story, or a transient affair with a man fifteen years her senior.

Howie's phone then rang; the estate agent to say that they were just leaving and the viewer ‘was very interested'. Was he? Well, I wasn't. He raised up my chin, and kissed me gently. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘Away up to the house. I've something to show you.'

He took me into the music room, and led me over to the naughty nude painting. ‘Sarah. Brace yourself, but I think this lovely girl may have been your mother.' Could I absorb any more shocks for one day? He lifted the painting from the wall, took it to Pa's desk, and held it on its edge so I could read the label on the back.
Angela Listening To Stuart Henry - Aston Street, March 1972.