Who Was Angela Zendalic (14 page)

‘Peg, love. Nothing's going to come out, but it looks like the Princess story is turned on its head.'

‘He really was a Prince, Ted. Prince Ntozi of Ankanda.'

‘Never mind about that. Just concentrate on the here and now. Right back at the beginning you know I made up a load of eyewash about a young girl and a bloke in a jazz band. Then when they finally got the adoption papers Edie told me in confidence that the adoption board had written down the mother was a widow, an older professional woman, and the father was a high-born African student. I didn't tell you for obvious reasons.'

‘Oh, it's alright. She told me the same story years ago. It scared me stiff but I fobbed her off. Told her the jazz band story sounded much more likely, being as she was so musical.'

‘Edie's always wondered how I got it wrong, but I made up some guff. What a mess. Oh, Peg, I'm really sorry you've been lumbered.' But then he nodded firmly and held up a finger like a cricket umpire. ‘Right. Management decision made. You can take a back seat and I'll take the lead. Suggest that we tell her the basic story of how she came to No.55, and trot out those wretched adoption papers. Why don't we both go round next door now? No time like the present with Angie at her acting class.'

A bat and ball of drama ensued, with Stan having to make an emergency appointment with Dr Peck for ‘something to calm Edie down', but after an hour of lying on the bed with her eyes closed she acquiesced that the time had come. All four of them would muster tomorrow at No.55 for high tea and ‘get it over with', disguised in part as a celebration for Ted having just passed his Inspectors exams, and his transfer to the CID.

Tea was the usual summer Sunday spread; sliced corned beef, a lettuce leaf, radishes, half a tomato, and a dollop of salad cream, followed by homemade scones, fruitcake and scalding cups of Ty-Phoo. But as the empty teacups were finally placed on their saucers, nervous anxiety held in the air.

‘Er, Angie, love' said Stan. ‘Can we all have a little chat?' Angela knew what was coming; the fall-out from her emotional talk with Dr Penney. Her insides dropped like ice, wanting to know, yet not wanting to know either, and terrified that her parents would be irreparably hurt and traumatised. Wishing to the pit of her stomach that she'd never said anything at all. ‘There's nothing to worry about,' he continued. ‘Dr Penney's had a word with Auntie Peg and she's told us what he said.'

Having volunteered as spokesman Ted took over with Peggy, herself, sitting rigid and barely breathing. ‘Right, love. You want to hear where you came from so we'll tell you what we know. When you were little we told you the Princess story, but you've guessed it was only something made up to try and help you understand that you were adopted and you were ...well ...a bit different from all your little classmates. As to the truth of the matter, I doubt we know as much as you're hoping for, but this is what happened. An old mate in London told me he knew someone who was looking for a foster home for her baby. Everything was kept very private and I wasn't expected to ask any questions. I was lodging here with mum and dad at the time and I told them about it, just in case they knew someone who could help out. Well, they talked it over and they said they'd like to have you themselves, so you came down when you were six-weeks-old. A proper nursery nurse in a uniform brought you in a chauffeur driven car, and do you know, there was even a little crowd on the pavement waiting for you to arrive.'

Edie sniffed and nodded. ‘You were wearing these,' she said, reaching for a carrier bag. ‘They've been up in the loft all this time, and we got them down this morning.' Angela withdrew the garments, touching them and turning them over with her eyes cast down. Hand-knitted doll-size bootees and mittens, slotted through with pink satin ribbon, a tiny nightdress that tied around the back, a bonnet that would have fitted a grapefruit, and a fancy matinee jacket, edged with crochet. Peggy sat rigidly, knotted with fear, her lips pressed tightly together, steeling herself not break down. Remembering each stitch that had been formed by her cold hands at St. Olave's, resting her needles on the huge mound of her twisting, turning baby.

Before taking up the story again Ted carefully put his hand on her arm, giving her an unseen squeeze. ‘You were such a tiny little mite. Ever so pretty you were, and we all fell in love with you straight away, didn't we Peg. At the time we had no idea you were here forever, but mum and dad knew they couldn't bear to let you go, so a few weeks later they asked if you could be adopted properly. It must have been agony for your real mother to decide, but she agreed. She must have done it because she knew you'd have a wonderful life, with two smashing parents who really wanted you, and she could give you nothing like as much.'

‘We know a little bit about her,' said Edie. ‘The adoption papers came with a letter what said she was an English widow who was an older professional woman, and your dad was a student from Africa. Possibly from the ruling classes, so not quite a Prince, but nearly.' Peggy then gave a little cry, and covered her face with her hands, but with so much emotion in the room, and everyone being on the verge of tears, it was barely noticed.

It was then Stan's turn to take up the story. ‘Right at the beginning there was a bit of a puzzle as it was thought your real dad might have had something to do with music, and it could be right, now you've turned out to have such a lovely voice. But that's really all we know, love.'

Peggy's backbone then collapsed with profuse sobbing, Edie, too, began to gulp, and Stan clutched his mouth, but Angela, who was calm and smiling, locked her arms around her mum, saying thank you, and sorry, and laughing at the same time. But Peggy, after wiping her eyes, stared hard at her cherished daughter, knotted with misery that she held the key to the real truth, and ashamed she would never have the courage to turn it.

‘Right,' said Ted, when everyone's composure had returned. ‘All your life we've said you were a Princess and nothing's changed. You'll always be a Princess to us. Now dry up those tears everyone. We're going to have a toast to our darling girl.'

After sherry glasses were raised, with a watered down one for Angela, she requested another toast. ‘To the widow and the student from Africa, wherever they are. I wish I could tell them I'm very happy and very lucky.' The assembled company oohed and aahed with sentiment, and although ‘the widow' raised her glass, she didn't speak or sip. She just smiled with an internal wish to her Prince. ‘Wherever you are, my darling, you're here in my heart'.

But where, she contemplated, was he? It had been over thirteen years since he'd crossed over St. Aldates to the taxi cab company, holding a small suitcase and a trilby hat, and waving her a sad goodbye.

‘Oh, hello Miss Edwards,' said Piers, opening the door of his college rooms. ‘Do come in.'

‘I've come to thank you again for your kindness to Angela,' she said. ‘We managed to have a good family talk on Sunday, and it all went very well. We think she'll feel a bit more settled in her mind now.'

Piers nodded. ‘That's excellent news. The Zendalics must have been very brave.'

‘They were. We all were, but it's good it's out in the open now.'

‘Might I be permitted to know the details?'

‘Of course. She'll probably fill you in herself, anyway. She came from London, her mother was said to be a widow, an older professional woman, and her father was an African student. That's all we know, and that's all we'll ever know. In fact, all the talk about her father brought back some memories of my own, and I just wanted to ask your advice.'

‘I'd be pleased to try and help.'

‘Back in the early fifties I was a volunteer with The University Commonwealth Club and I made a very good friend of a young Ankandan man. A postgraduate here at Tavistock. Prince Ntozi whom we called Joseph. After he went back to Africa we exchanged the odd letter, but with the passage of time we lost touch. I just wondered if the college have had any news of him lately. Ankanda's been through some awful turmoil, and a friend thinks the royal family were deposed and left the country. I've often wondered how he is and what he's doing.'

‘Well, let's start with the alumni.' He pulled down a large volume from a high shelf and thumbed through the index. ‘Ah, here we are. Not much information I'm afraid. Just his very lengthy full name, attendance in 1952/3, and his qualification. D.Phil.
Juris Prudence
. No further updates. The best person to speak to would be my colleague, Walter Estavan, Professor of African Studies. I'll give you his details. Tell him you've spoken to me, and he might be able to help you.'

‘Oh, thank you, Dr Penney. Joseph was a lovely chap. I do hope I can discover some good news and maybe get in touch.'

Jericho
October 1966

D
ear
Miss Edwards
     In answer to your enquiry. You ask about your old friend, Prince Ntozi (Joseph) of Ankanda, who left Oxford very suddenly on the morning of 3rd June 1953. I will attempt to give you as much basic information as is available to me.

On 2nd June 1953 (Coronation day) the Royal court of Ankanda was subject to an attempted coup. Prince Joseph was called back from Oxford immediately, on the pretext of his father, King Sorotse, being taken ill. However, due to the debacle being led by a handful of badly led insurgents, the British military contained the uprising and quickly restored the
status quo
. Details were not reported by the British press as it was not only considered
sub judice
, but seriously unwelcome news in a time of national celebration.

In September 1953 the Prince married Pearl Anatombe, a cousin, who was only fourteen years old at the time. It was well known that this was a marriage of convenience to strengthen the precarious status of the crown, and although opposed by Joseph, it was forced upon him. In the following years the family hung precariously onto power, but with growing anti-colonial feeling the general population, in common with many of the other African Commonwealth countries, began to be persuaded to independence.

A second botched coup in 1959 resulted in King Sorotse being fatally shot. The military made several arrests, including Joseph's middle brother, Eyander, (known as Edward) who was heavily implicated in the plot. He was placed in gaol, but died shortly afterwards (probably executed).

With the political situation settling down the heir apparent, Prince Albert, who firmly supported Colonial rule and western development, was crowned as King. The family precariously held on to power, but after a third insurgence in 1962 their rule collapsed and the country eventually obtained Independence, together with the other regions of Uganda. With Ankanda being a fairly small principality, and having little influence in the Ugandan area at large, the whole family were expelled, but the British government provided them with new passports, in new names. Nothing more is known of them, and one presumes they now live obscure lives in any one of the old Commonwealth countries.

I have been in touch with the Tavistock alumni office for any recent news, but they have had no updates from either Joseph, or his brother Albert, who was also at Tavistock after the war.

On a domestic level. Joseph's marriage was very short-lived, and there were no children.

I'm so sorry that I can't help you more, and that Prince Joseph Ntozi seems to be quite untraceable.

Yours sincerely

Walter Estavan

Peggy's reaction was of a slowly falling sadness. It had been five years since the family were deposed, each free to live new lives in another country of their choosing, but Joseph had not returned to find her.

April 2014
Monks Bottom

M
y
childhood home, Old Priory Hall, is a chocolate box perfect, 16th century, Grade ll listed villa. Oak timber-framed, white-rendered wattle and daub in-fills, and a Welsh slate roof. Flying buttresses, heavy old ship's beams, red herring-bone brick inglenooks, and an iron-studded elm front door that leads into a vast hall of centuries-worn flagstones. Here a sweeping mahogany staircase, lit up by stain-glassed panels, leads up to a minstrel's gallery and jumble of wonky-floored bedrooms.

Having spent a tedious hour following two chirpy young estate agents around while they measured, recorded and wrote up details, I watched as they drove off, casting forth a witches curse. ‘Go away. The Hall doesn't want to be sold', but as I went back inside I began to sense its need for warmth and occupation. As if the walls had already absorbed and destroyed all the sounds and scents of the musical, fun loving Penneys.

The story we know is that Pa fell in love with it on a wet and windy summer day when its back half was saturated and slipping, and pigeons had colonised the attic rooms. That he'd rescued the tumbling-down wreck, and had restored it over several months.

I'd only been a few days old when we'd all moved in, confirmed by a photograph that had hung near the front door all my life (taken by whom?). Pa, as slim as a reed, in a green corduroy suit, his brown hair curling well over his collar, and proudly holding the tiny white-shawled bundle that was me. Mummy, delicate and beautiful, with my three sisters lined up at her side, was wearing flared black trousers and a long red cloak. Smiling, and holding Pa's arm, she looked about sixteen years old with her long blonde hair hanging loose and silky. How heavy the ghost of Angela must have been hovering over them on that day. The date was certainly February 1973, so the house must have been restored in 1972, the year before I was born. That
had
to be a starting point in the search for my past. Pa had just been appointed as Oxford University's Regius Professor of Ancient English Music, and mummy and the twins were, for some unexplained reason, living down in Wales with my grandparents. I could only assume they'd (unbelievably) split up, so was the house being prepared for Angela and little me? Was she living (with Pa?) at the Folly Farm cottage while the work was completed. It certainly seemed like it. I began to feel like a celebrity on the TV programme, ‘
Who Do You Think You Are'
, but in my case there was no (carefully researched) surprise revelation caught on camera, with open-mouthed gasps and floods of tears.