Who Was Angela Zendalic (3 page)

At last, with the flash of a black jacket, he ran to open the front door. ‘Peg. Hey Peg.'

She turned. ‘Hello, Ted.'

She was wearing unfamiliar petersham court shoes, a short astrakhan jacket, and a full-skirted turquoise-blue cocktail dress that perfectly matched her eyes. Her fair hair, released from its usual scraped back pleat, was revealed as thick and wavy, flowing loose to her shoulders, and swept up at the sides with Kirby grips and hair slides; a style similar to Princess Margaret's. A rare dusting of face powder, and a light touch of pink lipstick, transforming her to a prettiness she normally failed to exploit. In fact, she looked positively glowing. ‘You look lovely,' he said. ‘Cor. What a frock.'

‘Thanks Ted. It's a very special do. A concert in Tavistock chapel and dinner at high table.'

He winked. ‘Got a young man, then?'

‘I'm just a guest. A partner to an Ankandan man.'

‘Well, don't forget the do at The Bookbinders. There's an extension 'til midnight so try and drop in for five minutes.'

‘I will if I'm not too tired. It's work as usual for me tomorrow.'

‘Don't remind me. I'm on at six. Chauffeuring a couple of old lags to Parkhurst.'

‘I must get on or I'll be late.'

‘Well. Hope to see you later. Bye, Peg.'

‘Bye, Ted.'

As Peggy walked away a flush of anger at herself rose up. She should have answered his question, “Have you got a young man?” truthfully and with pride, and been brave enough to say, ‘Yes, Ted. I
have
, and we're very much in love. His name's Joseph. No-one knows yet so keep it strictly to yourself. He's an old public school boy, a highly qualified law graduate, and he'll soon be called to the bar at the Inns of Court in London. That's the bit to impress you, but you're going collapse with shock when you find out he's what you'd call a wog.'

Mid-April 2014
Old Priory Hall, Monks Bottom

H
owie
Sinclair was a muscular Glaswegian of forty-two. Tall, with clear green eyes, a small jagged scar above his left eye, and the complexion of an outdoor life. He was a poor sleeper, and it was just before dawn when he left his lodgings at Lower Bottom Farm. He would now walk the near mile up Abbots Hill to where a five-bar gate led to the lower reaches of Old Priory Hall gardens. A stiff pull back of the latch, and then, as was his custom, pausing to turn and overlook the wide vista of the Watlington valley; the best time of the day to drink in the fields and green valleys, with only birdsong to break the silence.

The last few days had been warm and sunny, but today a sullen sky threatened rain and a sharp north-easterly blew in from the Chilterns. He was wearing his old Dutch army issue combat coat, worn and torn over the two cold seasons of his training, but it was the warmest coat he'd ever owned, and allowed him the ease to bend and kneel, and stretch and reach. No gloves on his hands in any weather, but a thin black balaclava on his shaven head that gave him the look of a cartoon bank robber. It was well-known that the upper-crust locals speculated on the past lives of the riff-raff who'd been scooped up by Father Crowley's
Bridge Project
charity, so maybe that's what they thought he'd been in the past. Or an alcoholic, or a junkie, or suffering from a range of mental health problems, but they'd never believe what he actually
had
been.

Today he would remove the ivy that was invading the long stone walls of the drive. An urgent job. Ivy suckers were like limpets and destroyed ancient lime mortar
.
His contract was for five mornings a week, with his afternoons dedicated to study or tuition, but his idle dream was that the whole of his future working life would be spent as head gardener at Priory Hall; the place he'd chosen to form the basis of his 5,000-word dissertation.

‘The 1086
Domesday Book
lists the site as an isolated religious establishment to the name of Bishop Elfgar. However, in c.1150, a much larger institution, a Priory, was built on the land by an order of Cistercian Nuns and Brothers. Monks Bottom village was, thereafter, established to house the overflow of slaves and servants who worked the fields and forests.

After the dissolution of the monasteries in 1536, the Priory was abandoned, and all that now remains is a well-preserved stone-built chapel, sitting in the grounds of Old Priory Hall, a 16th century Grade II listed Manor House, where its twenty acres have been established as a true horticultural delight. Approached by a long single-track drive, an ancient weeping cedar sits at its front, and at the rear the grounds descend into dedicated areas of diverse planting ...

Howie set off through a rising woodland of silver birches and willows, crossed a bridge over a gently flowing stream, and entered a dappled, leafed-over canopy where ferns and hostas were rising above a green-mossed floor. Further on, as the sky began to appear above him, the tight buds of flowering shrubs were poised to burst forth, and a massed planting of spring bulbs were at their peak. Up a steep twisting path, through magnolias and rhododendrons, he came upon a paved rose arbour that gave out to another wide view of the valley, perhaps his favourite place of all, and so often, with a mug of tea in hand, he would sit on a bench to find spiritual solace and life-affirming peace. Well, that's what the literary description would be when he wrote up that part of the garden, but in his own words, the place was so fucking far from the shaking nights he'd spent under cardboard, in piss-stinking doorways, to be on another planet.

He was now in view of the manor house, where the long rear lawn was poised for its first cut of the season, and its wide herbaceous borders were springing up with firm new shoots. The history of the garden was that it had been designed and planted from a tangle of dereliction by Sir Piers' wife, Merryn; a work of love that had absorbed her for over thirty years until dementia overtook her. A tragedy that she'd become unable to recognise one leaf, twig, flower or blossom as her own creation. At Sir Piers' funeral he'd seen the brave, red-eyed sisters guiding her wheelchair, bending and crouching to talk to her, and old friends coming up offer their condolences when it was obvious she had no idea who they were or where she was. But she was still beautiful at well over seventy. Tiny and slender, to the point of emaciation, with her long, silky white hair swept up on her head in a thick Edwardian knot. Reverend Crowley had spoken of her as a renowned Welsh harpist, but Howie could only judge her as a superior plants-woman, and the creator of a garden that should be on a National Gardens visiting list. But he knew his time there would be short, being compelled to qualify and make the final stage of ‘moving on' to independence and respectability. Respectability. A dated word, but still true in his case, when his old life had been nothing more than a squalor of rancid filth.

But it wasn't only the garden that filled his pipedreams. The lovely Sarah was another. She reminded him of that actress – forgotten her name – from that old telly series,
The Darling Buds of May
, and now gone all posh and polished. Not that Sarah wasn't posh and polished. Spoke like a duchess and glided like a supermodel, but there was something – some damned something – about her that made him think of grass stain on his knees, a gentle wind moving through the willows, and moonlight on her face.

A heavy dew was dropping as he walked towards the small medieval stone chapel that was now used as the gardener's designated base. He breathed in the smell of sweet earth and a tight wave of happiness overwhelmed him. If he died tomorrow, he'd have known this as a perfect moment.

2nd June 1953
Park Town, Oxford

A
s
Peggy arrived at Joseph's flat, his landladies were coming out of the front door, laden with heavy bags. Two benevolent socialist sisters, Miss Clarice and Miss Beatrice Cutler, stalwarts of the Commonwealth Club, whom Peggy knew from other social events. They looked enquiringly at her. ‘Miss Edwards,' she said. ‘I've come for Joseph.'

‘Oh, of course,' said one. ‘Sorry, dear. Didn't recognise you in your glad rags.'

‘Stairs over there,' said the other. ‘Just go down and knock on the door.' They moved off, talking in unison. Sweet ladies with no thought or suspicion that she and Joseph loved each other, had kissed, or even touched with tenderness, but she knew, that despite their generous spirits, they'd have been visibly horror-struck if they'd known.

Wearing a white dress shirt, Joseph appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding out an arm to assist her. ‘Can I take your coat?'

She passed him the coat and he hung it on a hook, turning to admire her. ‘Peggy, you look beautiful. As beautiful as our new Queen.' As he kissed the back of her hand, Peggy, metamorphosed like any other young woman in love, felt every bit as beautiful as the new Queen herself. ‘Your dress is stunning. Is it new?'

‘Yes, it's new.'

The dress had cost her the huge sum of twelve guineas from Derry and Toms in Kensington High Street. Bought on a spontaneous trip to London only days after their romantic encounter at the ball, wanting so much to appear as the worthy consort of a Prince. The tight bodice was boned and strapless, the skirt made up with yards of soft organdie fabric, and supported beneath by a ruffled net. The look completed with her mother's paste pearls and matching drop earrings.

He leaned down to kiss her gently, and her arms encircled him, feeling his warmth, never wanting to let go of his broad back, but as he pulled her firmly into his body, and began to run his fingers down her spine, the protocol of 1950s virtue forced her to break away. ‘No, Joseph. No,' she laughed, with a raise of her eyebrows that silently said, ‘You know I'm going to stop you. It's the rules of the game. The merry dance of early courtship. The hungry embrace that says you want to make love to me, but my playful rejection that underlines I'm a woman of high morals.' But with a sudden surge of desire she wanted to say ‘yes, yes, yes'. A feeling far removed from the awkward, virginal manoeuvres of her rushed wartime honeymoon with Guy Davidson. The tense, painful act she remembered as nothing more than a silent completion of her expected duty. Her eyes wide open, gritting her teeth, feeling no spark of pleasure, or that his clumsy grappling had anything to do with love.

He pulled back from her. ‘I'm so sorry. Forgive me.'

Flustered, he led her into a high-ceilinged room, where a wine bottle and two glasses were set on a tray. ‘Something very special to celebrate. A Chateau Mouton Rothschild.' He carefully poured two glasses and passed one to her. ‘To us, Peggy. To the rest of our long lives together.' He indicated for her to sit on an old padded chesterfield, where he joined her, both politely sipping the smooth wine in silence, carefully denying the magnet of passion.

‘Did you say something about photographs?' Peggy said brightly, breaking the silence.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.' Reaching over to a shelf, he lifted a large buff-brown envelope, and withdrew a pile of monochromes, passing each one to her with an explanation. His father, His Royal Highness King Sorotse of Ankanda, and his crop-headed mother the Queen, both overweight, plainly dressed, and surprisingly unadorned. ‘They were invited to attend the Coronation,' he said, ‘but my father is diabetic and cannot travel far.' He shuffled the pile and produced a postcard-size print. ‘This is me and my two older brothers at Chillinghampton in 1938.' The brothers stood together in line, an unusual sight of three black boys wearing a school uniform of formal suits and straw boaters, posing against the background of a creeper-covered stone wall. ‘At the outbreak of war we were forced to leave the UK and were transferred to an American High School in Switzerland.' There followed several views of The Royal Palace, an unpretentious white stucco villa set within palm trees, and tourist shots of the Ankandan hills. The final glossy picture he showed with great pride: his father greeting Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip from their light plane when they visited Ankanda during their Commonwealth tour the year before, just days before the royal couple were forced home by the sudden death of King George Vl.

The glasses were empty and he put away the photographs. ‘Another drink?'

‘Yes, please. It was lovely.'

The second glass began to course through Peggy's veins like a hot spring rising, and her tongue tingled. She began to feel frivolous, as if she was a beauty like the film star Rita Hayworth, waiting to be taken into the arms of Prince Aly Khan.

‘Perhaps some music?' he suggested.

‘That would be nice.'

He moved to a record player, selected a shiny black disc, carefully lowered the needle arm, and sat down again beside her. A few seconds of crackle, and the stretched vibrato tones of Sidney Bechet's soprano saxophone rang out the plaintive notes of
Petite Fleur
. There is always a piece of music in one's life that is so much more than a string of notes and forever after becomes seeped in your soul as the mantra of love. This was to be Peggy's. She pictured the ageing American musician, so often described as a Creole negro, his lined face crumpled with intensity, his eyes screwed up, and his lips around the mouthpiece, conjuring up a world of dark sinful nightclubs and the thrill of illicit abandon she now felt. Flushed with the sharp shoot of alcohol, and the sensuous notes that lifted high into the air, she got up and began to dance. She'd never danced alone, not in the way that jazz compels worldly women to dance alone, but she found herself moving slowly in time to the music, hearing the swish of her dress, holding her arms wide apart, raunching her shoulders, flexing her fingers, turning her hips, and throwing back her head. He laughed loudly and clapped. The disc ended. ‘Again, again,' she demanded.