Who Was Angela Zendalic (2 page)

I jerked my head forward in angry despair. ‘You all knew didn't you? Now tell me. Who the hell
was
Angela Zendalic?'

P
ART
O
Ne

Jericho, Oxford

T
he
area known as Jericho is a Victorian enclave of tiny terraced houses located within a short walk of Oxford city centre. A tree-less, front-gardenless gridiron of tightly packed dwellings, created in the 1870s to house the labouring classes. Built with roughshod speed, and scant thought to visual charm, it was soon termed a slum, but its basilica-style Anglo-Catholic church, St. Barnabas, stood with powerful sentry to contain and intimidate its lowly residents to the will of God.

The Jericho of today is a highly sought-after neighbourhood of magazine-lovely conversions, colonized by the arty, the academic, and other worthy broadsheet readers prepared to pay premium prices. But in 1953, when our story begins, it was a deprived working class quarter (when such places were named as such), peopled by proud, honest families, where everyone knew everyone and you belonged to a loyal, tight-knit, salt-ofthe-earth community.

So, may I now introduce you to Peggy Edwards. A born and bred Jericho girl of twenty-seven-years old, ex-WAAF archivist, war widow and librarian, who has lived alone at 56, Nelson Street since the early deaths of her parents. She's neither beautiful nor plain. Small and slender, with a heart-shaped face, blue eyes, fair hair, and good skin, but rather averse to what her father used to call, ‘tarting yourself up'. People think her shy, but she's not. She's just quiet by nature and thinks carefully before she speaks.

Tuesday, June 2nd 1953,
Coronation Day of Queen Elizabeth ll 56, Nelson Street, Jericho, Oxford

C
oronation
Day had dawned with black clouds and pouring rain – proof indeed that God (and the Royal family) had no control over the weather. But no matter. The occasion had lifted the whole nation to a fever pitch of festivity and no-one was allowed a dull moment. Each house was garlanded with Union Jacks, gay bunting, and posters of the lovely young Queen, and every word and action was overwhelmed with bubbling excitement. The harsh, drab conditions of post-war Britain were on the up, and with the dawn of a new Elizabethan era it was a time to laugh with strangers, and hop-step into a bright and better world.

Despite the euphoria, all Peggy had wanted was a quiet morning on her own; to sit in peace, to dream, to smile and anticipate her afternoon event to come, but she'd been forced to ‘listen-in' to the wireless broadcast with Stan and Edie Zendalic, her next door neighbours at No.55, and their lodger, Ted Rawlings. And so, being browbeaten to attend by the well-meaning and motherly Edie (‘You can't be on your own! What nonsense. I won't allow it'), she took her place in their tiny front room, used less than a dozen times since the end of the war.

Endless smacks of rain hit the windowpanes, and a gloomy light prevailed, but in trying to create a fitting atmosphere to the regal occasion, Edie had squeezed her generous proportions into her ‘party best' bombazine, lit an unseasonal coal fire, set out the best china, and tuned-in to The Home Service. Thus, with the two men also formally attired in their demob suits, all four sat attentively on the hard sprung Edwardian suite, listening in silence as the honeyed tones of Wynford Vaughan Thomas deferentially described the events unfolding; each of them wishing, like many millions, that they could see the pageant displayed on a television screen.

They'd discussed going to watch it on the set that had been especially installed in the Clarendon Institute up the road, the social club provided by The Oxford University Press where Stan was a master printer, but with bored unruly children, and too much drink involved in a long day, they decided it would be no pleasure. Neither did Peggy want to suffer the smug, patronising smiles of the local young wives; her childhood friends from St. Barnabas Juniors, with whom she had nothing in common once she'd moved on to the grammar school. She knew what they all thought of her. ‘Poor, boring little Peggy. Only married a week before her bloke got killed bombing Dresden. Wasn't even worth her taking on his name (and did anyone know his name, anyway?). Not even a shirt button to account for him. Supposed to be a pilot. Bet he wasn't. Maybe she'd made him up. Why would a posh pilot want to marry
her
? Eight years on now and far too spinsterly to find someone else. All she owned were two stuffy tweed suits and sensible shoes. Hair scraped up in French pleat, and banged up all day in a dreary library, she might as well be a nun.'

Ted Rawlings was none too keen on turning up at The Institute either, being well aware that having a copper hanging around would put the kybosh on any fun and games, even though no-one had stolen as much as a wine gum in their lives. Now, having been on night duty and dealing with a crowd of happy drunks on the Cowley Road, he was battling to stay awake, but with the powerful explosion of,
‘Vivat, Vivat Regina
,' he was alerted to full attention.

Stan, rising to his feet, carefully poured a sweet sherry apiece, and proposed a toast with serious reverence. ‘To the Queen.'

‘And, long may she reign,' joked Ted, pointing to the drenched window panes.

‘Oh, very droll, Ted,' Edie giggled, and they all laughed, raising their glasses in unified friendship.

‘And now another toast,' said Stan. ‘To our Brenda and her Norman who can't be here to enjoy this wonderful day with us.'

‘And let's include my mum and dad, as well,' Peggy added. Knowing smiles were exchanged in memory of dear Len and Winnie, and they raised their glasses again. But although Ted nodded and sipped, he lowered his eyes and didn't add his own dedications.

Becoming desperate for her own company Peggy prepared to muster her escape, flexing her fingers and glancing theatrically at her watch. ‘I'll have to go soon.'

‘Oh, do you have to, Peg?' said Ted. ‘Aren't you coming to the street party?'

‘Sorry Ted. I'm helping at the Commonwealth Club. A special reception at Worcester College.'

‘What a shame. Oh, well. Don't forget the do at The Bookbinders tonight.'

‘I'm afraid I'm busy tonight as well. Commonwealth Club again.'

‘Maybe you'll get back in time to pop in.'

‘I'll try.'

Ted's face, with its large, plain features held a benign sweet smile; the look of a man in love trying to hide his disappointment. Such a nice, honest man who would make a caring, reliable husband for Peggy, or any other woman, but she wasn't a jot interested. Now she'd discovered the love of her life, she realised she'd never loved her dead husband either.

By early afternoon, the heavy rain of the morning had lifted to an overcast brooding sky, and as Peggy prepared to leave, she glanced at herself in the dim hall mirror, smiling a Giaconda smile at her drab Englishness. One-day soon Hollywood glitter brilliance would arrive in her life. She would be wearing brightly coloured cotton dresses, and carrying a parasol to shield her eyes from the hot sun, but today, dressed in what was, in fact, the best of her three expensive, well cut suits – a peplum jacket and full-skirted Windsmoor, in a blue slub tweed – she carried an umbrella, ‘just in case'. She clicked the front door firmly shut, turned down the narrow pavement, and within a few seconds stepped through a wicket gate into the back entrance of Worcester College.

The Oxford University Commonwealth Club reception, planned for months to be held on the sunny lawns of the college gardens, had been relocated to the mediaeval dining hall, and here, grateful for the warmth of close contact, a large group of African, Asian, Australian, and Canadian students, many in ethnic dress, small-talked in a hubbub of diverse accents. In her role as a general volunteer, Peggy weaved and curled her way around, helping to serve a finger buffet to the pushing crowd, and stopping to offer smiling support to the lonely and far from home, especially the small number of ‘coloured' students who were offered no comfortable niche in the social life of the University. Viewed by many – even, in secret prejudice, by some of the other volunteers – as no more than alien exhibits.

With all catering needs completed, she quietly placed herself within Prince Joseph Ntozi of Ankanda's group, listening attentively as he praised the new monarch in his refined, halting English; his bobbing manner, and dated choice of words, showing the deference of a Victorian gentleman. A tall, shaven-headed man, with an aquiline East-African nose, a high brow, broad cheekbones, and a wide smile of flawless white teeth, wearing his ceremonial regalia with grace and majesty. A long white cotton
kanzu
beneath a heavy floor length robe in a loud shade of scarlet; its front panels and cuffs embroidered with gold brocade, and a matching fez, as high as a bucket, topped with feathers. The perfect manifestation of a mighty tribal leader.

As the day wound down, weak sunlight brought the party outside to pose for a commemorative photograph. Joseph, as flamboyant royalty, was placed centrally, and Peggy, in unassuming attendant role, stood shyly on the end of a row. Profuse handshaking followed, with wishes of good luck to all the year's graduates, but for Peggy it was a ritual she couldn't wait to get through. Now she would go home to prepare for the evening's event; a Mozart quartet concert, and high table reception at Tavistock College, where Joseph had just completed a postgraduate year in
juris prudence
. An invitation-only event for college luminaries, where she and this magnificent, refined man would walk hand-in-hand for the first time.

Leaving together by the front entrance of the college, they turned down the narrow, wet pavements of Walton Street. Tall, shabby Georgian terraces on one side, and the plain stone facade of Ruskin College on the other. A woman and her suitor, as in love as any Othello and Desdemona. A love only admitted ten days before, during the gaiety of Tavistock's commemoration ball.

After a set of swing numbers, with the dance floor full of vigorous fast steppers, the bandleader announced a slow winding down to a short interval. The lights lowered, a trumpeter began to play the plaintive
Charmaine
, and Joseph, wearing a formal black dinner suit, got to his feet. ‘May I have the pleasure, Peggy? I can, at least, manage a waltz without falling over.'

The assembled party laughed politely as she took his proffered hand, but after a few formal steps they carefully slipped outside to secrete themselves in the darkness of the quadrangle. A coal black man and his diffident volunteer dogooder, sliding behind the dark frame of a Ceanothus bush to embrace and kiss for the first time. To murmur sweet words under a starlit sky, and declare the love for each other that had been unspoken for many months. But, disturbed by drunken screams and running feet, they'd been forced to part and return separately to their table.

Today, unhidden by the cover of night, there could be no sign of their newly found joy. They would pass in front of ‘The Institute' social club, and even a linking of arms would have been a horror story, spread like a forest fire around Jericho. ‘Guess what! Peggy Edwards was seen in broad daylight (it was always broad daylight) holding onto a big buck nigger all dolled up in a fancy dressing gown and feathers. All he needed was a bone through his nose.' As it was every passerby, and there were a great many, stopped and gaped at the startling sight of Joseph in his extravagant finery.

At the corner of Richmond Road it was time to go their separate ways, and he looked at her expectantly. ‘So, Peggy, my dearest. Tonight we will announce to the world that we are in love?'

She looked up at him, smiling. ‘Oh, yes, Joseph. Because we are.'

He turned his head shyly and beamed his dazzling white smile. ‘Before the concert tonight I would like to show you some photographs of my family and of my country. Will you come to my flat at half past six? No.72 Park Town.'

Burning to embrace, as they'd been all afternoon, they formally shook hands. The only touch of white skin and black skin acceptable to any prying eyes, confirming that Peggy's role was merely one of giving virtuous friendship to a bizarre, alienated foreigner.

Ted Rawlings, being coerced as a marshal, had had no escape from the Jericho street party; an endless cavalcade of decorated lorry floats, kiddies fancy dress, crackpot team games, and so much frenzied excitement his normal easy-going nature had been sorely tested. But when the long trestle tables were set out, and overloaded with the rare feast of post-austerity party food, he gratefully took the opportunity to opt out. Now, standing at the front room window of No.55. he waited patiently, glancing at his watch with anxiety. Just before 6.00pm. He'd try to catch her on her way out, to mention (yet again) the event in the pub later on.

His love for Peggy was a burden he'd carried since the spring of 1951, when he'd transferred from the London Met to the Oxford City Police and had taken up temporary lodgings with the Zendalics. Now, two years later, the set-up still suited them well. Stan and Edie, with their only daughter Brenda billeted in Monchengladbach with her Army corporal husband, were happy with his well-measured company and the rent he paid. For himself, Ted found that being waited on by the genial and all-providing Edie was an excellent stopgap – but a stopgap to what, he wasn't sure. All his pipedreams involved a future with Peggy, and one day he would modestly declare himself. But so far no opportunity had arisen. In his silver-buttoned blue serge, PC 665 Rawlings presented as a high and mighty figure; a formidable sight of power and strength with a commanding turn of phrase that could reduce any crook to a quivering wreck, but in mufti he was diffident to the point of spouting gibberish when it came to matters of romance. With today being one of national madness his hope was of a rare few drinks giving him the courage to get her on her own, and take her in his arms, and ...But she was off out again. For a woman of such quiet character, and simple lifestyle, she certainly led a superior social life. College ‘do' this, and college ‘do' that, to include endless receptions and trips to here, there and everywhere. How could he compete? But surely marriage must be what Peggy wanted. Widowed after only nine days some eight years ago, and (as the Zendalics had told him with certainty) not a sniff of anyone else since. She
must
be desperate for wedding bells while there was still time for kiddies. All women wanted kiddies, didn't they? And he had to admit it was exactly what he wanted himself, so at the age of thirty he really needed to get a move on.