Who Was Angela Zendalic (6 page)

‘Oh, I'll be around for a gae few weeks yet. I've a dissertation to write and I'll be moving on after that.'

‘That's good news,' she beamed. ‘We'll firm up with Father Crowley.'

He offered no further attempt at small talk, so we nodded polite goodbyes and slowly ambled off to enjoy the massed primroses that bordered the stream. ‘A dissertation,' said Cass, when he was well out of earshot. ‘Crumbs. There's posh, as mummy would say.'

‘You seem surprised he can read and write,' giggled Cally. ‘I wonder what his problem was. Any idea, Sarah?'

I shook my head. ‘Father Crowley says their past lives are permanently erased like Russian dissidents, and I wouldn't dream of asking.'

As we returned to the house the sunshine began to fade, and with teenage children and husbands to return to, it was time for the trio to make tracks. ‘Let's arrange our next meeting by email, shall we,' said Cally. ‘We've got quite a few performance dates to juggle round, but it'll have to be soon.'

I nodded. ‘And in the meantime I'll be trying to find Angela. All public records are on-line now so I can get cracking.'

‘Are you quite sure you
have
to start this search,' said Cass. ‘It might lead to a load of misery.'

‘It's a chance I'll have to take.'

We parted with affection, and gentle assurances of unity, but just before the three comfortable saloon cars crunched down the drive, Carrie, as senior spokesperson, and whose barrister husband Gerry was the executor of Pa's Will, called us all to order. ‘Sorry to have to mention this but are we agreed that Gerry gets some estate agencies on the job.' We all nodded slowly, reluctant to contemplate or accept the reality of the situation.

After much hugging and reassuring words of love, my sisters left. I then locked the front door and heaved up on my bike, but as I freewheeled down Abbots Hill, to collect the boys from ‘after school club', I would now have four precious minutes of uninterrupted peace to contemplate the shock news of the day. ‘Who on earth
was, or still is,
Angela Zendalic?'

Mid December 1953
Kensal Green, West London

T
he
St. Olave's Home for Unmarried Mothers was situated in a large Gothic house on a busy main road in Kensal Green, West London, and was run by the Anglo-Catholic Sisters of Mercy. But Peggy, now known by her legal married name of Mrs Margaret Davidson, soon found there was no mercy offered, with each sad incumbent browbeaten to accept that sin had been the master of their fate. How she loathed its soulless ambience, with every lonely hour being a whip of degradation. The early rising, the daily exhaustion of unnecessary cleaning, and the sterile silence of shame. As a Christian she'd always empathised with outsiders, like Joseph and his fellow exiles, and gave of herself with cheerful kindness, but now she knew what it really
was
like to be castigated and excluded. She was a wicked, feckless offender, with her supercilious keepers offering no compassion or sympathy. The growing baby inside her a mere poisonous display of her disgrace, and even her medical notes stated a further indictment of her sordid conduct.

Mrs Davidson is of mature years and was widowed in the war. The baby's father is said to be an African Negro who has, typically, abandoned her. The child will, naturally, be offered for adoption.

The rules of the home (in order to exclude any putative fathers who might cause disruption) were that only close relations be allowed to visit by strict appointment, and Ted was shown in by the grim Sister Martha. ‘Your brother, Mrs Davidson.' The shabby reception room was empty, apart from some hard upright chairs arranged around the walls, but a small Christmas tree, carelessly decorated with orange paper chains, stood crookedly in a corner. As the only occupant she must have looked pathetic, sitting close to a mean fire, knitting a small white garment, and resting her needles on the large mound she now carried beneath a faded maternity smock.

‘How are you, Peg?' He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and placed a brown paper parcel on a chair beside her. ‘Happy Christmas, love.'

‘Thanks, Ted.' She knew her face reflected a deep depression, but it was too entrenched to try and pull herself out of it.

‘Are you keeping well?'

‘Very well.'

‘Is there anything you want or need?' She shook her head, unable to volunteer any more conversation.

‘Cheer up, girl.'

‘I can't.'

‘Stan and Edie got your card.'

‘Do they know you've come to see me?'

He nodded. ‘I said we were meeting up West and going to see a show. They've popped a little present in the parcel for you. They're really impressed you're spending Christmas at a posh hotel in Brighton.'

‘Very posh here, isn't it? The sea view, and the sound of the gulls.'

‘Right. I've had enough. Come on. You're not an invalid. Get your coat. It's quite mild and dry outside.'

Ted was right. It was unusually mild for mid-December, and although Harrow Road still showed evidence of wartime bomb damage, with its bare, razed areas, and the blackened ruin of a church, it was making an attempt to look Christmassy. Fairy lights, Santas, reindeers, and nativity groups were displayed in every shop window, but it was still full of the usual careworn shoppers on their daily duties. Tired looking mothers pushed prams and trailed pasty-faced children. The elderly, with walking sticks and string shopping bags, made slow progress. Unkempt florid men came out of the pubs, soggy dog ends clamped between their lips, and winding grubby mufflers around their necks.

Ted breathed in deeply and coughed as endless traffic belched out the stink of post war petrol. ‘Ah, the familiar smell of London,' he declared. ‘No wonder they call it The Smoke, but it's something that's seeped in your bones to us locals. I was brought up quite near here. In East Acton, near the White City...' He went on, talking more to fill up the silence than for real information.

Peggy began to revive, finding herself happy to be in the open air, and becalmed by Ted's idle chatter. She began to enjoy the feel of this large, kindly man on her arm, feeling normal, knowing that passers-by would imagine they were a married couple in love, proudly displaying their child to come. But he was Ted – a burly Anglo-Saxon with a thick-neck, and receding sandy hair. She looked straight ahead, fantasising that he was a tall, graceful African.

‘Fancy a cuppa, duck? I'm parched.' Ted steered her into a small cafe, found two seats in an alcove, and went up to the counter. ‘Two teas, please, and a couple of those Eccles cakes,'

‘Go and sit down,' the assistant said. ‘I'm just brewing up.'

The cafe was hot and steamy and Peggy removed her coat, sitting down to lay her hands on her mound. The familiar pushes and pokes of tiny limbs strained against her sides, and then a wobbling little shudder as the baby changed position. Ted sat down beside her, smiling with wonder at the visible rippling movements. ‘Look at that,' he said. ‘Talk about fighting to get out. It's wonderful, isn't it. The precious gift of life. I...well I missed all that.'

‘What do you mean you missed all that?'

‘It was the rotten war. I was stuck on a minesweeper and ...'

Peggy interrupted him with a sharp jolt that nearly brought her to her feet. ‘What are you telling me?' And what
was
he telling her?

He cast his eyes to the floor. ‘June and I were married in '43 and Jolly Jack Tar whisked me off straight away. Like most Londoners she was convinced the bombing was all over so she stayed with my parents. Bobby she called him, but I never saw him. Not even a photo. Both of them killed in a doodlebug air raid when he was ten weeks old. My mum and dad copped it as well.'

‘Oh, Ted.' Tears filled her eyes and she moved closer to him, grabbing his hand, genuinely wanting to throw herself in his arms. ‘Oh, Ted. You never said.'

‘I didn't want to say. It's the past. You had a miserable time too, what with losing your hubby and all that. Lots of bloody awful things happened in the war. I've got over it, and I haven't got over it, if you know what I mean. Don't say nothing at home, will you. No-one knows and that's the only way I can cope with it.' He then slapped his hand firmly down on his thigh. ‘Oh, Peg. We can't let this baby go, can we? Maybe I can get transferred back up to the Met. We can still get married. Bring the baby up together, and sod what everyone thinks.'

She wiped her eyes. How easy it would be to say yes, but yes would mean she'd be agreeing to a life of lies, and in some strange way would mean she was rejecting Joseph. ‘Ted, I love you, but I'll never be
in love
with you. Joseph was the love of my life, and I still pray that one day he'll come back to me. It wouldn't work.'

He hesitated and puffed out. ‘Then in the words of the prophet Isaiah all three of us are fucked, aren't we?'

January 1954
St. Olave's Home, Kensal Green

2
nd
January 1954
     Dear Ted,

Thank you so much for the lovely quilted dressing gown. So cosy and warm - just what I need for this place. It was a very generous thought, and it fits me well, apart from the obvious. The baby's due on 15th February, so just over six weeks to go now. The so-called festive season was very dreary here. We were herded to church a few times with the Sisters, paraded in a crocodile like prisoners, but apart from that everything was ‘as per'.

I'm trying to stay positive but I'm actually in despair. Yesterday Sister Gertrude told me there were 20,000 children up for adoption last year. She said that with mine, being a half-caste, there certainly won't be a rush to take him or her, so it would have to go to Dr Barnardo's to wait its turn. Can you imagine that? A long queue of kind and loving couples moving down a line of cots, scooping up all the white babies to pass off as their own, and leaving mine behind without a second look. It breaks my heart, but what can I do? Why does the world have to be this way?

Ted, having your friendship is a bonus I don't deserve, and you are a true Christian, unlike the so-called Sisters of Mercy, of whom God must be wholly ashamed.

With much love,

Peggy

10th January 1954

Dear Peg,

It was good to hear from you, but I'm broken up to hear you're going through such a bad time. My loving thoughts are with you, dear, and I wish I could wave a magic wand and make things better.

I've told Stan and Edie I'm in regular touch with you, and they send their love. They're pleased you're enjoying ‘the course', and I know they think we're ‘spooning'.

I've booked a day off on 27th Jan, so expect me then, unless there's a sudden drama.

With all my love. Keep your chin up.

Ted

The Sisters of Mercy, as well as showing no glimmer of kindness to the young women in their so-called care, also failed to provide any form of preparation for their ordeal to come. Their role, as supercilious gaolers, only equipped them for contempt, and any small gobbit of help or information about the birth procedure came from the motley group of other inmates. Their basic knowledge was varied, from the country girls who'd lived beside farm animals all their lives, to those of sad innocence, who could only think that their abdomens would suffer a terrifying explosion. Any knowledge to be had was passed around in a mish-mash of truth and old wives' tales, and (in intense competition) the guardians of the inner knowledge jostled to rise to the top of the pecking order. The dormitories thus echoed with horror stories, conjecture, and lies.

Even if Peggy
had
wanted to join the gang she found she wasn't included in their powwows. It wasn't that she set out to be superior, but being the only one of relatively advanced age and quiet nature, was seen as ‘a stuck-up bitch' by the young girls who could only relate to their peer groups. The lack of eye contact, the turned backs, and the wide space on passing could have destroyed her, but her weeks at the home had conditioned her not to expect any form of friendship or humanity.

Her only saviour was Ted and, as promised, he'd struggled up to see her on the coach, battling through driving sleet and the bitter austerity of the Underground. He walked into the visitor's room, bringing in the entrenched cold, and knocking back the hood of the thick duffel coat he'd had since his Navy days. ‘Hello, duck.'

After kissing her on the cheek he sat down to unpack a simple picnic, brought up from the kitchen of No.55. Luncheon meat sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, a couple of Edie's homemade fruit cakes, and a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk to share. He'd even brought a flask of Camp coffee. ‘Well, you never get offered a hot drink here, do you? Callous old bags.' Ted then shivered, made a face like a pantomime villain, looked round theatrically, and shovelled two large scoops of coal on the fire. And so they pulled up their chairs to the hearth and ate the little feast together. Peggy knew she would never forget how much she enjoyed that short afternoon, with the sweet companionship of familiarity and the hot glow of the fire. It wasn't until they'd eaten that he revealed his idea. ‘Look, Peg. I've been thinking. How about finding the baby a foster home?'