Who Was Angela Zendalic by Mary Cavanagh

south, and she found much worse poverty than she’d ever known here. She managed to get out of it, and has just moved back in with her parents, but the boy must have heard about racial hatred in glowing detail.’
    Ted contemplated. ‘Well, he’s got to be spoken to. It might carry on and fuel all sorts of flames. If you’re agreeable I’ll come back after lunch. We’ll call the boy out, make up something about an appointment with the school nurse, and I’ll have a low key chat.’
    The boy was led in, looking at the floor. ‘Sit down, Byron,’ said Ted, again wearing his full uniform and looming over him with serious intent. The boy sat, staring at his feet. ‘Now, I want you to tell me the truth and you won’t get into trouble. Was it you who wrote the nasty word in Angela’s book?’ The boy nodded. ‘And you know it was a very bad thing to do, don’t you.’ He nodded again. ‘Now, Byron, you’ve got very fair hair, haven’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜How would you feel if people were nasty to you because of that? Angela’s got brown skin, and it’s just the same for her. Something she was born with. In America, where you used to live, there’s a lot of trouble with black and white people hating each other. It sometimes happens here in England, and it’s a very bad thing. Have you ever heard of a man called Martin Luther King?’ The boy shook his head. ‘He’s a very famous black man, and he made a speech a few weeks ago. It was all about how black and white people should live in harmony, side by side with each other, and be equal in God’s eyes. One thing he said, was this. “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Now Angela’s a very nice little girl. She’s loved very much by her mum and dad, and she’s my Goddaughter. In fact everyone in Jericho is very fond of her. Now will you say sorry to me for what you’ve done, and promise that you’ll never be unkind to anyone with a dark skin again?’
    â€˜Yes, sir. I’m really sorry.’
    â€˜I accept your apology, Byron, so no more nonsense, mind. Otherwise I might have to go round and see your Mum, and your Granddad whose a friend of mine.’ The boy began to sniff loudly, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Now, I’m sure you won’t be telling anyone about our little chat, and I give you my solemn promise that I won’t either. Now, off you go, but before you do, you can shake my hand.’ The boy shook his hand. ‘Goodbye, Byron. In your future life I want you to be proud that you’re a good, kind person.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    A couple of days later Edie’s doorbell rang, and a little boy was standing on the pavement, holding a paper bag. ‘Is Angela in?’
    â€˜Yes, dear. What’s your name? I don’t know you, do I?’
    â€˜Byron Macey’, the boy said. ‘My Granddad’s Charlie Wright.’
    â€˜Well, I’m blowed. Your mum’s Sylvia, isn’t she. I heard she was back with her little lad. Come in.’
    Angela appeared in the passage and beamed. ‘Hallo, Byron.’
    â€˜I’ve brought you a new colouring book,’ he said. ‘I heard your other one got scribbled on.’
    â€˜Oh, that is kind,’ said Edie. ‘Off you go in the back room and you can do some colouring in together. I’ve just made some jam tarts.’

July 1964
Clacton-on-Sea
    W ith Edie having had her varicose veins ‘stripped’, and Stan being operated on for a Dupuytren’s contracture, a week at Butlin’s Holiday Camp at Clacton-on-Sea had been cheerfully bankrolled by Ted and Peggy. The recuperating patients would ‘take things easy’ whilst the fond and