The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

‘Take it off!  Take it off!’  Mum covers her eyes and trembles.  I race to my bedroom, stumbling, tripping over Betsy, pulling my gymslip over my head, loosening my tie, and fumbling with the buttons of my school shirt.  I bundle it all into the bottom of my wardrobe, take my everyday skirt and blouse and swiftly close the door on my school uniform.

‘It’s all right, you can look now, Mum.’ 

It’s like this every afternoon when I return from school. 

‘It’s all right, all right.’  I soothe Mum until she removes her hands from her eyes and the trembling gradually subsides.

Because it upsets Mum so much, I’ve debated whether to wear school uniform at all.  Wearing a uniform isn’t compulsory at Grigham Road Secondary Modern School.  But after all the upset about Riversham College and its uniform, Dad now insists I wear a gymslip and blouse.  He made Mum get her money back on the Riversham stuff, calling it “
la-de-da college paraphernalia
”. 

Mum had said, “Yes sir”, and skittered to the scullery where she’d huddled on an old chair drawn up to the oven, which she does a lot of the time now.

It won’t last.  I know it won’t.  Every day I expect Mum to revert to her old self, bustling about the house, taking charge, setting standards.  She has to.  She just has to.  I won’t be able to stand it much longer.

Usually, I wait for Mum to leave for her cleaning job at the baker’s before I put on my school uniform.  But recently she’s been going after I leave for school, and I have to sneak into my bedroom, put it on as quickly as I can and slip out of the door before she sees me.  I wonder if she even realizes I’ve gone.

It’s been a couple of weeks now that Mum’s been going to work late. 

‘Why aren’t you going to the baker’s at the time you usually go?’  I ask as she sits at the kitchen table staring at the wall.  Dad pops into the kitchen to pick up his cap. 

‘Get yourself dressed and off to work,’ he orders Mum.  ‘You can’t sit there all day in your dressing gown, looking like Lady Muck.’ 

She doesn’t appear to hear him and he slams the kitchen door as he leaves.  A few minutes later, I hear him starting up his motorbike.

‘You really should be going to work, Mum,’ I say.  ‘Aren’t they getting upset about you being late all the time?’

‘I don’t work there anymore,’ Mum says, as if she can barely remember her job.  ‘It was
them
.’  Mum spreads her arms in front of her in the way she does when she talks about the voices she hears in her head.  ‘
They’ve
told me I’m not worthy to clean a shop.’  She smiles secretly to herself.  ‘My calling’s lowlier.  I’m the humblest of servants.’

‘Won’t you go to the doctor, Mum, please.  I’ll come with you.  It’ll be all right.’

‘Silly, silly girl,’ Mum chides me.  ‘Lily Hammell (she’s reverted to her maiden name) has no right to see a doctor.  She must bear the load alone.’

‘Of course you’ve got the right.’

‘We’re both destined never to rise from the gutter. 
They’ve
decreed that’s where you and I belong.’

‘No, no.  It’s not true.’

‘It’s true all right.  I’m trying to persuade
them
to release you.  If I do enough penance, perhaps
they
will.  I’ll try.  I’ll really try for you.’  Mum brushes a stray piece of hair from her eyes.  She no longer looks like a film star. 

Please God help me!  Please somebody help me!
‘

‘Mum’s lost her job at the bakers,’ I confide to Angela on our way to school. 

‘Is she worried about it?’  Angela asks.

‘She doesn’t seem to be.  She didn’t tell me for a while.’

‘Don’t worry, Paula.  She’ll come right.  Look at my Mum.  She used to be the same – always going off to some airy fairy place in her imagination.  She just couldn’t cope, see.  She had to escape.  It’ll be the same with your Mum.’

I nod and smile, although I’m sure Mrs Addington never heard
the voices
.

‘Come up tonight and we’ll have a chat.  Mum looks forward to seeing you.’  Angela gives me a playful push on the arm.  ‘We’ll have a slice of bread and dripping waiting.’

Inside me, the weight lightens.

I can hardly wait to get to the Addingtons’ place that evening, and away from the strained atmosphere of our flat downstairs.  I hope Angela really does have a slice of bread and dripping waiting.  I know I shouldn’t be taking their food.  It’s a struggle for Mrs Addington to feed herself and Angela, but these days I’m often hungry.

The first thing I notice as I enter the Addingtons’ kitchen is a brown envelope lying discarded beside Mrs Addingtons’ chair.

‘The letter came this morning.  It’s official,’ she says as soon as I walk through the door.  She holds up a typewritten letter.  ‘It says Tony’s being fostered with the intention of his being adopted, and that they are not at liberty to release his records.’

‘Do they say where he is?’

‘No.  He could be anywhere in England, I suppose.  The letter says it’s best we don’t know, and that Tony has a good home with all the privileges we’re not able to give him.’  Mrs Addington swallows in order to dam the tears.  ‘It says he’s very happy, and for us to get on with our lives and leave him to get on with his.’

Angela places a chipped plate with a slice of bread and dripping on my knees.  For a moment I forget about Tony, as I ram the bread into my mouth.  It tastes wonderful.

‘There’s something odd about it.  Tony wouldn’t say those things.  I know we used to argue, but he wouldn’t tell us to leave him alone.  Not Tone.’ 

‘I’m not certain what else to do.’  Mrs Addington folds the letter and puts it back into the envelope.  She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes.  ‘You’re right, Angela.  It’s not like Tony.  He’ll get in touch.  We’ll just have to wait until he does.’  She pauses.  ‘But I’m blowed if we’ll do nothing.  We’ll write another letter and insist they give it to him.’.

As soon as I arrive home from school, I rip off my uniform, hide it at the bottom of my wardrobe as I usually do and hurry into the kitchen.  My stomach growls at the smell of food. 

‘How are you, Mum?’  I embrace her as she stands at the oven holding the handle of a frying pan.  ‘What’re you cooking?

‘Salmon.’

‘Salmon!’  I doubt anyone in Blountmere Street has ever eaten salmon.  Perhaps they’ve had it out of a tin once or twice, but never fresh.  It’s for rich people who live in big houses. 

‘
They’ve
told me to cook
him
salmon tonight.’

‘But salmon’s very expensive and last night it was steak and the night before, chicken.  Where’s the money coming from?’

‘I have to do what
they
tell me.’

‘Is there enough for all of us?’  I ask, selfishly considering my stomach more than the money. 

Lately, Mum eats less and less.  She seems to exist on no more than a slice of bread a day, which she eats furtively in the scullery.  I wonder if
the voices
have told her that I can be included in Dad’s meal, or whether I have to share her bread, as I often have to.

‘
They’ve
said today Lily Hammell’s daughter need not show humility, like her mother.’  I let out an uneasy breath.  Tonight I’m going to be allowed a meal.

As soon as Dad’s settled in his chair, Mum gives him his newspaper, as she does every evening.  Now, however, she stands in front of him with her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her.  Dad looks at her and grunts, but she doesn’t move.  He grunts again.  She remains still.  ‘You can go.  I don’t need anything else,’ Dad says.  With his dismissal, she begins shuffling backwards, but still facing him, and leaves the kitchen.

Dad appears not to notice Mum’s cooked him salmon.  He lets his nose drip on to it and forks it into his mouth without looking at what he’s eating.  As if after all this time he’s realized Mum doesn’t eat with us any more and stays in the scullery, he suddenly demands, ‘Why’s your mother eating outside?  Make her come in and sit at the table properly.’ 

I run to the scullery and take hold of Mum’s arm.  ‘Dad wants you to eat with us,’ I tell her gently, and she rises slowly and picks up her plate of bread.  Then she creeps into the kitchen with her head bowed, lowers herself onto a chair and begins breaking her bread into pieces.  She considers each one as if she’s making a major decision about it.  Meal times have become so unpredictable, I dread them.

Mum!  Mum!  What’s happened to you?  Come back to us.  Please, please.

Even with Mum’s strangeness, I enjoy the mornings more than any other part of my day.  If I’d been at Riversham College, I’d be hurrying to the High Street to catch the bus, instead of sauntering along Grigham Road chatting with Angela.  I can leave Mum and her voices behind until I return later in the afternoon.

‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ Angela says on our way to school.   ‘You’ve been a real brick the way you’ve coped with not going to Riversham.  You could have been wearing one of them posh boaters and playing hockey now.  Not that I’d want to,’ she adds hastily.  ‘But you’re different, real brainy.’

I smile.  Being friends with Angela is wonderful.  If it wasn’t for Mum and Tony not being around, everything in my life would be perfect.

‘It wasn’t difficult.  I didn’t really want to go to Riversham, anyway.’ 

‘But you were made for it.’

‘I’d rather be at Grigham Road.’  Why won’t anyone believe me?  Can’t they see that at Grigham Road I feel normal?  I’m not singled out as being different.  I can hardly believe it, but now I’m actually popular.  Riversham College with its boaters, hockey and plum in the mouth accents would’ve been unlikely to offer me popularity.

When we arrive at Grigham Road Secondary Modern, a group of girls propped against a sooty brick wall separating the sooty brick school from sooty brick houses smile at me.

‘Hey, come here, Paul, we want to say something to you.’  I try and quell the fear that automatically rises. 

‘We’ve been talking among ourselves, and we think you’re the best one for it.’  Ruby Tolston heads the group as spokeswoman.  Hazel Allan says that’s right and the others nod and murmur their agreement.

‘What do you think I’ll be best at?’  I like the way they call me “Paul”.

‘Class captain.  You’re clever and you talk nice but you’re not snotty-nosed about it.’

‘Everybody likes you,’ Hazel continues.

‘But what about one of you?  Ruby, you’re popular.’

‘Maybe, but none of the teachers like me.  To be class captain you have to get on with them like you do.  You’ve got to be - how d’you put it - sort of respected,’ Ruby says.

‘I don’t know,’ I hesitate.  ‘Don’t the whole class have to vote?’

‘Yeah, but that’ll be all right.  We’ll make sure they vote for you.  Anyway, they all like you.’

‘I suppose you can put my name forward if you really think I can do it.’ 

Thank you God and Jesus.  Thank you strange voices in Mum’s head.  Thank you, thank you.

‘I’ve got some great news,’ I tell Mum, when I’ve changed out of my uniform that afternoon.  I put my arm around her as she distractedly twists strips of newspaper into spills to light the gas stove.  She doesn’t answer, but I can’t hold the news back. ‘I think I’m going to be voted by the class to be captain.  Isn’t that smashing news?’  I examine Mum’s face for the signs of pleasure I know would normally have been there.  Instead, Mum begins to scream and shake.  She jams her fingers in her ears and yells, ‘That place is the home of the devil!  Don’t ever mention it here.  Never!  Never!’

‘Nobody would make a better class captain,’ Mrs Addington says encouragingly that evening when I visit.   She hands me a cup of tea and, surprisingly, a piece of homemade cake.  ‘I’m not much of a one for baking, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to do something special tonight.  It’ll cheer us up, as well as celebrate your news.’

It doesn’t seem long ago since Tony used to pop downstairs to our flat, while Mrs Addington brooded and Angela seethed in their flat upstairs.  Then, Mum had given Tony encouragement, along with her date slices.  I ask myself who it is who orders things so that they change so quickly and unpredictably?  Perhaps, after all, it’s
the voices
.

‘Lori and Fred will be pleased to hear about you being made class captain.  It’ll be something to cheer them up in the letter I’ll be writing them later on.  They already blame themselves for Tony being put into the orphanage, although I’ve told them not to.  We all have our lives to live, though, God knows, I miss them.  Sometimes I wonder why we seem to think the grass is greener somewhere else.  In my experience it’s just different grass.’  Mrs Addington’s voice vibrates like the doll I had that cried when you turned it upside down.   ‘As it is, Lori’s found it difficult to settle over there.  It’ll upset them terribly to hear that it looks as if Tony’s going to be adopted out, and that we still don’t know where he is.’  Mrs Addington lifts her apron and holds it to her eyes.   ‘All we can do is pray.’

Mrs Addington’s God is obviously kind, not like
the voices
Mum hears.  I pray with all my heart that in the end they’ll be kind, too.

Chapter Thirteen

It doesn’t look as if
the voices
are going to be kind to Mum.

‘What’s going on?’ Dad demands the next evening when he returns from work.  ‘The girl’s found these behind the oven.’  He fans a handful of bills close to Mum’s nose.  I hadn’t wanted to show him, but, in the end, I knew I’d have to.

‘Have they or haven’t they been paid?’

Mum tucks her head into her chest and stares at the lino. ‘No, sir.’

‘What d’you mean, “No”?  Why not?  Some of them are weeks old.  What d’you think these are, Scotch mist!  They’re letters threatening to sue us.  What the hell are you doing with the housekeeping?’

Mum says nothing.  A piece of lank hair falls forward and hangs in front of her face like a question mark.  I hold her hand. I hadn’t noticed how dirty it is, how dirty
she
is.

‘Answer me, damn you!  Why haven’t you paid them, and what’s this the girl tells me about you giving up your job at the baker’s?’

‘
They
told me to, sir.’

‘Who told you to?’

‘The voices she hears in her head.  They tell her what to do.’

‘Hears voices!  Hears bloody voices.  This is all a put on!  Now you listen to me.  Pull yourself together and stop this nonsense.  Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And drop this “sir” stuff.  Look at me!’

Mum lifts her head as if she’s trying to resist some force that’s keeping it lowered.

‘I’m warning you.  Stop this carry on or else … or else.’   Dad’s control is beginning to crack.  I become more frightened as his eyeballs dilate.  ‘If you think all this malarkey’s going to work, you’ve made a big mistake.  The girl’s not going to that stuck-up college and that’s flat.  Get out of my sight.’

Mum bobs a curtsey and flees from the kitchen.

‘You!  Stay here!’ he orders me.  He runs his hands across his eyes, up and over his eyebrows and from the front to the back of his head.  It’s as if he’s trying to push his frustration outwards and away.  I’ve never seen him do it before.  I wonder whether Mum is reporting what’s gone on to
the voices
and what they are advising her to do.

‘What sort of things do these voices tell her?’  Dad asks me.

‘That she has to be humble, and she isn’t, well, she isn’t worth anything.’

Dad runs his hands over his eyes again.  ‘You’d better see if you can get her to a doctor.’

I nod, judging it best not to say I’ve already tried but Mum had called me a “daughter of satan” and chased me away.

‘You’d better get her cleaned up, as well.’

I’m not certain how Mum will react to me telling her to wash, and especially, to me washing her.  She should have a bath, but unless Mum bathes herself, it’s out of the question.  Mum’s never allowed me to see her without any clothes on.

‘Go and sort her out before she stinks the place out,’ Dad orders.

I turn to the door, but before I leave the room, Dad suddenly asks, ‘School all right?’

‘Yes …  eh … yes.’

‘Good.’  He hesitates.  ‘If you’re worried about anything your mother’s doing you’d better tell me.’

I can’t remember Dad seeming so unsure of himself.  He follows me into the scullery where Mum’s huddled in her customary position in front of the oven.

‘I don’t want you dealing with the housekeeping.  In the future I will do it and the girl can do the shopping,’

Mum hugs herself and whimpers while I wish that once, just once, Dad would use my name.

I hover at one of the openings in the corrugated iron barricade that now surrounds the bombsite.  I gaze at the water-filled crater and the new family of ducks who have adopted it.   They’ll soon lose their home, just as the children in Blountmere Street will be robbed of their playground.  In its place they’re going to build, eight-storey-high blocks of flats with the fancy name of the
Browning Estate
.  That’s what the
South London Press
says.

It’s Saturday morning and behind its enclosure, the bombsite is silent.  I hate looking out of our window and seeing the fortress opposite.  It’s as if some evil plan is being hatched behind it that the surrounding houses know nothing about.  They are part of the old order of things, and don’t understand progress. 

I suppose the bombsite can’t be left as it is.  A lot of people say it’s an eyesore.  We’re always being told that thousands of Londoners live in substandard housing.  The houses in Blountmere Street may be substandard, but if people complain, it’s only in the way they complain about the weather or little everyday things.  If they were asked, I’m sure not many would willingly exchange their home in Blountmere Street for a flat in an eight-storey block. 

I wish it didn’t have to change.  The bombsite’s part of my life.  Strange as it might sound, for me it represents security and, up until now, changelessness.  It’s a place where spring comes by way of gold, and summer in clumps of purple.  No, it’s never been an eyesore to me.  Blocks of sterile flats like on-end cigar boxes –
they
will be the eyesore.

Mum used to say that the bombsite was unsightly.  That was before she started hearing
the voices
; when she still noticed such things.  If
the voices
hadn’t come, I’m certain Mum would be saying, “It’s about time.  The sooner they get that place tidied up the better”.  These days, cleanliness, order and conformity, the watchwords by which Mum has lived her life, are now the ones most at odds with her behaviour.

Dad hasn’t said anything about the building beginning across the road, but he looks in the direction of the corrugated iron and sniffs as he loads his ladders onto his motorbike.  Before
the voices,
he would have ranted about it every morning while he was shaving and Mum was cooking his breakfast.  He would have called the Council every swear word he could think of.  Now he shaves in silence.

I continue to study the crater.  What does it matter what anyone thinks or says?  Soon it’ll be filled in, the ground around it levelled, smooth, and red bricks will rise from their foundations.  I’m powerless to stop it happening, just as I’m unable to stem the changes taking place in Mum, and incapable of bringing Tony back.

‘What’re you doing?’  Angela is wearing a navy blue skirt made with material left over from something Mrs Addington has sewn for a customer.  The skirt is full and swings from side to side as Angela prances across the road.  It’s another piece of topsy-turvyism: while my wardrobe decreases, and what I do have is becoming shabbier or too small for me, Angela is better dressed than she has ever been. 

‘I was thinking how sad Tony would have been to lose the bombsite.’

‘It would have broken his heart to see his camp taken away.  He would’ve probably organised a protest.’  Angela manages a half laugh.

‘I suppose you haven’t heard anything from him?’ I enquire.

‘Not a dickey bird.  The people who wrote us that letter must have been right when they said he’s happy and just wants to get on with his new life.’

‘I suppose so, but somehow I can’t believe Tony would want to forget all of us and this.’  I sweep my arm in front of me.

‘Whether he’s here or not, all of this’ll soon be gone, and I, for one, think it’ll be exciting to have new buildings and a lot more people on our doorstep.’

That’s the difference between Angela and me.  Angela isn’t afraid to move on, to experience new things, whereas I’m terrified to let go of the past and I can’t bear to think what the future might hold.

‘I’ve got my shopping list.  You got yours?’  Angela fishes in the pocket of her skirt.

‘Yes, though I still have a struggle knowing what to get.’  At least Angela has Mrs Addington to help her plan what to buy, even if Mrs Addington doesn’t shine at the art of housekeeping, as Mum always used to say.  I’ve never had to choose anything more than whether I’d like a special treat of smoked haddock or steak and kidney.  Now I have to decide what we’ll eat everyday.  All of it, on the measly amount Dad gives me and without the extra Mum used to earn from cleaning the bakers’.

Having completed our shopping, we hoist our bags up the stairs to the upper deck of the bus. 

‘I don’t understand why we can’t sit downstairs.  It would’ve been much easier,’ I complain as the contents of my shopping bag spill on to the floor.

‘Cos I want a drag, and I can’t smoke downstairs.’

‘You smoke?’

‘And what’s wrong with that?  Most of the girls I know smoke.’

‘Does your mother know?’

‘Come on, Paul.  Would I be likely to tell Mum?’  Angela pulls a packet of Players from her shopping bag.  ‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.  Anyway, I can stop whenever I want.’

‘Where d’you get the money from?’

‘I fiddle it out of the housekeeping.  And don’t go giving me one of your
looks
.’

I watch Angela light her cigarette.  I wish I had Angela’s courage, her daring, her rebellion.  If Angela thinks my
look
is one of disapproval, she’s got it wrong.  It’s one of admiration.

We stagger off the bus and haul our shopping onto the pavement.  Then we walk towards the bakers where two women wave and smile at me sympathetically.  I know everyone in Blountmere Street has begun to gossip about Mum.  It makes me cringe, but I put my shopping down and wave back.  It’s the best way to act.

‘Isn’t that your Mum?’  Angela asks as we round the corner past the sycamore tree and into Blountmere Street.  Outside one of the houses, Mum is on her knees with a bucket of soapy water beside her scrubbing someone’s doorstep.  Behind her a row of freshly washed doorsteps glint in the anaemic sunshine.  I leave my shopping on the pavement and begin to run.  I know I’m being watched from behind at least a dozen barely moving net curtains, but I don’t stop until I get to her.

‘What’re you doing, Mum?’  I call, trying to force some lightness into my voice.  Mum keeps scrubbing as if she hasn’t heard me, and I walk up the path.  ‘Why are you cleaning all these door steps?’

‘Got to scrub every step in Blountmere Street.’

‘You ought to come home now.  You’ve done a really good job.’

Mum shakes her head.  ‘Not finished.  Got to carry on.  Must do them all.
They
told me I must show more humility.’

‘You’ve done enough.  You don’t have to do any more.’

‘Must, must. 
They
told me to.’  Mum dips her scrubbing brush into the bucket.

I put my hands under her arms and try to lift her.

‘No! No!’  She lets out a penetrating screech as she throws herself onto the wet doorstep. 

By this time Angela has reached us and together we lift Mum to her feet.

‘Come on home, Mum. 
They’ve
said you’ve done enough,’ I urge her and Angela and I half drag, half carry her, whimpering, back to our flat.

I can’t bring myself to tell Dad about Mum and the doorsteps.  I’m afraid he might shout at her or lock her in a room.  Anyway, it’s the only time Mum’s done anything strange outside the house.  She’d been disturbed for hours afterwards.  I’m sure she won’t want to go outside again, not unless I’m with her.

Every morning, I make Mum promise to stay in and keep the front door locked until I get home from school.  Although Mum never answers me, she seems content enough to sit in the scullery or potter around our flat.

Today isn’t one of Mum’s quieter ones, however.  She refuses to wash and pushes the enamel bowl away.  Then she sits beside the table with her hands over her face.

‘You have to wash,’ I try to persuade her.

Mum presses her fingers tighter over her eyes.

‘Please, Mum!’  I wheedle, as I endeavour to dislodge Mum’s hands, but Mum resists.

‘Here, give me that flannel.’

I look up as Dad comes into the kitchen.

‘Come on, now,’ he says not unkindly, and as Mum becomes more docile, he prises her fingers away and begins gently to rub the flannel round her face. 

‘Now don’t go doing anything dopey today for gawd’s sake.  You listen to me, not to those voices.  I’ll be home at lunchtime to get us something to eat.  The girl worries about you while she’s at school, so no playing up.’  He pats Mum’s face with a towel, while I simply stare at him.  I can’t be sure, but I think Dad’s just run his finger down Mum’s cheek.  He must have been wiping away some water. 

‘You’d better leave the washing and I’ll do it when I get home.  It’s too heavy for you to lift the copper off the gas stove with everything in it,’ Dad says to me.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I know you don’t mind, but I do.  I don’t want you scalding yourself.

We’ve got enough trouble on our hands as it is.’  Suddenly Dad makes a grimace I think is a smile.  I flee to my bedroom.  It’s difficult enough that Mum’s become another person.  I can’t cope with Dad changing as well.

‘Your mother’s barmy, she’s goin’ to join the army.’  A knot of children are gathered outside our flat when I return from school.

‘Mad ‘ouse!   Mad ‘ouse!  Send ‘er to the mad ‘ouse.’  They taunt me in sing-song voices as they block my way to our front door.

‘Excuse me.’  I try to sound brave.

‘
Excuse me
,’ they imitate.  ‘You’ve got a mad mother.  You’ve got a mad mother.’

I put my fingers in my ears.  ‘Stop it!  Stop it!’

‘
Stop it!  Stop it
,’ they mimic.

‘She said stop and I’m telling you to scarper.’  Tony’s friend, Herbie, is crossing the road.

‘Who d’yer fink you are?’ one of the boys asks.

‘Someone who’ll knock your block off if you don’t leave her alone.’

‘She’s your girlfriend, she’s your girlfriend,’ two of the girls begin to chant.  Herbie raises his fists as if he’s in a boxing ring and, dancing on his toes, begins advancing towards them.

‘Stuck up, from a stuck up school,’ one of the boys shouts.  Nevertheless, the group begins to disperse.  ‘Loony bin, loony bin.  Your old lady belongs in the loony bin,’ they call as they move further down the street.

I study the ground, and resist the urge to cry.

‘Don’t take any notice of them.’  Herbie is wearing the St. Nicholas College maroon and gold blazer, where Angela says he’s won a scholarship.  “Who would have thought that?” Angela had said.