‘And I always thought you were a wild child.’
‘So did Edie. She was always asking me about boys. I never knew what to tell her. No. Gavin was my first; we were seventeen when we met. First day at college.’
I put my coffee down. Edie and I weren’t interested in boys at primary school.
‘When was it Edie started asking about boys?’
‘Can’t remember. When we were about thirteen or fourteen.’
‘You saw her, after we left the estate?’
‘Now and then.’
Edie had transformed into a Joseph Amberley girl so easily with her clothes and accent, her likes and dislikes, no one would ever guess she was from Limewoods. I never fitted in, no matter how hard I tried. And all the time she was sneaking back to the estate and our old life. Raquel finishes her hot chocolate, leaving a faint moustache of cream on her top lip.
‘You never came back to see me, Tess.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t remember now.’
Raquel puts her cup down.
‘I saw you today, you know, on our street,’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you come in?’ There’s hurt in her voice.
‘I couldn’t face it, Raq. Your house is exactly the same as ours. I couldn’t go in without Mum and Edie being there. I didn’t realise until I was standing outside. I’m sorry I didn’t knock and I’m sorry I never came back to see you after we left.’
‘Edie managed it,’ Raquel says.
‘She was always braver than me.’
‘That’s why I thought you knew about Mr Vickers because Edie did. She came and asked me about him.’
‘When was this?’
‘I’m not sure. The thing is, she was asking something about your mum, too.’
Raquel looks at me, she’s anxious, waiting for me to say something. I take my phone out and show Raquel the picture I took of the newspaper article.
‘I found this, it’s about Mum’s death. Can you see the writing on the border?’ I point to it. ‘It’s Edie’s handwriting. It says suicide.’
Raquel lifts the phone and holds it close to her face then places it back on the table.
‘I didn’t know if I should tell you. Edie showed me a cutting once, probably the same one. She asked if I knew why your mum would kill herself.’
I look at the blurred picture of the newspaper article lying on the table between us. A mirror of my family’s collective memory, imperfect, only hinting at the truth.
Raquel is still looking away.
‘Do you know something else?’
She looks back at me.
‘Just that stuff I told you about Mr Vickers.’
‘What did Edie do, after she found out?’
‘It was so long ago, Tess. I don’t remember.’
In the café, people have returned to their coffee and chatter. I look down at my untouched Americano. What else had Edie told Raquel?
‘Did she mention a boyfriend?’
Raquel tilts her head to the side, her eyes squinted in concentration.
‘Yeah, some older guy, can’t remember his name. He upset her. Well, not really upset her, more like bothered her.’
‘Do you know who he was?’
‘From what she said I think he was married or something. They had to keep it secret.’
‘They had to keep it secret because she was underage.’
I feel sick. I remember Becca confronting Edie about having a boyfriend: he’s a man, not a boy. I’d thought he might be a couple of years older. Edie said he was eighteen. But what if he was married? That would make him much older, even twenty years ago, no one got married at eighteen. Then again, Raquel could be mistaken. Their caution might only have been to avoid Becca’s disapproval. She thought we were too young for boys altogether. Plenty of time for that later, concentrate on your schoolwork.
‘I don’t know if they were sleeping together,’ Raquel says. ‘It might have been nothing. You know what it’s like at that age. Everything’s ten times bigger in your head. You look back and laugh …’
She stops. Perhaps remembering that Edie never did get to look back.
‘And she never mentioned she was in trouble or afraid?’ I ask.
‘Only the problem with that boy, can’t remember his name. A little, thin lad, he used to follow her about. You remember him, right? Edie thought he was harmless, but maybe she was wrong.’
‘That wasn’t the boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm,’ I say and don’t catch Raquel’s eye.
I think of Max. Vilas said he had a crush on Edie. Is he this lad? I push the thought away and realise Raquel’s watching my reaction. She was always too sharp.
‘I think the police are following that up,’ I say.
Fleur starts grizzling and mumbles some baby talk. Raquel turns away and hands her a small tub containing chopped grapes. Fleur grabs a handful and stuffs them in her mouth.
‘Why are you asking me all this, Tess? Didn’t Edie tell you?’
‘We weren’t talking at the time,’ I say. ‘We’d fallen out.’
‘She never said.’
At least you were loyal, Edie.
‘What did you fall out over?’ Raquel asks.
‘I can’t remember. Probably something stupid. I always think if we’d been speaking, things might have turned out differently.’
‘You don’t know that and it’s normal for siblings to argue. Not that I’d know. I never met mine. I was always so jealous you two had each other. I had no one. I want another, so Fleur can have a brother or sister. A sister, hopefully. I don’t want her to be alone.’
‘You never hear from your dad?’
‘Not much. He never really did the parent thing. Always had something better to do. He’s not even in touch with the kids he had with that woman he left us for. He came to see me when Fleur was born and left some money. I don’t know how he found out. He lives over the other side of the motorway with a new girlfriend I’m not allowed to meet. She’s probably my age. He won’t go and see Mum.’
‘What do you mean?’
I feel guilty for not asking before. Mrs McCann was so much older than the other parents, she must be in her seventies now, if she’s alive. A sad smile spreads across Raquel’s face.
‘She’s got dementia,’ she says. ‘She’s in a home down the road.’
‘I’m sorry, Raquel, that’s awful.’
Mrs McCann was always a kind woman. I remember when a stray ball from a rough game of football broke the pottery lion in front of her house. It wasn’t long after Raquel’s father had left, so she must have been feeling short-tempered and probably couldn’t afford to replace it. She had come storming out to tell us to be careful, but when Mum told us off, Mrs McCann stopped.
‘It can’t be helped, Gina. Children have to play.’
She hated the thought of getting us into trouble. Mum made us pay for a new lion out of our pocket money. Mrs McCann sneaked the money back to us.
‘How bad is it? Can she recognise you?’
‘Usually. Though sometimes she confuses me with Aunt Aggy.’
Raquel’s silent for a while.
‘Mum was devastated when Gina died, you know. She was so fond of your mum. I think she needed a friend after Dad left. Gina’d come over and chat in the evenings. When all this is over, you should come and see Mum with me. She’ll probably know who you are; her memory gets better the further back she goes.’
‘I’d love to,’ I say.
She looks down at her daughter, who’s chewing on a sugar packet. Raquel gently prises it from her mouth, then looks up again.
‘I have to go,’ she says. ‘We’re laying a lawn this afternoon. Let me know when the funeral’s being held. It was lovely to see you.’
I’m not sure she means it.
We hug and say goodbye. They leave, waving through the window. I wave back then sit down to my cold coffee, willing it to turn into wine.
/>
I need to contact Mr Vickers. Mum was rumoured to be having an affair with him, he might know something. And I was right about the boyfriend. Edie was seeing someone older, possibly married. I know all of this because she chose to tell Raquel and not me. She’s been gone twenty years but the stab of jealousy is still sharp.
Chapter 28
Edie: September 1994
‘At Joseph Amberley Girls’ we have a policy of putting twins in different classes,’ Mrs Cartwright said. ‘Let them have a chance to be their own person. Too often they’re treated as a single entity.’
Dad nodded. Tess scowled. Edie looked past the woman in the pink tweed to some girls walking by at the end of the corridor. She remembered seeing the girls with the swishy hair and leather handbags when Raquel went to buy cigarettes from those boys on the high street. ‘They’re JAGS,’ she’d said. It had been Edie’s first inkling that there was another way she could live her life, away from Limewoods, away from Becca’s executive estates and flouncy sofas. And now she was to become one of them. She was a JAG.
‘I’ll show you to your classes,’ Mrs Cartwright said. ‘You’ll be assigned buddies, to help you settle in. They’ll be fine now, Mr Piper.’
The woman stopped and looked to Dad for a response. He was wearing a suit. The last time he’d worn it was at Mum’s funeral. He looked towards the exit from the school then back at the girls.
‘Are you sure you’ll be alright?’ he said.
‘Of course we will,’ Edie said.
Tess didn’t look so sure. She hadn’t wanted to move house or change schools and virtually needed dragging to the car that last day when they left Gladstone Road. Edie was pleased they were leaving. Every day the empty kitchen and the microwave meals reminded her that Mum wasn’t there. At school, she’d walk up to a group of friends and they’d stop talking, look sad, and one of them would ask, ‘Are you OK?’ She couldn’t bear it any more. Now Dad worked for Uncle Ray, they could move to a new house and go to a new school. And not just any school: Joseph Amberley Girls’.
‘Well then, I’ll be off. See you tonight,’ Dad said.
‘See you,’ Edie said.
He walked away without looking back. Tess grabbed Edie’s hand. She pulled it away. They weren’t at primary school any more.
‘This way,’ Miss Cartwright said.
They followed her down a long corridor. At their old school the dominant odour was of bleach. Here, Edie could smell hot dust rising through the air vents and the whiff of perfume.
Auntie Becca had suggested the new school when they moved. A new start. She and Uncle Ray would pay the fees, it was the least they could do.
They arrived back at the office where they’d first met Mrs Cartwright. Four girls sat outside. They stopped talking as Edie and Tess approached.
‘Edie, this is Charlotte and Aveline. You’ll be with them for most of your lessons.’
Edie didn’t know what to say. Aveline smiled.
‘Come this way,’ she said.
‘Tess, this is Hannah and Natalie,’ Mrs Cartwright was saying as they were walking away.
‘You weren’t in juniors, why are you starting now?’ Aveline asked.
‘We just moved,’ Edie said. As she spoke, she realised she’d copied Aveline’s way of speaking, the newsreader vowels.
‘You’ll end up talking all la-di-da when you go to Joseph Amberley,’ Raquel had said.
Edie had assured Raquel she would not and she’d be back to visit soon. A promise she’d yet to keep.
‘Is it for your father’s job?’ Aveline asked.
‘Yes,’ Edie said.
‘What does he do?’
‘He works with his brother. They have a construction company.’
She should have said for not with but it didn’t matter. Aveline didn’t seem overly concerned.
‘Mrs Cartwright said you’re taking advanced maths.’
‘Yes.’
‘Char’s doing that, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Char. ‘My dad made me, but I hate it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Edie. ‘Mine made me take it, too. It’s sooo boring.’
Dad had no idea what she did or didn’t study and never made her do anything.
‘You’ve seen it all before, but we’ll show you round anyway,’ Aveline said. ‘That way, we’ll get to miss the first half of RE.’
*
Edie loved the school library, swimming pool and language labs, and she loved that no one knew she was the tragic motherless girl. She could start again. Char and Aveline chatted away about the school, the girls and what she was to expect. She realised most of them had known each other since they started in the school’s junior section. Their parents went on holiday together to places like Tuscany and had job titles Edie didn’t understand.
‘See you outside,’ Char said at first break as Edie went off to use the toilets.
Even the toilets were better than St Luke’s. They smelled of lavender and had soft paper and liquid soap. As she washed her hands the door opened and Tess came in.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you with your buddies?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t like them.’
‘You don’t know them, Tess.’
‘I know I don’t like them.’
‘Aveline and Char are nice.’
Tess didn’t say anything. Edie went to dry her hands.
‘Please try, Tess. It can’t be like our old school.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re not children any more,’ Edie said.
‘I don’t like it here. I don’t know anyone. They keep using words I don’t understand and they can’t understand me.’
‘Then talk properly, we’re not on Limewoods now,’ Edie said.
Tess didn’t answer.
‘Just try to make friends, it’s not even been half a day.’
Tess went into the cubicle. Edie slipped out of the door and went to find Aveline and Char.
She didn’t want to be the tragic twin, she didn’t want to be a twin at all. Soon, she hoped no one would ever guess that she was from Limewoods and hadn’t always been a JAG.
Chapter 29
Tess: June 2018
Edie walks away from me, the mustard yellow leather bag not quite full enough, her legs too short, her shoulders too broad. She walks with the typical lounging slouch of a teenager rather than bouncing along on her toes, electric with youth, as the real Edie did. How am I to explain to the police that this Edie is wrong, inferior, a faulty copy. Apart from her height, she resembles me at fourteen more than Edie.
I had to return to Joseph Amberley Girls’ School, to show the police the spot in the hedge, long since repaired and encircled by a wire fence, where Edie left that day. I’ve always thought of it as her passing through a curtain to another existence, never believing she was murdered, less than a quarter of a mile from where I last saw her. The original school atrium has been demolished and rebuilt as a much grander glass structure. The change didn’t stop my stomach squeezing, the swelling sense of isolation, the remembered hope that today, at school, Edie would spend time with me and not her new friends.
At least it was a Saturday afternoon, so the school was empty and I was spared Charlotte’s and Aveline’s replacements, perhaps their daughters, staring and making the same judgements passed on me as twenty years ago.
The replica Edie is now far enough from the camera to blur her flaws. Dad watches the screen transfixed as his daughter slides through a hedge. The camera angle changes and she emerges the other side onto the pavement opposite the path down to the canal. She slings her bag over her shoulder and crosses the road, disappearing into the vegetation. The trees are taller and the track has become overgrown since I was last there. They’ve had to hack the branches and brambles back to recreate Edie’s walk. They’re chopped to an even length, not the criss-cross and trampled undergrowth of a well-worn path. People must have stoppe
d using it after its association with Edie’s disappearance. The camera angle changes again.
The final shot is from the bridge, the last place Edie was believed to be alive, where her bag was found wrapped around an old shopping trolley, where telltale flecks of rust were crushed into her skull. The girl approaches the camera, her likeness to Edie receding with each step. She reaches the bridge and the screen goes blank.
Dad continues to stare at the screen. He’s shaking, almost imperceptibly, and clasps his hands together to stop himself.
The thought of not smoking for nearly an hour alarms Dad nearly as much as the rows of journalists. They sit in plastic chairs chatting to one another. They suck on cough sweets and check their phones, an audience awaiting a show.
DI Vilas opens proceedings by thanking the press for their attendance.
‘The family will be reading out a short statement but not taking questions. I’ll be happy to answer any inquiries afterwards.’
The reconstruction is played and temporarily quietens the journalists. We’re then led onto the raised platform. Cameras train on our faces, every muscle and tick exposing us to examination and insinuation. Does anyone feel sorry for the family at these events, or is it just a game, to see who slips up? Who isn’t sad enough, just a single tear and therefore cold-hearted? Guilty. Or too sad, sobbing, barely able to speak, laying it on a bit thick, play-acting? Guilty. Or too impassioned, she doth protest too much, methinks. Guilty. Will anyone see past this and think back to a hot summer’s day twenty years ago and remember a girl in her school uniform crossing the road?
I am to read the statement, prepared by the police. We’re told I’ll elicit more sympathy than Dad, being her twin sister. I lay the paper on the tabletop so my shaking hands can’t be seen. I look up, take a deep breath and let the words fall from my mouth, meaningless sentences that cannot convey the aching loss, the minute-by-minute torment of losing someone so necessary to me, an integral part of me, a missing limb.
Edie was much loved and is much missed, I say. The family just want answers. Someone, somewhere, must know something or be suspicious, whether it’s of a colleague, a family member, spouse or friend. If anyone – look to camera – knows anything, please, please contact the police so our family can have some closure and move on. Dad adds that after the loss of his wife, he tried to be both mother and father to Edie, he failed. All he wants is justice for his little girl. Though whether anyone caught the words, as he mumbled them, his face fixed downwards, is doubtful.
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