Authors: Minette Walters
‘Did you tell her?’
‘About my parents?’ Geraldine sniggered. ‘Not the
truth, certainly. I didn’t know myself. Whenever she
asked, I always said, yes, they’d had sex the night
before, just to get away from her. Everyone did. It
became a silly sort of game in the end.’
‘Why did she want to know?’
The woman shrugged. ‘I always thought it was
because she had a dirty mind. There’s a woman in the
village who’s just the same. The first thing she says to
anyone is, “Tell me all the gossip,” and her eyes light
up. I hate that sort of thing. She’s the last person to
hear what’s going on, of course. She puts people’s
backs up.’
Roz thought for a moment. ‘Did Olive’s parents
kiss and cuddle?’
‘Lord, no!’
‘You’re very certain.’
‘Well, of course. They loathed each other. My
mother said they only stayed together because he was
too lazy to move out and she was too mercenary to
let him.’
‘So Olive was looking for reassurance?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When she asked you about your parents,’ said Roz
coolly, ‘she was looking for reassurance. The poor kid
was trying to find out if hers were the only ones who
didn’t get on.’
‘Oh,’ said Geraldine in surprise. ‘Do you think so?’
She made a pretty little moue with her lips. ‘No,’ she
said, ‘I’m sure you’re wrong. It was the sex bits
she wanted to know about. I told you, her eyes had
a greedy look.’
Roz let this pass. ‘Did she tell lies?’
‘Yes, that was another thing.’ Memories chased
themselves across her face. ‘She was always lying. How
odd, I’d forgotten that. In the end, you know, nobody
ever believed anything she said.’
‘What did she lie about?’
‘Everything.’
‘What in particular? Herself? Other people? Her
parents?’
‘Everything.’ She saw the impatience in Roz’s face.
‘Oh dear, it’s so hard to explain. She told stories. I
mean, she couldn’t open her mouth without telling
stories. Oh dear, let me see now. All right, she used
to talk about boyfriends that didn’t exist, and she said
the family had been on holiday to France one summer
but it turned out they’d stayed at home, and she kept
talking about her dog, but everyone knew she didn’t
have a dog.’ She pulled a face. ‘And she used to cheat,
of course, all the time. It was really annoying that.
She’d steal your homework out of your satchel when
you weren’t looking and crib your ideas.’
‘She was bright, though, wasn’t she? She got three
A-levels.’
‘She passed them all but I don’t think her grades
were anything to shout home about.’ It was said with
a touch of malice. ‘Anyway, if she was so bright, why
couldn’t she get herself a decent job? My mother said
it was embarrassing going to Pettit’s and being served
by Olive.’
Roz looked away from the colourless face to gaze
out over the view from the window. She let some
moments pass while common sense battled with the
angry reproaches that were clamouring inside her
head. After all, she thought, she could be wrong. And
yet . . . And yet it seemed so clear to her that Olive
must have been a deeply unhappy child. She forced
herself to smile. ‘Olive was obviously closer to you
than anyone else, except, perhaps, her sister. Why do
you think that was?’
‘Oh, goodness, I haven’t a clue. My mother says
it’s because I reminded her of Amber. I couldn’t see
it myself, but it’s true that people who saw the three
of us together always assumed Amber was my sister
and not Olive’s.’ She thought back. ‘Mother’s probably
right. Olive stopped following me around quite
so much when Amber joined the school.’
‘That must have been a relief.’ There was a certain
acidity in her tone, mercifully lost on Geraldine.
‘I suppose so. Except’ – she added this as a wistful
afterthought – ‘nobody dared tease when Olive was
with me.’
Roz watched her for a moment. ‘Sister Bridget said
Olive was devoted to Amber.’
‘She was. But then everyone liked Amber.’
‘Why?’
Geraldine shrugged. ‘She was nice.’
Roz laughed suddenly. ‘To be frank, Amber’s
beginning to get up my nose. She sounds too damn
good to be true. What was so special about her?’
‘Oh dear.’ She frowned in recollection. ‘Mother
said it was because she was willing. People put on her,
but she never seemed to mind. She smiled a lot, of
course.’
Roz drew her cherub doodle on the notepad and
thought about the unwanted pregnancy. ‘How was
she put upon?’
‘I suppose she just wanted to please. It was only
little things, like lending out her pencils and running
errands for the nuns. I needed a clean sports shirt
once for a netball match, so I borrowed Amber’s.
That sort of thing.’
‘Without asking?’
Surprisingly, Geraldine blushed. ‘You didn’t need
to, not with Amber. She never minded. It was only
Olive who got angry. She was perfectly beastly about
that sports shirt.’ She looked at the clock. ‘I shall have
to go. It’s getting late.’ She stood up. ‘I haven’t been
very helpful, I’m afraid.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Roz, pushing herself out of
her chair, ‘you’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you
very much.’
They walked into the hall together.
‘Did it never seem odd to you,’ Roz asked as
Geraldine opened the front door, ‘that Olive should
kill her sister?’
‘Well, yes, of course it did. I was terribly shocked.’
‘Shocked enough to wonder if she actually did it?
In view of all you’ve said about their relationship
it seems a very unlikely thing for her to do.’
The wide grey eyes clouded with uncertainty.
‘How strange. That’s just what my mother always
said. But if she didn’t do it, then why did she say
she did?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps because she makes a habit
of protecting people.’ She smiled in a friendly way.
‘Would your mother be prepared to talk to me, do
you think?’
‘Oh Lord, I shouldn’t think so. She hates anyone
even knowing I was at school with Olive.’
‘Will you ask her anyway? And if she agrees, phone
me at that number on the card.’
Geraldine shook her head. ‘It would be a waste of
time. She won’t agree.’
‘Fair enough.’ Roz stepped through the door and
on to the gravel. ‘What a lovely house this is,’ she
said with enthusiasm, looking up at the clematis over
the porch. ‘Where were you living before?’
The other woman grimaced theatrically. ‘A nasty
modern box on the outskirts of Dawlington.’
Roz laughed. ‘So coming here was by way of a
culture shock.’ She opened the car door. ‘Do you ever
go back to Dawlington?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the other. ‘My parents still live there.
I see them once a week.’
Roz tossed her bag and briefcase on to the back
seat. ‘They must be very proud of you.’ She held out
a hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Wright, and
please don’t worry, I shall be very careful how I use
the information you’ve given me.’ She lowered herself
on to the driver’s seat and pulled the door to. ‘There’s
just one last thing,’ she said through the open
window, her dark eyes guileless. ‘Can I have your
maiden name so I can cross you off the school list
Sister Bridget gave me? I don’t want to go troubling
you again by mistake.’
‘Hopwood,’ said Geraldine helpfully.
It wasn’t difficult to locate Mrs Hopwood. Roz
drove to the library in Dawlington and consulted
the local telephone directory. There were three
Hopwoods with Dawlington addresses. She made a
note of these with their numbers, found a telephone
box and rang each in turn, claiming to be
an old friend of Geraldine’s and asking to speak
to her. The first two denied any knowledge of such
a person, the last, a man’s voice, told her that
Geraldine had married and was now living in Wooling.
He gave her Geraldine’s telephone number and told
her, rather sweetly, how nice it had been to talk to her
again. Roz smiled as she put down the receiver.
Geraldine, she thought, took after her father.
*
This impression was forcibly confirmed when Mrs
Hopwood rattled her safety chain into place and
opened the front door. She eyed Roz with deep suspicion.
‘Yes?’ she demanded.
‘Mrs Hopwood?’
‘Yes.’
Roz had planned a simple cover story but, seeing
the hard glint in the woman’s eyes, decided to abandon
it. Mrs Hopwood was not the type to take kindly
to flannel. ‘I’m afraid I bamboozled your daughter
and your husband into giving away this address,’ she
said with a slight smile. ‘My name’s—’
‘Rosalind Leigh and you’re writing a book about
Olive. I know. I’ve just had Geraldine on the phone.
It didn’t take her long to put two and two together.
I’m sorry but I can’t help you. I hardly knew the girl.’
But she didn’t close the door. Something – curiosity?
– kept her there.
‘You know her better than I do, Mrs Hopwood.’
‘But I haven’t chosen to write a book about her,
young woman. Nor would I.’
‘Not even if you thought she was innocent?’
Mrs Hopwood didn’t answer.
‘Supposing she didn’t do it? You’ve considered
that, haven’t you?’
‘It’s not my affair.’ She started to close the door.
‘Then whose affair is it, for God’s sake?’ demanded
Roz, suddenly angry. ‘Your daughter paints a picture
of two sisters, both of whom were so insecure that
one told lies and cheated to give herself some status
and the other was afraid to say no in case people
didn’t like her. What the hell was happening to them
at home to make them like that? And where were you
then? Where was anybody? The only real friend either
of them had was the other.’ She saw the thin compression
of the woman’s lips through the gap in the
door and she shook her head contemptuously. ‘Your
daughter misled me, I’m afraid. From something she
said I thought you might be a Samaritan.’ She smiled
coldly. ‘I see you’re a Pharisee, after all. Goodbye,
Mrs Hopwood.’
The other clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘You’d
better come in, but I’m warning you, I shall insist on
a transcript of this interview. I will not have words
put into my mouth afterwards simply to fit some
sentimental view you have of Olive.’
Roz produced her tape-recorder. ‘I’ll tape the
whole thing. If you have a recorder you can tape it at
the same time, or I can send you a copy of mine.’
Mrs Hopwood nodded approval as she unhooked
the chain and opened the door. ‘We have our own.
My husband can set it up while I make a cup of tea.
Come in, and wipe your feet, please.’
Ten minutes later they were ready. Mrs Hopwood
took natural control. ‘The easiest way is for me to tell
you everything I remember. When I’ve finished you
can ask me questions. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘I said I hardly knew Olive. That’s true. She came
here perhaps five or six times in all, twice to
Geraldine’s birthday parties, and on three or four
occasions to tea. I didn’t take to her. She was a clumsy
girl, slow, impossible to talk to, lacking in humour,
and, frankly, extremely unattractive. This may sound
harsh and unkind but there you are – you can’t pretend
feelings that you don’t have. I wasn’t sorry when
her friendship with Geraldine died a natural death.’
She paused to collect her thoughts.
‘After that, I really had very little to do with her.
She never came to this house again. I heard stories,
of course, from Geraldine and Geraldine’s friends.
The impression I formed was very much along the
lines you set out earlier – a sad, unloved, and unlovely
child, who had resorted to boasting about holidays
she hadn’t taken and boyfriends she didn’t have to
make up for unhappiness at home. The cheating, I
think, was the result of her mother’s constant pressure
to do well, as indeed was the compulsive eating. She
was always plump but during her adolescence her
eating habits became pathological. According to
Geraldine, she used to steal food from the school
kitchen and cram it, in its entirety, into her mouth, as
if she were afraid someone would take it away from
her before she had finished.
‘Now, you would interpret this behaviour, I
imagine, as a symptom of a troubled home background.’
She looked enquiringly at Roz, who nodded.
‘Yes, well, I think I’d agree with you. It wasn’t natural,
and nor was Amber’s submissiveness, although I must
stress I never witnessed either girl in action, so to
speak. I am relating only what I was told by Geraldine
and her friends. In any event, it did trouble me, mostly
because I had met Gwen and Robert Martin when I
went to collect Geraldine on the few occasions she
was invited to their house. They were a very strange
couple. They hardly spoke. He lived in a downstairs
room at the back of the house and she and the two
girls lived at the front. As far as I could make out,
virtually all contact between them was conducted
through Olive and Amber.’ Seeing Roz’s expression,
she stopped. ‘No one’s told you this yet?’
Roz shook her head.
‘I never did know how many people were aware of
it. She kept up appearances, of course, and, frankly,
had Geraldine not told me she had seen a bed in Mr
Martin’s study, I wouldn’t have guessed what was
going on.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘But it’s always the
way, isn’t it? Once you begin to suspect something,
then everything you see confirms that suspicion. They
were never together, except at the odd parents’ evening,
and then there would always be a third party
with them, usually one of the teachers.’ She smiled
self-consciously. ‘I used to watch them, you know,
not out of malice – my husband will confirm that –
but just to prove myself wrong.’ She shook her head.
‘I came to the conclusion that they simply loathed
each other. And it wasn’t just that they never spoke,
they couldn’t bring themselves to exchange
anything
– touches, glances – anything. Does that make sense
to you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Roz with feeling. ‘Hatred has as
strong a body language as love.’