Brother and Sister

by Joanna Trollope

  Personally, Ellen blamed chess. She understood Daniel's passion for cricket, in a way, because Daniel was the age he was, and a boy, and all his weird boy energies had to go somewhere, however boring. But Dad was different. Dad was a grown man, a grown-up father, and to spend two nights a week playing chess and all those hours and hours on the computer in his office playing it too was not on. It wasn't normal, it wasn't what other fathers did, it wasn't fair. She'd asked Marnie about it once and Marnie had said all kinds of stuff she didn't quite understand about chess, as a game, rescuing people from their own sense of powerlessness, but Marnie had sounded remote while she was speaking, as if she didn't quite believe herself, as if, even if what she was saying was true, it kind of exhausted her to think about because it meant a struggle. Ellen had then got Zadie, who was brilliant at IT, to go on the Internet with her and they found a whole load on the psychology of chess, about players who weren't anarchic by nature and had no desire to subvert their worlds but still couldn't cope with life, and who retreated from it, even from their families, into the consistently resolvable world of chess. Ellen hadn't grasped all this, but she'd got a gist, got enough to develop a suspicion—quite a big suspicion—that chess was actually a rival to his children in her father's eyes, that David in some way preferred chess to his children, because it was easier.

  Zadie thought it was all crap, but then Zadie's father didn't play anything except card tricks so Zadie didn't have to deal with a rival like chess. This was annoying because on most subjects Zadie was good to talk to, and had plenty of ideas and energy and made you think in ways you hadn't thought of thinking before. But the whole chess thing bored her, in the way that Ellen's Canadian life bored her because Canada hadn't caught Zadie's imagination the way all things American had.

  Ellen leaned her elbows on the window ledge and made herself look past Mamie's slowly swinging figure, past and down the green carpet of grass to the hedge. Now she came to think of it, it occurred to her that Daniel probably felt as she did about their father and chess, otherwise why would he, who loved all sport, all competitiveness, be so completely stubborn about learning the one game their father had set his heart on teaching him? Of course, Ellen couldn't talk to Daniel about it. It wasn't possible to talk to Daniel in any except the most undemanding and factual way, but just because he couldn't speak didn't mean he couldn't feel things. In fact—Ellen and Zadie and Fizz discussed this a lot—one of the difficulties, the many difficulties, with boys was this very impossibility of letting anything out so that they got absolutely blocked with stuff until they went mental and smashed up a greenhouse. Maybe it was the same with men. Maybe playing chess was a way of stopping yourself from smashing up greenhouses.

  Ellen sighed. A huge tiredness was beginning to creep over her, like the tiredness you have after a major row or being ticked off about something. She didn't mind sorting Petey because it wasn't honestly a big deal, sorting Petey. But she wasn't sure she could cope much more with Marnie, and with Dad pretending he didn't have to join in, and Daniel lying on his bed like a goof chanting the names of the New Zealand first cricket eleven. It wasn't, she thought, the way someone of twelve should have to live, all this stifled stuff and not saying, and everyone living as if they were in different houses instead of five members of a family in the same one. But it didn't look as if anyone was going to notice the unfairness just now, it didn't look as if anyone was going to do anything, and if there was any kind of person Ellen couldn't stand, it was someone who never did anything about things they didn't like, but just sat about moaning.

  From behind her, Petey stirred. She turned to look at him. He had raised his head a little from the sofa cushions and was regarding her sleepily with the kind of look that was gratifying despite his previous behavior. He gave a little wave with his sleepy rag.

  "Bic?" he said hopefully.

  Ellen went across to the sofa and sat beside him. Maybe what she had to do was to confront her father, ask him about this chess stuff, tell him what it was doing to Marnie. Whatever that was. She poked Petey's stomach.

  "Fatty pig."

  He giggled. She put her face down next to his. He smelled of sleep and damp stickiness. Yes, she thought, that's what she'd do, she'd talk to her father.

  "Bic!" Petey said again, still giggling.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  David parked his car where he always left it outside his parents' house, with two wheels on the sloping verge to get it out of the roadway. Lynne had never liked him to do this because of the marks his tires left, in wet weather, but Ralph didn't mind. Ralph, David reflected gratefully, climbing out and locking the doors, didn't usually mind anything if the reasons for it were practical.

  He looked across the roof of his car at the facade of the house, at the metal-framed windows that Ralph had always said he'd only change when it became necessary, at the brick porch where Lynne left a little daily crate of washed empty bottles for the milkman, at the frothing clematis which David remembered Ralph planting, remembered Ralph giving a slug of gin to, out of a cut-glass tumbler. "Clematis like gin," Ralph had said, "even more than me."

  He moved round the car and across the verge to open the gate. Nathalie used to swing on that gate, doubled over, her knickers showing, until she was good and dizzy. His own version of dizzy had been taking his bike up to the top of the steep cul-de-sac a hundred yards away and freewheeling madly down it, forbidding himself even to touch the brakes. It was a pity that getting older made it so much harder to access such pure sensation, made him bring his mind to bear on the external senses, with all the attendant doubts and questions. He put his hand involuntarily to his mouth. If he freewheeled down Mortimer Close now, he'd be fretting about breaking his teeth.

  The light was on in the workshop that lay to one side of the house. Ralph had built it himself, the year after he and Lynne moved in, the year they began on the long, slow, rigorous process of adopting Nathalie. For months and months Ralph had been out in most weathers, in his boiler suit, building his workshop, while inside Lynne sewed curtains and planned fantasy nurseries. All David's life, Ralph's workshop had been a place of sanctuary, a place where every dilemma gave the impression of being solvable with the turn of a screwdriver, the planing of rough edges. He went quickly now across the grass in front of the house—Lynne might be watching out for him—and opened the workshop door.

  Ralph was sitting at his workbench under the central glaring strip light, with his spectacles on. In front of him lay an open manual displaying diagrams of the position of a cam belt in a car engine.

  "Hi, Dad."

  Ralph smiled down at his manual.

  "Daylight robbery."

  "What is?"

  "What garages charge for fitting these things."

  David moved to look down over Ralph's shoulder.

  "Look at that," Ralph said. "Piece of cake, to fit a thing like that."

  "Only if you have the right tools."

  "Exactly," Ralph said. He stood up and took off his spectacles. "And would Peugeot sell me precisely the right tools? Not bloody likely." He put an arm round David's shoulders. "How are you, son?"

  David looked down.

  "I have no idea."

  "And the children?"

  "Mmm—"

  "Marnie?"

  "Dad," David said, "we're not exactly pulling together. None of us."

  Ralph took his arm away. He folded his spectacles and tucked them into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  "Funny what we can't help being threatened by—"

  "There's no threat."

  "It's not what is, you know. It's what's perceived. And you can't know what that is till it hits you."

  David sighed.

  "The way I see it, I'm just on a fact-finding mission."

  Ralph gave him a quick glance.

  "Oh?"

  "My adoption is part of my life that's always been missing. I just need to know certain things."

  Ralph looked at the ceiling of the wor
kshop, where his saws hung like a jagged row of dragon's teeth.

  "Simple, eh?"

  "Yes."

  "Except, son, it isn't. It isn't just facts, is it? It's feelings."

  David's shoulders drooped. He turned away and bent over the drawing of the cam belt.

  "Dad, you don't want this to bust on you unexpectedly. It would smash the engine."

  "I'm not a complete idiot," Ralph said gently.

  David gave the manual an angry little shove.

  "Nor am I. And what really does my head in is everyone thinking my feelings for them will change just because I know who my birth mother is."

  "Everyone?"

  "Mum," David said, "Marnie." He paused and then he said again with miserable emphasis, "Marnie."

  "Marnie," Ralph said slowly. He turned and looked at David. "I wonder what's rattled her cage? I thought she was egging you on."

  "She was. And now she doesn't like it. It's—it's as if it was some kind of betrayal, as if I was choosing someone who wasn't her."

  "Mmm," Ralph said.

  David looked at him sharply.

  "You agree with her?"

  "No," Ralph said, "but I understand. We all have our insecurities, don't we? We all have areas that send us into a blue funk."

  "You don't—"

  "Don't you be so sure."

  "Well, Dad, you're the only person in this whole business who, as far as I can see, hasn't taken it personally—"

  "I don't feel it personally. I mean, I care very much it all turns out well for you, but I'm not afraid you won't be my son anymore."

  "Well, there you are."

  "No," Ralph said, "no. This is OK for me because this is not my funk department."

  "Dad?"

  Ralph took his spectacles out of his shirt pocket and began to buff them slowly on his sleeve.

  "If your mother ever left me," Ralph said uncertainly, "I'd be leaving Marnie standing."

  "But, Dad—"

  "OK," Ralph said, "OK. Tell me there's as much chance of that as cows over the moon and I'll still tell you that's what I couldn't handle."

  David put a hand on Ralph's arm.

  "Dad—"

  "Dull old sod like me," Ralph said, "pottering about, mending things, never getting worked up, never surprising her."

  "You're not dull—"

  "You try being me," Ralph said.

  David said awkwardly, "Nat and I think you're great."

  "I don't frustrate you," Ralph said, "I don't disappoint you. A dull dad is fine, a dull dad is supposed to be a very benign and formative force in a boy's life."

  David moved his arm to put it across Ralph's shoulders.

  "But Mum can be so bloody maddening."

  "Yes."

  "I mean," David said, "the main reason I'm here now is because I feel so guilty about her, about going to find Carole. I feel so guilty."

  "Join the club," Ralph said. He moved a little, out of David's embrace. "You're a good lad. You're a good son. You didn't come here to have me do a big-girl breakdown on you."

  "You haven't—"

  "It's good of you to come. It's good of you to think of your mother."

  David hesitated.

  "Has Nat been?"

  "She's tried."

  "Oh."

  "Mum isn't—well, always quite as fair to Nathalie. She's a bit harder on Nathalie."

  "Dad," David said, "do you think we're doing the wrong thing, Nathalie and me?"

  Ralph put his spectacles on.

  "No."

  "Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why do I feel so guilty about Mum?"

  Ralph sighed.

  "You've been the center of her life, you and Nathalie. All she ever wanted was children, all she ever wanted was to give you back what she thought you'd lost." He glanced at David and shrugged. Then he said, almost under his breath, "It's a lot to make a child grateful for."

  "So not my fault?"

  "No," Ralph said. "You'll have to deal with it, but it's not your fault."

  David looked at the workshop door.

  "Will you come into the house with me?"

  Ralph looked at his car manual.

  "Five minutes."

  "Only five—"

  Ralph moved to put his hands on the workbench, either side of the manual. He leaned on them, looking down.

  "When you're talking to your mother, lad, try and remember what you mean to Marnie."

  "Marnie?"

  "Yes," Ralph said, not looking up. "Marnie."

  "I'm sorry I'm late," Steve said from the sitting-room doorway. Nathalie was sitting on the floor in front of the fake-log gas-fueled fire she wouldn't let him take out, holding her knees. "Is Polly asleep?"

  Nathalie nodded. She was half turned away from him and he could only see part of her cheekbone and her forehead beyond the tangled bulk of her hair.

  "You never sit in here," Steve said, too heartily, "do you? You always call this the front parlor. Why are you in here?"

  "I felt like it," Nathalie said.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I felt like it. I felt like the fire."

  Steve ran his tongue round his teeth. He no doubt smelled of wine so a kiss might be risking things.

  "Sorry I'm late," he said again.

  "You said."

  "I meant to read to Polly. It was the Gardentime contract. I told you." He paused. It wasn't exactly a lie but it wasn't the whole truth either. The Gardentime contract had segued somehow and—Steve was very sure of this—without intention, into a glass of wine with Sasha. The glass of wine, and Sasha, had made Steve feel briefly that he was handling everything in his life, both personal and professional, pretty well, all complicated things considered.

  "I'm impressed," Sasha had said. "Very impressed. It's a lot to deal with." She was wearing black fingerless gloves which obscured her thumb rings and made her exposed fingers look weirdly seductive, like miniature stockinged legs. "And you're dealing. You really are."

  Nathalie let go of her knees.

  "Polly didn't want a story."

  "Oh?"

  "She isn't letting me do anything for her just now if she thinks it's something I like doing."

  Steve hesitated. He put a hand up to the scarf he had wound round his neck for the cycle journey home. He had taken to wearing scarves just lately, bulking them up round his ears in the manner, he hoped, of French movie stars.

  "Oh, such imitation," Titus had said. "Oh, such flattery."

  "Shall I start supper?" Steve said.

  Nathalie began to scramble to her feet. She had no shoes on and Steve could see there was a hole in the toe of one of her socks. It was not like Nathalie to have a hole in anything.

  "I meant to—"

  "It's OK," Steve said, relaxing. "It doesn't matter. We'll do it together."

  Nathalie was standing now. She looked suddenly rather small and defenceless in her holey sock on the hearthrug.

  She said in a rush, "I rang her."

  Steve stopped unwinding his scarf.

  Nathalie said, "I didn't mean to, I wasn't going to, I was going to take my time and you were going to be there, and I was going to think about it, and do it in a measured, mature way, but I didn't, I just rang her."

  Steve pulled off his scarf and dropped it on the back of the sofa.

  "Well?"

  Nathalie said shyly, "She sounded northern."

  "Did she?"

  "Sort of—Newcastle. Geordie."

  "Yes. Well."

  Nathalie brought her hands together almost in a gesture of prayer.

  "She cried."

  Steve was startled.

  "Did she?"

  "She cried and cried. She said she'd thought about me every day. She said she'd called me Samantha."

  "You knew that."

  "It was different," Nathalie said, "when she said it."

  "Oh Nathalie," Steve said.

  Nathali
e was shaking slightly. She gripped her hands together.

  "She kept crying. She was crying and crying. She asked me if I was angry with her."

  "What did you say?"

  "I said no."

  "Aren't you? Weren't you?"

  "No," Nathalie said. "Not at her."

  "I see."

  "She was only sixteen when she had me. Can you imagine?"

  Steve gave a little shrug.

  "Must have been hard—"

  "Yes," Nathalie said, "Yes."

  She unlocked her hands and moved around the sofa to stand in front of him. He looked down at her.

  He said, "How did you feel?"

  "Don't know—"

  "Better? Better at all?"

  She gave a tiny nod. She leaned forward and put her cheek against his chest, against the rough wool of his donkey jacket. He put his arms around her.

  "I'm glad."

  She nodded again.

  "First step—"

  "Yes."

  "All that crying," Nathalie said. "I've been sitting here thinking how it would be if it had been Polly, if I'd had to give Polly up."

  Steve tightened his grasp.

  "And I was thinking, too," Nathalie said, "that for women especially, love is somehow all we know but we still don't really trust it."

  Steve swallowed.

  He said, again in his too hearty voice, "You could try."

  "Is it something to do," Nathalie said, "with wanting to be wanted?"

  Steve hesitated. He had told Sasha about his awkward and touching lunch appointment with Lynne, and Sasha had taken Lynne's side.

  "The myth is," Sasha had said, dipping her mittened finger in her glass of red wine, "that adoptive parents get what they want. But look at the reality. The reality is no pregnancy, no preparation and a lifetime of fears and pretense and expectation. Is that getting what you want? Is that actually what you want in the first place? Why does Lynne have to go through all this when she's been through all that already?"

  "It sounds," Steve said carefully now, "as if she wanted you."

  "I'm—beginning to dare to think so."

  "Good."

  "And now I'm hungry."

  "Good again."

  Nathalie took her cheek away from his chest and looked up at him. She was smiling.