Brother and Sister by Joanna Trollope Page A

ask me, doesn't—consult." He paused, and then he said, "And—and it makes
     me feel I'm not enough. Not enough for her."
    "Well, dear," Evie said. "You'll never be her mother."
    "She's got a mother."
    Evie considered. There'd never been any difficulty, as far as she was concerned, in dealing with Lynne. They got on fine,
     the two grandmothers, Lynne's superiority in being the first grandmother because of being Nathalie's mother nicely balanced
     by Evie's quietly complacent knowledge that she was the grandmother with the blood connection to Polly. This superiority was
     not something, she discovered, she cared to have challenged. She took her hands gently away from Steve's and folded them in
     her lap. The sudden image of a new competing grandmother, a grandmother with all the cards, was both disconcerting and unpleasant.
    She looked down at her hands and adjusted her rings.
    "Does Lynne know?"
    "Not yet."
    "It won't be easy. Not for her."
    "No, I know. I've told her that."
    "And David?"
    "She's making him do it too."
    Evie stared at Steve.
    " Making him?"
    "He doesn't want to. But they've persuaded him between them, Nathalie and Marnie."
    Evie looked across the room at the framed color photograph of Lake Ullswater at sunset which Ray had given her several Christmases
     before.
    "Suppose her mother doesn't want to be found—"
    "Why wouldn't she?"
    "Oh," Evie said with emphasis. " Plenty of reasons."
    "Well, I think Nathalie'll risk that."
    "She's risking a lot, isn't she?"
    Steve sighed.
    "She says she's risking more if she doesn't look." He put his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. "She says
     she's never felt so strongly about anything, except having Polly."
    Evie said slowly, "Well, you'll have to let her, dear."
    "It isn't a question of let."
    "Then you'll have to help her."
    "I know. I said so, didn't I?"
    "I didn't like my dad," Evie said suddenly. "Sometimes I hated him. He was a real pig to my mother. Probably that's why I—"
     She stopped and took a little breath. Then she said, "But at least I know who it was I didn't like."
    "Same as Dad and me," Steve said.
    "Don't say that—"
    "It's true." He glanced at her again. "Will you tell Dad about all this?"
    "He won't like it," Evie said. "He doesn't like apple carts being upset."
    "Me neither."
    Evie patted his hand.
    "Maybe it'll settle things—"
    "They weren't unsettled, Mum!"
    Evie straightened her back. She looked across the room again at Lake Ullswater, and then she said, "Then why is she doing
     it?"
    Titus was waiting by the railings that ran round two sides of St. Margaret's Church. Sasha had said she would meet him there
     at six-thirty, so he had arrived twelve minutes after six-thirty with studied carelessness and found that she was even later.
     It was, in fact, now ten to seven. Titus had read the painted board announcing the name of the Vicar and the times of services
     and the proud boast that this was the finest Arts and Crafts Movement church in the area several times. He had also examined
     the facade (not his chosen architectural period), counted the railings (over-engineered and certainly nineteenth century)
     and vowed to wait only two more minutes before pushing off, only to break each vow a second later. Girls, Titus told himself,
     did punctuality in the same way that they minded about clean cups and glasses and knew where the car keys were. Girls liked
     plans and arrangements: they were the ones who wanted to know what time and where so that they could decide what to wear and
     whether to put any makeup on. It was girls, Titus reminded himself, while silently promising he would not look up at the clock
     on the church tower again, who were the halves of relationships that got anxious about the impression they made, who seldom
     had the upper hand, who felt this pleasing need to be accommodating and understanding. At least—Titus irritably kicked the
     stone curb into which the railings were set—that is how they had