Brother and Sister Read Online Free
Author: Joanna Trollope
allowed, but utterly forbidden. Nobody had
ever spelled this out to her, but something in the almost reverential pity that surrounded David made her realize that there
were some areas of human conduct that were so fenced about with outrage that penetrating them brought a personal penalty you
might have to pay for the rest of your life. She had a sense that if she went down the path of saying she hated David, she could never go back. She could say she hated his big head and his dribbling and his dirty nappies and
his persistence, but she couldn't say she hated him. And it was made worse, much worse, by the fact that he loved her. From the moment he came, he loved her. When he withdrew
into himself and sat, bloblike and unresponsive, only Nathalie could make him flicker back to life. It wasn't that she wanted
to—she'd have liked him to stay bloblike forever—but that he wanted to respond to her. When she came near him, his eyes lit up and his hands went out. She hated his hands. They were always sticky.
It took him years to win her over. Lynne told friends that it broke her heart to see David struggling for Nathalie's attention,
never mind her approval. Of course you couldn't expect a little girl to appreciate the double deprivation of David's parenting—first
the loss through adoption of his birth mother, then the second one of his first adoptive parents in a coach crash on holiday
in France—but it was as if Nathalie had hardened her heart to David without even thinking, without even looking at him in
the first place.
"And he loves her," Lynne would say, her eyes filling at the thought of David's infant unrequited emotion. "You can see it
in his little face. He loves her."
Even then, Nathalie was suspicious of the love word. Lynne used it a lot. Lynne said that she loved Nathalie and so did Ralph,
and they loved her especially because they had chosen her to be their little girl. If you are chosen, Lynne said, that makes you special. But Nathalie was as suspicious of being
special as she was of the love-word. It seemed to her, sitting on Lynne's knee in her pajamas (pale-yellow, printed with rabbits),
that when Lynne talked about love and specialness she wanted something back. She wanted Nathalie to gather up all this stuff,
and a bit extra, and to give it back to Lynne, like a present, a present which would somehow, obscurely, make Lynne feel better.
And Lynne needed to feel better, always. Something in her thin, kind, anxious face made you realize that she carried some
sort of ache around, all the time, and she thought that you, in your yellow pajamas, could assuage that ache and comfort her.
But Nathalie couldn't do it. She liked Lynne. She liked Ralph. She liked her life in the house on Ashmore Road and her bedroom,
and most of the food that she was offered, and going to school. But she couldn't go further than that. She couldn't fling
herself at Ralph and Lynne and want to lose herself in them, partly because she didn't feel the necessary urgency and partly
because she couldn't give Lynne what she seemed to want in case Lynne wanted more and more and more until Nathalie was entirely
sucked up into her, like carpet fluff going up the vacuum-cleaner tube.
"I always dreamed of a little girl like you," Lynne would say. "And then I got to choose you!"
It was David, in the end, who came to Nathalie's rescue. He began to refuse food unless she fed him, and she refused to feed
him if he dribbled. She'd stare at him, a spoonful of mashed carrots poised.
"Don't dribble," she'd say.
He gazed at her, dribbling. She'd put the spoon down. He'd make a huge effort, working his mouth, blotting his chin with his
hands. She picked the spoon up again, and inserted it, without comment, into his mouth. It threw Lynne into raptures. The
children took no notice of her.
"It's adorable," she'd say to Ralph. "He'll do anything for her."
Except ask, Nathalie thought. When she was six and
ever spelled this out to her, but something in the almost reverential pity that surrounded David made her realize that there
were some areas of human conduct that were so fenced about with outrage that penetrating them brought a personal penalty you
might have to pay for the rest of your life. She had a sense that if she went down the path of saying she hated David, she could never go back. She could say she hated his big head and his dribbling and his dirty nappies and
his persistence, but she couldn't say she hated him. And it was made worse, much worse, by the fact that he loved her. From the moment he came, he loved her. When he withdrew
into himself and sat, bloblike and unresponsive, only Nathalie could make him flicker back to life. It wasn't that she wanted
to—she'd have liked him to stay bloblike forever—but that he wanted to respond to her. When she came near him, his eyes lit up and his hands went out. She hated his hands. They were always sticky.
It took him years to win her over. Lynne told friends that it broke her heart to see David struggling for Nathalie's attention,
never mind her approval. Of course you couldn't expect a little girl to appreciate the double deprivation of David's parenting—first
the loss through adoption of his birth mother, then the second one of his first adoptive parents in a coach crash on holiday
in France—but it was as if Nathalie had hardened her heart to David without even thinking, without even looking at him in
the first place.
"And he loves her," Lynne would say, her eyes filling at the thought of David's infant unrequited emotion. "You can see it
in his little face. He loves her."
Even then, Nathalie was suspicious of the love word. Lynne used it a lot. Lynne said that she loved Nathalie and so did Ralph,
and they loved her especially because they had chosen her to be their little girl. If you are chosen, Lynne said, that makes you special. But Nathalie was as suspicious of being
special as she was of the love-word. It seemed to her, sitting on Lynne's knee in her pajamas (pale-yellow, printed with rabbits),
that when Lynne talked about love and specialness she wanted something back. She wanted Nathalie to gather up all this stuff,
and a bit extra, and to give it back to Lynne, like a present, a present which would somehow, obscurely, make Lynne feel better.
And Lynne needed to feel better, always. Something in her thin, kind, anxious face made you realize that she carried some
sort of ache around, all the time, and she thought that you, in your yellow pajamas, could assuage that ache and comfort her.
But Nathalie couldn't do it. She liked Lynne. She liked Ralph. She liked her life in the house on Ashmore Road and her bedroom,
and most of the food that she was offered, and going to school. But she couldn't go further than that. She couldn't fling
herself at Ralph and Lynne and want to lose herself in them, partly because she didn't feel the necessary urgency and partly
because she couldn't give Lynne what she seemed to want in case Lynne wanted more and more and more until Nathalie was entirely
sucked up into her, like carpet fluff going up the vacuum-cleaner tube.
"I always dreamed of a little girl like you," Lynne would say. "And then I got to choose you!"
It was David, in the end, who came to Nathalie's rescue. He began to refuse food unless she fed him, and she refused to feed
him if he dribbled. She'd stare at him, a spoonful of mashed carrots poised.
"Don't dribble," she'd say.
He gazed at her, dribbling. She'd put the spoon down. He'd make a huge effort, working his mouth, blotting his chin with his
hands. She picked the spoon up again, and inserted it, without comment, into his mouth. It threw Lynne into raptures. The
children took no notice of her.
"It's adorable," she'd say to Ralph. "He'll do anything for her."
Except ask, Nathalie thought. When she was six and
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