Robert's first hatred had
changed rapidly to the love he would have given his mother had she
lived. There was no romance about it. Christine was not omnipotent as
his mother had become. He knew that she, too, was often terribly
unhappy, and their helplessness in the face of a common danger gave
them a sort of equality. But she was good to him, and her faithfulness
was the one sure thing in his convulsed and rocking world. He clung to
her as a drowning man clings to a floating spar, and his father's, "I
wish to God, Christine, you'd get out and leave us alone," or, "I won't
have you in my house. You're poisoning my son's mind against me,"
reiterated regularly at the climax of one of the hideous rows which
devastated the household, was like a blow in the pit of the stomach,
turning him sick and faint with fear.
But Christine never went. Or if she went she came back again. As
James Stonehouse said in a burst of savage humour, "Kick Christine out
of the front door and she'll come in at the back." Every morning, no
matter what had happened the night before, there was the quiet,
resolute scratch of her latch-key in the lock, and when James
Stonehouse, sullen and menacing, brushed rudely against her in the
hall, she went on steadily up the stairs to where Robert waited for
her, and they fell into each other's arms like two sorrowful comrades.
Ever afterwards he could conjure her up at will as he saw her then.
She was like a porcelain marquise over whom an intangible permanent
shadow had been thrown.
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