On odd nights, when
there was no copying to be done, she tried to teach Robert his letters
and words of one syllable, but they were both too tired, and he yawned
and kicked the table and was cross and stupid with sleepiness. At nine
o'clock he washed himself cautiously and crept into the little bed
beside her big one and lay curled up, listening to the reassuring
click-click of the typewriter, until suddenly it was broad daylight
again, and there was Christine getting breakfast.
In the day-time Robert played ball in the quiet street or sat with his
elbows on the window-sill and watched the people go in and out of the
houses opposite. The people were grey and furtive-looking, as though
they were afraid of attracting the notice of some dangerous monster and
had tried to take on the colour of their surroundings in
self-protection. They seemed to ask nothing more for themselves than
that they should be forgotten. Robert knew how they felt. He felt
like that himself. He was never sure that he was really safe. He
dared not ask questions lest he should find out that his father wasn't
dead after all, or that they were on the brink of some new convulsion.
He did not even ask where Christine went in the day-time, or what had
become of Edith, or where their money came from. He clung desperately
to an ignorance which allowed him to believe that he and Christine
would always live like this, quietly and happily. When the landlady's
shadow came heavy-footed up the stairs, he hid himself and stuffed his
fingers in his ears lest he should hear her threaten them with instant
expulsion.
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