The Durrants by Netta Muskett

Author:Netta Muskett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

“Oh Lord, you ought to have spoken to him, Sharlie,” grunted George. “He sounded a bit of a ninny, anyway.”

Charlotte chuckled.

“I don’t like your suggestion that ninnies are more in my line than yours,” she said, and they lay silent for a little while.

Her day with Gwen, in the comfortable, well-serviced house, which always brought back memories of her childhood, the evening shared with Paul Merridean, who had given her the sort of glances which made her know he admired her and enjoyed her company – these things had combined to produce in her a restlessness which was unwelcome. She did not want to be disturbed. She had chosen and formed her life, she was all set for the safe harbour of an old age which, save by an unimaginable catastrophe, would be serene and comfortable. She was already, in her family’s estimate at any rate, middle-aged, and at forty-three, a self-respecting woman surely considered it time to settle down and have done with romantic notions?

Forty-three. Only forty-three. Nowadays when people lived such an unconscionable time, forty-three was only about half-way through life, and because science was making life last so long, women with their adaptability had managed to make youth last much longer as well. In her grandmother’s day, a woman of thirty was on the shelf if she had not married by then, and at forty she was an old woman with a little black silk apron and a lace cap, with nothing to look forward to but death.

With the memory of Paul Merridean’s searching gaze, and the fingers with which he had contrived (was it contrivance or just chance?) to touch hers so often when they were turning over the pile of music, she found herself suddenly in revolt. She was still young and full of vitality. Life was still fun and death a long way off. Where had all the excitement of living gone? What had she got out of it? Was George as content as he seemed with the mere, shrivelled husks of what had been so romantic and colourful and gay?

She spoke to him in the darkness.

“George.”

“Yes, m’dear?” he answered mechanically, half asleep.

“Do you remember my asking you not long ago if you thought we were still in love with each other?”

“Damn silly question,” he said drowsily.

“Well, but are we?” she insisted.

He opened his eyes and blinked, but as he could not see her face, so he closed them again. Charlotte was having one of her “do”s, asking odd questions and wanting to probe.

“Course we are, m’dear,” he said peacefully.

“Are you in love with me?” she insisted.

“What is all this? You know I am,” settling down even more comfortably against the pillow, his back to her.

“I know we love each other,” said Charlotte. “I love you. You love me. But are we still in love? Is there still any thrill for you in coming back to me when you’ve been away from me a day or two? Or when I’ve been away and you

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