John Thomas & Lady Jane

had to follow his economies and they, poor people, couldn’t help
begrudging the whisky. It was one of his economical points. Simpson, the
butler, elderly and grey and neutral who had been given notice thirty years
ago, must, however, also begrudge the whisky. ‘Look, Chatterley,’ said Sir
Malcolm, ‘I will pay cash for it’, and threw money on the table. And because of
the tension Constance decided to leave.
    Sir Malcolm lit up one of his cigars.
He’d forgot to take off the cellophane wrapper and it flamed up. ‘I don’t think
you know,’ said Sir Malcolm taking his cigar from his mouth, ‘that Constance is not getting altogether a fair show.’
    Clifford went white with anger,
purple with rage, and yellow with jaundice. ‘I do not understand vague things
like fair show,’ said Clifford.
    ‘Perhaps I was too vague. What I wish
to say is that living a shut-up life as she lives here.’
    ‘Is she shut up here?’ asked
Clifford. ‘You keep telling too. I don’t understand, I don’t lock her in. She
is unfortunate in being my wife, it is true.’
    ‘I agree she is unfortunate in being
your wife, by having to share the grievous misfortunes that have happened to
you. If only the naafi tea urn had not been
full when it fell on you.’
    Another complete and lengthy silence.
This time, one hour, Sir Malcolm was too astute to break the image of calm bonhomie. Crawling along the floor behind Clifford and with his back to Simpson, Sir
Malcolm went to the drinks table only to find the whisky had a lock on it. He
had to crawl back again. He shook his cigar ash in the fire but the tip of his
nose was very white. 1
    ‘What kind of damage to Connie do you
anticipate?’ asked Clifford.
    ‘Serious damage, her nerves will
suffer, one of those illnesses that women get like leprosy, or consumption,
malaria, swine fever, and are very often fatal. Where shall I get another
drink?’ asked Sir Malcolm holding his glass at arm’s length in front of the
butler. ‘Look, I’ll pay cash.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Clifford. ‘Didn’t he bring
a tray?’
    ‘No, he bloody well didn’t.’
    Clifford reached for the bell-push
that hung on a cord on his chair, which wasn’t connected to anything, but he
did it. Simpson had reappeared with the tray. Then there was a hissing of
soda-water, and Sir Malcolm took a large mouthful.
    ‘And what remedy do you suggest?’
    ‘I should like to put her on a course
of iron jelloids, cod liver oil and Sanatogen and then a month in the South of
France.’
    ‘Well, if she wishes to go, she is
perfectly free. I can start her off on the iron jelloids, cod liver oil and
Sanatogen before she leaves.’
    ‘Good,’ said Sir Malcolm.
    ‘Then,’ said Sir Malcolm, coming to
the point, ‘she must know it is useless to wish for something there is no hope
of ever getting.’
    ‘What can she wish for that she has
no hope of ever getting?’ asked Clifford coolly. For a moment, he didn’t
realize how rash he was with a wilting willy.
    ‘If you don’t know that, I don’t,’
said Sir Malcolm, who had a prick as big as a dead eel.
    The iron went right down into
Clifford’s soul. He had got into the habit of forgetting that Constance might
have conjugal rights: or conjugal desires. Never mind, this course of iron
jelloids, cod liver oil and Sanatogen might make up for it.
    With that Sir Malcolm drank his
seventh whisky and staggered out of the door. Clifford had the pleasure of
hearing him fall from the top of the stairs to the bottom. He departed the
first thing the next morning. Constance said she had been counting the hours
for him until he left and it was twenty-three and a half.

Chapter III
    ---------------
     
     
     
    I N THE LATE autumn, however, came a
few very beautiful sunny days. Clifford roused himself to go out in his
motor-chair. Constance had to run alongside to keep up. The soft, warm
woolliness of the uncanny November day seemed utterly unreal to her in its
thick, soft-gold sunlight and thick gossamer atmosphere. The park, with its
oak-trees and sere grass, sheep feeding in silence on the slopes, and the near
distance bluey, an opalescent haze showing through it the last yellow and brown
of oak-leaves, seemed unreal, a vision from the past. What a lot of bollocks!
It was an ordinary English autumn day.
    The sun fell on the chair and the
chair fell on Constance’s foot.
    He said to her, ‘Would you like to
sit down a bit and rest your injured foot? Constance, sit on yonder