John Thomas & Lady Jane

the top of the mist. An infinite saddened melancholy seemed to
settle over the park, mostly over Clifford. Clifford’s little motor-chair
puffed with a forlorn, waiting puff.
    ‘You’re not feeling tired, are you?’
he asked, his head poking out of the mist.
    ‘Oh no,’ she said and said no more.
She was aware of the keeper looking at her and she glanced at him. His eyes
were light brown, hers were blue, Clifford’s were grey, the dogs were grey and
Lloyd George’s were hazel. Soames had eyes with tiny black pupils, like any of London’s schools. Soames looked at her eyes, they were full of indescribable trouble, his
were full of conjunctivitis. He had realized that she was a young woman alone
out of her depth, drowning — should he alert the coastguard? Again he met the
strange dark turmoil of her eyes, the look of one who was drowning.
    Yet she was well off. She had
everything she wanted — clean underwear every day with the stains removed,
champagne and frogs’ legs for breakfast, except her husband was paralysed.
Well, other women had to live with their men who were paralysed, plenty of
women had lost their husbands. She should be thankful for what she had got. As
a character analysis it wasn’t bad for a gamekeeper.
    Nevertheless, something kept
stirring. He had kept himself without feeling for a long time now, although
occasionally he would feel himself at night. Feeling was finished with him with
the war. Before the war he had felt himself all over every day to see if he was
still there. Some people said he wasn’t all there. Let everybody keep their
feelings to themselves, especially the women. The war had been bad. The women
had been worse. Women worse than the First World War, that couldn’t be right.
Women made things so much worse, they couldn’t boil a four-minute egg. Six,
eight and ten minutes, yes. After all, Lady Chatterley had drawn a blank in the
marriage lottery. Sir Clifford was all right but not enough balls to him.
Actually he had enough but they were neutralized. But that was apparently what
women liked, men with their balls neutralized.
    They came to the house, Clifford was
helped into his indoor chair from his outside chair by Marshall who was
gardener and husband to the housekeeper.
    ‘Thanks for the help, Soames,’ said
Clifford. ‘Good night!’
    ‘Yer welcome, Sir Clifford!’ came the
harsh, hard voice.
    ‘Oh good night!’ said Constance’s voice, soft and startled.
    ‘Good night, Your Ladyship!’ came
distinct and colourless.
    He turned away and made his way home,
him and his silk white body and holding his rupture in place with his right
hand.

Chapter IV
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    A S THE LAST days of autumn fell into the gloom of
winter, Constance took as little heed as possible. Some days she took no heed
at all. She had trained herself to be unconscious to the English weather while
she was. To bring her around the maid threw an occasional bucket of water over
her. In the old days they had always gone abroad for the worst months. Even at
home it was not quite so bad near the downs. They had stayed at terrible
Bexhill-on-Sea, an above-ground cemetery.
    She followed the women’s rule of
keeping herself in order by maintaining a strict rhythm in the house, one day
they all did the Foxtrot, one day it was the Charleston, and one day it was the
Black Bottom. She kept a watch on the vegetable garden, it kept perfect time.
She kept busy by making curtains, carpets, cupboards, tables, chairs and bows
and arrows for the poor of Africa. She could find no real joy in anything
except in making curtains, carpets, cupboards, tables, chairs and bows and
arrows for the poor of Africa.
    She disciplined herself without
relenting. Yet she knew in herself that it was dead. Instead of lying dead, she
was walking about doing things, she was very lucky to be dead and walking
about. She hired a coffin and spent part of the day lying in it. In her state
it’s a wonder she didn’t consider being buried.
    This was Constance’s condition, she
was dead and making curtains, carpets, cupboards, chairs, tables and bows and
arrows for the poor of Africa. Oh! I want my heart to open. If ever there was a
case for open-heart surgery, she was it. Oh, if only God or Satan or a
policeman would help me to open my heart, I can’t open it to Jesus. He too is
dead, he’s too much like Clifford. Rubbish! Jesus could use his legs to walk on
water. Was there nothing she could open her heart to,