Lady Chatterley's Lover

Clifford beamed, ‘Three generations of Chatterleys have heard that sound.’
    ‘How exciting,’ said Constance.
    Clifford looked into the near distance, say a half a mile. His face was inscrutable; once or twice he turned and gave Constance an intense scrute. ‘This is our horrortige,’ he said. ‘No, that can’t be right. Heritage , that’s it, and we must preserve it like, like’, he struggled for the word, like the blackcurrant.’ That was it! Blackcurrant preserve, yes that’s how he’d protect his horrortige, with blackcurrant preserve! There was a sad pause. ‘I think I’ll have another one,’ said Clifford and went straight into a sad pause, to accompany it he sang ‘The Last Rose of Summer’. ‘These trees are older than my family,’ he said.
    ‘And taller,’ said Constance.
    He suddenly said, ‘I would like a son.’ With his dead willy Constance knew it was impossible. ‘It would be a good thing if you had a child by another man. How about Dick Squats?’
    ‘But Dick Squats is a full-time engine-driver and has a tight schedule.’
    ‘He could do it between arrivals and departures.’
    ‘No,’ said Constance, ‘I’d get covered in coal dust and smell of engine oil and end up at Crewe.’
    ‘Oh then, somebody else, you had that lover in Germany, he’s forgotten now! Where are the snows of yesteryear?’
    Constance thought hard. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’ve no idea where the snows of yesteryear are.’
    ‘I wouldn’t mind what man’s child you had,’ said Clifford revving the engine of his wheelchair till he was obscured in a cloud of carbon-monoxide smoke.
    In the cloud she could hear him swearing and coughing, when it cleared she said, ‘Having a son by another man, women have different feelings about the wrong sort of fellow.’
    ‘Well, you ought to know, you must have felt a few in your time,’ he said with a twisted grin that went round the back of his head and back again. ‘I mean the man has to be intelligent, someone from Lloyds of London.’
    ‘Would one of the Names do?’ she said.
    ‘Yes, as long as it wasn’t Shaka Zulu.’
    She was watching a brown spaniel, running from a tree he had been drenching. It started barking, whereupon a man stepped from behind the tree and kicked it up the arse. ‘Now die for the King,’ said the man. The dog rolled over on its back and lay still.
    ‘Mellors!’ said Clifford; the man saluted and came to attention. A soldier. ‘Forward march,’ said Clifford. ‘Halt! Stand at ease! Will you turn my chair around and get it started?’
    The man at once slung his rifle over his shoulder, landing it on the ground behind him.
    ‘Constance, this is the new gamekeeper, Mellors,’ said Clifford.
    The man lifted his hat, showing his thick hair, he turned slowly to show it all. His hair had been shorn so severely it looked like a cross between a coconut and a hand grenade. He stared at Constance to see what she was like, she was like Lady Chatterley.
    ‘You’ve been here some time, haven’t you?’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘since I kicked the dog’s arse about fifteen minutes ago.’
    ‘How do you like it?’ she said.
    ‘How do I like what, your ladyship?’ he replied.
    ‘I meant how did you like it here?’ she said.
    ‘I like it here very much, your ladyship.’
    A conversation of absolute futility. Mellors went to the dog and told him he could stop dying for the King. Starting Clifford’s engine he pushed the chair to the hazel thicket ( Corylus avellana ).
    ‘Is that all?’ said Mellors, once again taking his cap off and revolving 360 degrees.
    ‘No, you’d better come along.’
    ‘Fuck,’ said Mellors under his breath.
    ‘No,’ said Clifford, ‘the engine isn’t strong enough to go up the hill.’
    ‘Neither am I,’ said Mellors; for no reason he kicked his dog up the arse again.
    Straining, Mellors pushed Lord Chatterley uphill till they reached a covert of Larch ( Larix decidua ). Connie ran forward to open the gate, the two men looked at her in passing.
    ‘Eyes right!’ ordered Clifford.
    Mellors looked at her to see what she looked like. Yes, she still looked like Lady Chatterley and had big tits. She saw in his eyes detachment and suffering. Both were correct. The detachment was C Company Welsh Guards in which he was on the reserve, the suffering was he had piles ( Haemorrhoides vulgaris ). Mellors strained, pushing the chair, every now and then they stopped when he