Lady Chatterley's Lover

gone Constance felt no better, she felt herself all over but none of it felt better. Living in Wragby was making her ill, she tried living outside Wragby, she got iller, bronchitis. She was getting thinner, even the housekeeper noticed it.
    ‘Where are you mam?’ she kept saying.
    Every day she lay on her death bed in case it happened. She needed help. She wrote a cri de cœur 23 to her sister Hilda. She came quickly in her two-seater bullnosed Morris, registration EKL 482GO. She had bought it from Ward Brothers in Regents Park Road, it cost three hundred pounds, it was upholstered in tan leather. So far she had only done one thousand miles. Constance saw her coming up the drive. She ran to greet her and crashed down the front steps from top to bottom, there were thirty-two made from Portland stone.
    Hilda leapt from her car. ‘Constance,’ she cried. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
    ‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter,’ said Constance, ‘I’ve just fallen down the bloody stairs!’
    ‘Oh,’ said Hilda, full of meaning.
    Constance knew how little Hilda had suffered in comparison, she would never have suffered from flat thighs. Constance was scraggy-looking with a thin neck that stuck out of her jumper: to show Hilda how thin she was she pulled her head inside her jumper and out again.
    ‘My God,’ thought Hilda. ‘My sister’s turning into a tortoise! I must stop her.’ She immediately said, ‘Stop turning into a tortoise! You really are ill, child!’
    Hilda confronted Clifford. ‘Constance is unwell and turning into a tortoise.’
    ‘She is a little thinner,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

‘I’m here,’ said Constance. ‘Next to Hilda.’
    ‘Good God,’ said Clifford. ‘You’re nearly not here!’
    ‘I’m taking her to see a doctor,’ said Hilda.
    ‘Yes, but will he be able to see her ?’ said Clifford.
    Next day the two sisters drove to London in a bullnosed Morris registration EKL 482GO. The doctor, Sir Ralph Fees, examined her. He noticed she had a fanny like a crow’s nest. Her body lacked something: big tits. Instead of ripening its firm down-running curves, her body was flattening and going a little harsh (so far that was fifteen guineas). It was as if it had not had enough sun and warmth. ‘It’s a little greyish and sapless’, he concluded. Then, picking up a camera, he said, ‘Before you get dressed I’ll just take a few pictures of you for my records.’ As he clicked away he said, ‘There’s nothing organically wrong, but it won’t do. Tell Sir Clifford he’s got to bring you to town, he’s got to amuse you. Tell him to buy some glove puppets, tell him to take you to Cannes or Biarritz, you’ve got to be amused, take the glove puppets with you.’
    Constance knew Clifford would never get as far as Cannes or Biarritz in a wheelchair.
    Paddy heard Constance was in town and came running, anything to save paying a taxi. When he saw her appearance he reeled back, he reeled forward and finally reeled upright.
    ‘You’re a shadow of your former self. Instead of ripening its firm down-running curves, your body is flattening and going a little harsh. Come to Nice with me, come to Sicily. I will amuse you, I’ve bought some glove puppets. That place Wragby would kill anybody, it killed Norris Pronk there in 1832, a tea urn fell on his head.’
    But Constance’s heart simply stood still, as did her kidneys, her liver and her giblets. No, she couldn’t desert Clifford and his wheelchair, she had to go back to Wragby even if it had killed Norris Pronk.
    Hilda talked to Clifford, who still had yellow eyeballs when they got back. Yes, Clifford was very grateful when his yellow eyeballs got back. He had to listen to all that Hilda said and all the doctor had said. 24 Her body lacks something: big tits. Instead of ripening its firm, down-running curves, her body was flattening and going a little harsh.
    ‘To relieve the pressure of Constance’s body,’ said Hilda, ‘you need a manservant. Here is the address of a good one who was with an invalid patient till he died last month.’
    ‘I don’t need a manservant who died last month,’ said Clifford.
    ‘Then there is a lady, a Mrs Bolton, who will suffice.’
    ‘I don’t want to be sufficed by Mrs Bolton,’ said Clifford, shaking his wheelchair in a rage.
    ‘Then I shall telegraph Father and take Constance away, and stop shaking that wheelchair in a rage, the spokes are falling out.’
    Finally Clifford agreed