Lady Chatterley's Lover

(she’d come across many times) a secret little clearing and a secret little hut made of secret rustic poles, it was where pheasants were lovingly reared and then lovingly shot. There was the gamekeeper kneeling and hammering! What a wonderful sight. She knew beneath his clumsy breeches were his delicate white loins; from him, even at this distance (100 yards) she could smell Sunlight soap and Anzora haircream. Seeing her, he straightened himself; there came the sound of agonized crackling of the rheumatism at the base of his spine. His dog started to bark at her.
    ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t kick his arse.’
    The gamekeeper looked displeased: he’d been so looking forward to it.
    ‘I should like to sit down for a bit,’ she said.
    ‘Yes ma’am, which bit would you like?’ he said, leading her into the secret little hut, and sat her in a chair by the fire. She really did not want to sit, poked in a corner by the fire though she often had been. Through the window she watched him working, solitary and intent, like an animal that works alone, unlike the hyena that hunts in packs, or elephants that work in herds, or the Cape hunting dog who also hunts in packs of up to twenty dogs. There was something in this man that touched Constance’s womb, quite a feat considering he was ninety feet away.
    ‘It’s nice here,’ she told him. ‘Do you lock up the hut when you’re not here?’
    ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You can’t lock up the hut when you’re not here, you have to be here to do that.’
    ‘Do you think I could have a key too; do you have two keys?’ she said.
    ‘Not as ah know on, ther’ isna’.’
    He had lapsed into the vernacular, when he came out he was covered in it.
    ‘Perhaps Sir Clifford might have another,’ he said.
    He was out of the vernacular now, so Constance bid him farewell and left, in the distance she could clearly hear him kick his dog’s arse.
    Constance returned to Wragby to find Mrs Bolton under the beech tree, balancing on a knoll, crouched forward, shading her eyes. ‘I wondered where the bloody hell you were,’ she said in the vernacular, seeing Constance. With a cry of ‘Ho, Hupla!’ Mrs Bolton leapt from the knoll. ‘Sir Clifford is waiting for his tea,’ she said.
    ‘Why didn’t you make it?’ said Constance.
    ‘Oh no... it’s hardly my place.’
    ‘I know it’s not your place, but you could still make tea in it.’
    Constance went indoors and gave Clifford her wild violets to smell. ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes.’
    Constance couldn’t see any resemblance between violets and Juno’s eyelids. She told him she had been to the little hut. it was so sweet,’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes.’
    She waited for his spasm to pass.
    ‘Was Mellors there?’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ she said.
    ‘Did he have his delicate white loins with him?’ he said.
    To humour him she said, ‘Yes and they were sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes.’
    ‘Was he respectful to you?’ said Clifford.
    ‘Yes, he kept his clothes on all the time.’
    ‘So you never saw his delicate white loins?’ he said.
    ‘No. I asked him, was there a second key to the hut, and he said there was no need, one key was all you needed to open the door, two keys were only necessary if you wanted to open the door from both sides at once, you could have a person with a third key, but then he’d have to wait until the first two had finished opening it,’ she said with a note of distress in her voice.
    ‘Was he short with you?’ said Clifford.
    ‘No, he was five foot eight,’ said Constance.
    ‘The cheeky swine,’ said Clifford angrily. ‘Who does he think he is?’
    ‘He thinks he’s a gamekeeper called Mellors,’ said Constance.
    ‘Oh does he! Weil soon see about that.’
    So Clifford went to see about that, but it turned out to be true.
    ‘The man was a gamekeeper and his name was Mellors. He was who he thought he was, but it was a near thing,’ said Clifford. ‘I accused him of being Dr Leo Gensberg, a Swiss brain specialist, but he wasn’t having any of it.’
    Clifford switched off his motor chair and took off his goggles.
    ‘He used to be an officer in the Indian Army,’ said Clifford.
    ‘How’, said Constance, ‘could they make him an officer when he speaks with such a broad Derbyshire accent?’
    ‘He doesn’t,’ said Clifford. ‘He only does it in shits and farts.’
    ‘You mean