Lady Chatterley's Lover

mainlined it with a hypodermic at bedtime. A kind of terror filled Constance, she fled up to her room. She had the lock changed on her door — she changed it for a goldfish. If ever Clifford broke into her room he’d have to deal with a goldfish first. He went on listening unendingly to the radio. After three months he was master of Musk Ox maintenance.
    Constance was never free, for Clifford must have her there, he even marked the spot with a cross. She must be there at Wragby, otherwise he would be lost like an idiot on a moor. By coincidence at that very moment there was an idiot roaming lost on the moor, it was none other than Eric Grins who had lost his mind when, because he was a crony, Clifford had turned against him twice. Constance realized with a sense of hirror 28 how much Clifford depended on her emotionally. By using a glass tumbler against the wall she heard him with pit managers, members of the board, young scientists and was amazed at his insight into Musk Ox maintenance. He had power over what is called practical men; he was practically a man himself. The idiot lost on the moor, Eric Grins, stumbled in. Clifford lectured him, and when Eric Grins stumbled out, he was no longer an idiot but a master of Musk Ox maintenance. Clifford worshipped Constance. She was his wife, a higher being, she couldn’t get higher, she was in the attic room. From it on a clear day she could see the Jam Factory, and using binoculars she could actually see the jam. All Clifford wanted was for Constance to swear, to swear not to leave him. So she swore not to leave him, ‘I won’t bloody well leave you,’ she said.
    ‘Clifford,’ she said to him — but this was after she had the key to the hut, 29 ‘would you like me to have a child one day?’
    He looked at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How about Tuesday?’
    There was a long pause, it was not clear who was making it.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It would be awfully nice to have a child, he could do the washing up and’, he laughed, ‘we could take turns at hitting him, if he didn’t do it properly eh? Haw haw haw.’
    What a prick he is, thought Constance, pity he hadn’t got one. She listened to him with a taste of dismay, repulsion and Worcestershire Sauce, which she loved especially with steak and chips that she would eat with absolutely no sigh of dismay or repulsion. It was amazing.
    That evening there were important overseas businessmen coming to dinner. Mr Umbalu Moboto, Mr Ravi Cheki-wallah, Mr Itzikazu Itchikuchi, Mr Ivanov Kurriminski. No! No! Constance would get her headache ready. Sometimes she felt she would die at this time, five-twenty and eleven seconds. By five-thirty it hadn’t happened. No, it would have to be the headache. She felt she was being crushed to death (now five-forty) by weird lies like ‘Your mother had marble legs’ or ‘The pen of my Aunt is in your garden’ lies. All lies! There was nothing between Clifford and her, these days she never touched him, however, he touched her, he used a stick. He never even took her hand and held it kindly, not even her leg, no, the latter is a lie, he did take her leg and hold it kindly, with pliers.

THE DIRTY BITS
    ----------------

    ‘I GOT YOUR key made, my lady,’ he said saluting and handed her the key.
    ‘Oh I’m so glad it’s not a goldfish,’ she said.
    ‘The hut’s not very tidy,’ he said. ‘I cleared what I could, here’s the list.’ He handed it to her, she read.

    (1) 1 Elephant’s foot umbrella stand
    (2) 1 Banjo (damaged)
    (3) 1 Zulu war club
    (4) 1 Beckstein piano
    (5) 1 Black tin trunk containing feathers
    (6) 1 Ming hockey stick
    (7) 1 Clockwork imitation crocodile with revolving eyes
    (8) 1 Ball of string

    ‘Oh, how wonderful,’ said Constance. ‘How can I thank you?’
    ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Money comes to mind.’
    She felt in her purse and gave him a threepenny piece. Taking it he said, ‘Is there any Scottish blood in your family?’
    ‘No,’ she said.
    ‘Just asking,’ he said.
    He seemed kindly but distant, about a mile. A cough troubled him, he gurgled a great poached egg phlegm and gobbed it into the grass.
    ‘You have a cough,’ she said.
    ‘Nothing — a cold. The last pneumonia left me with a cough, it’s nothing!’
    ‘How can you gob up stuff like that and say it’s nothing, it’s nearly a foot in diameter!’ she said.
    He kept his distance from her and would not come any nearer, when he did she thought she smelt burning