Lady Chatterley's Lover

gynaecologist? He was a passionate man, wholesome and passionate with a big prick and a blanket. He might be the same with any woman as he had with her, I mean he had seven blankets in that hut, all very worn. But he had been a good lover, 35 he had softly stroked her loins at eight strokes to the second, and her breasts at twenty. A very good rate for a gamekeeper.
    Next day she went to the wood. Ah! it was still there! But he was not. She only half expected him, perhaps his other half would arrive later. The pheasant chicks were running about, how lovely, it wouldn’t be long before they would appear roasted on plates at Simpson’s. She watched them and waited, then she waited and watched, which was exactly like watching and waiting in reverse order. Time passed with dream-like slowness. She had only half expected him, but neither half had shown. She must get home for tea and crumpets 36 with crippled Clifford. A fine drizzle of rain fell.
    ‘Is it raining again?’ said Clifford, seeing her shake her hat.
    ‘Just drizzle.’
    ‘Drizzle? Look at you.’
    So she looked at you.
    ‘You’re soaking wet,’ he said.
    ‘Yes, I was soaked in a fine drizzle of rain,’ she said.
    ‘You’ll catch cold,’ he said.
    She was grateful for this advance prognosis. She waited for the cold, but it didn’t happen.
    ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait any longer.’
    She poured the tea in silence, they drank it in silence, they swallowed it in silence, there was silence save for the gurgling and rumbling and bubbling sounds from Lord Chatterley’s stomach.
    ‘Is your stomach troubling you?’ she said.
    ‘No!’
    ‘Well, it’s troubling me, do stop it, put your soundproof trousers on.’
    ‘You never could stand the sound of tea passing through a person. In India it’s considered quite normal.’
    She didn’t hear him, Constance was thinking of eight thrusts a second and perhaps an improvement on that time.
    ‘Shall I read a book on India to you?’ he said.
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll go to my room. I’ve got a slight haddock.’
    ‘You mean headache,’ he said.
    ‘No, it’s a haddock , don’t tell me what I’ve got,’ she said.
    ‘Very well, darling,’ he said. ‘Have it your way, you’ve got a haddock, is it stretched?’
    She didn’t answer. She went to the window to dry herself, realized her mistake then moved to the fireplace.
    ‘Aren’t you well, darling, can’t you tell the difference between a window and a fireplace?’
    ‘You should talk,’ she said. ‘You can’t tell the difference between a haddock and a headache.’
    Before leaving the room she said, ‘Perhaps you’ll have Mrs Bolton to play something with you, like hide the thimble!’
    ‘No I’ll listen in.’
    ‘Good, then listen in to Mrs Bolton hiding the thimble.’
    ‘No, I’ll listen to 2LO Savoy Hill wireless.’
    She went to her room. She heard the loudspeaker begin to bellow. An idiotic genteel voice; something about Old London Street cries like ‘Stop thief...’ She pulled on her old violet-coloured mackintosh and slipped out of the house at the side door. The fall winded her, she hadn’t been as badly winded since she was a baby. She felt the rain was like a veil over the world, she wasn’t where it was badly needed. The mealie crops had failed, as had half the students at London’s South-east Polytechnic. But rain was falling in Burma, India and Malta so she was partially right.
    The wood was silent, but in the distance Constance could hear Lord Chatterley’s stomach rumbling. Yes, the wood was silent, still secret in the evening drizzle, full of the mystery of eggs and half open buds, half unsheathed flowers. The mystery of eggs had never been solved by Scotland Yard, Sexton Blake, Sherlock Holmes or Mrs Aida Blun.
    There was no one at the clearing, but when she checked again she was. The chicks were all under the mother hens, one or two still pecked about, they were doubtful of themselves. Why, dear reader, should a chicken be doubtful of itself? It’s not a crime to be a chicken, there is no history of a chicken committing a crime, the idea is ridiculous. So! He still had not been. She put her hands on her hips and said, ‘Huh!’ In time this would be a popular Hollywood acting cliché. Was he staying away on purpose? Perhaps something was wrong, perhaps he had leprosy! Perhaps she should go to his cottage, lepers need help, like catching bits as they fall. 37 No, she was born to