Lady Chatterley's Lover

wait. The times she’d knocked on lavatory doors and a voice inside said, ‘For Christ’s sake, wait.’ She opened the hut door with a goldfish. Inside all was tidy, the corn in the bin, the blanket folded on the shelf. Oh, the blanket! How her heart beat. The table and chair had been put back where they’d lain. In anticipation she moved them away. Nothing made a sound, save distant Lord Chatterley’s stomach. The trees, the bushes, the grass. How alive everything was. Wrong! The cemeteries were full of dead people.
    Suddenly! He came striding into the clearing in his oilskin jacket. Thank God he hadn’t got leprosy. He walked past to the coops, he squatted down.
    ‘These chickens look very doubtful of themselves,’ he said.
    Constance noticed a hammer in his back pocket. ‘What’s that for?’ she asked.
    ‘It has its uses,’ he said.
    Constance, innocent of hammers, said, ‘Is it to hammer things down?’
    ‘Yes,’ he nodded.
    ‘So you’ve come then,’ he said feeling for his hammer.
    ‘Yes, you’re late.’
    ‘Aye, I tried not to get to the woods before the trees got here.’ He paused to listen. ‘What’s that distant sound?’
    ‘It’s my husband.’ Before she had said it the gamekeeper shot up a tree.
    ‘Is he c-c-c-oming here?’ he said.
    ‘It’s only his stomach.’
    ‘His stomach is coming ‘ere?’ he said.
    She calmed him, explaining the resonance of tea passing through a person at a distance. He clambered down.
    ‘What’ll folk say you coming ‘ere every night?’
    She looked at him at a loss, it came to thirty pounds.
    ‘Nobody knows,’ she said.
    ‘They soon will though,’ he replied. ‘What then?’
    Again she looked at him at a loss, this time no money was involved. A burst from Lord Chatterley’s stomach sent him up a tree again, she climbed up it to calm him. As she sat next to him her legs astride a branch his underpants boiled. A muffled clucking came from his delicate white loins, which he started to hit with a hammer.
    ‘Stop,’ she said. ‘You’ll spoil it for me!’
    They climbed down, having failed to do it in the tree. ‘Oh,’ said Constance. ‘If only you were a monkey!’ Clutching his hammer in case, he took her into the hut. ‘Do you still want me?’ she said closing to him. She could feel the heat in his trousers as his fly buttons shot off. ‘Blastee,’ he said. ‘I spent all night sewing them on.’
    She looked up at his averted face, but it was averted. ‘How did your face get like that?’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Averted.’
    ‘Oh, it’s quite easy, you slowly move it thirty degrees to the right or left, if you moved it any more you’d be looking backwards.’
    As she looked into his eyes, they were very dark, the pupils dilating and expanding rapidly, was he on something?
    ‘Are you on something?’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’m on two pounds thirty shillin’s a week.’
    Surely two pounds thirty shillings a week shouldn’t affect the eyes? In the hut his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he noticed a change.
    ‘Some bloody fool’s moved the chair and table,’ he said. He bent down and kissed her unhappy face. Then, rubbing his hands gleefully, he said, ‘Right,’ and laid a blanket on the floor.
    ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘Dinner is at half past seven.
    He looked at her swiftly, ‘wooshh’, then his watch. ‘All right,’ he said. He’d have to up his eight thrusts a second to twelve. In one bound they were naked. He put his face down and rubbed his face against her belly and thighs again and again.
    ‘Wheeee! This is fun,’ he said.
    She wished he would not caress her so, it was giving her a rash.
    ‘You’ve got flat thighs,’ he observed.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I’m building them up with Sanatogen.’
    She lay there waiting, waiting, then Wallop, Bang, Crash, in he went, he was banging away, all the while looking at his luminous watch to keep up to twelve thrusts a second, he counted out loud 5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12. ‘Can you go faster?’ she gasped. ‘I don’t want to miss dinner, it’s cottage pie.’
    Immediately he went off at a great rate, his bum became a white blur, his thrusts gradually rode her up along and off the carpet. That and her knees began to quiver, and an old English poem came to mind. She stopped the screwing while she recited it to him:

    Knees, you’ve got to have knees
    They’re the things that take the shock
    when you sneeze

    Without any show of