Lady Chatterley's Lover

voice,’ snapped Constance. ‘Can’t you tell the difference between Lord Chatterley’s voice and a motorcar horn?’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t, but I make up for it. I can tell the difference between the month of May and water coming out of a hole in the ground.’
    She shrugged her shoulders and of all things her nose.
    She found Clifford slowly climbing to the spring, he was halfway up the slope and by sheer coincidence halfway down as well. When she reached him he had arrived at the spring — he pointed at it with an obstetrical finger.
    ‘See? How could you mistake that for May?’ he said.
    He noticed a paper bag she was carrying, it’s bread rolls,’ she said. ‘I brought them in case you wanted to throw some. Remember how at college dinners you used to throw them?’
    He smiled in recollection. ‘Yes, it was jolly fun.’
    ‘Remember you blinded Anthony Deeds,’ she said.
    He laughed, ‘By jove yes.’
    She took an enamel mug from a nail on the tree, 48 took water from the spring and sipped it. ‘Mmmmm,’ she said, then handed the mug to Clifford, he drank it.
    ‘Did you wish?’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I wished I hadn’t drunk it, it was bloody awful.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Would you like to throw a bread roll at me?’
    Right at their feet a mole appeared. ‘Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him,’ said Clifford cocking his gun.
    ‘No, no, it’s bad luck,’ she said.
    ‘Only for him,’ he said.
    ‘No, no,’ she said.
    ‘There’s an old Derbyshire poem:

    If a mole you do kill
    Thou shall get very ill.’

    ‘Rubbish,’ he said. Taking aim he fired both barrels, the mole disintegrated. Immediately he got bronchitis. ’Quick! a bread roll,’ he said, grasping one and eating it. Something was wrong, thought Constance.
    Lord Chatterley was baffled. How could a dead mole give you bronchitis?
    They started on the return journey. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow. It was the darkest bottom he’d seen since Josephine Baker’s at the Folies in Paris. ‘A black ars’ole’ as his company sergeant had described it.
    ‘Now, old girl,’ said Clifford putting his motor chair into gear, he revved the engine again, using the noise to mask another giant postern blast, when it reached Lady Chatterley she fainted. She recovered to see the motor chair struggling to get up the hill. She stayed her distance in case he let another one go.
    He was crouched forward, revving the engine, he engaged the gears. ‘ Now , old girl,’ he shouted.
    ‘Now what?’ shouted Constance.
    ‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ he shouted, it was the chair.’
    The engine was racing flat out, gradually he was obscured in clouds of dense smoke.
    ‘Are you all right in there?’ called Constance. The smoke cleared. There sat Lord Chatterley tense, whitefaced and with a nose-bleed.
    ‘Shall I push you?’ she said.
    ‘No, that won’t stop it, you need a key down my neck,’ he said in a rage.
    Constance rummaged through her handbag, no keys. ‘I’ve only got this ladies silver-backed hairbrush, would that do?’
    Clifford snatched it, rapidly he brushed his hair, it’s no good, it’s not stopping it,’ he said. ‘Fancy having a bleeding nose, like mine,’ he said.
    ‘Oh,’ said Constance, ‘I’ve seen a lot bleeding worse.’
    In the silence that followed, a pigeon started to coo roo-hoo, coo roo-hoo, its delicate sound floating on the evening air. Lord Chatterley gave it both barrels, with a thud it hit the ground.
    ‘It’s dead,’ sobbed Constance.
    ‘Ah, the fall must have killed him.’
    He tried to start the engine up again, a series of splutters and bangs then stopped. ‘Did you hear that? It gave a series of splutters and bangs then stopped.’
    Should she give him a bread roll?
    ‘If only I could get out and look at the damned thing,’ he said.
    ‘Well, I’m out here looking at the damned thing,’ said Constance, ‘and it doesn’t seem to make much difference. Look, would you like me to describe it to you?’
    Oh, why did he marry her, there was a time when he could have married Mademoiselle Marie la Taché of 15 Rue de Lyon, Paris.
    The gunshot had alerted Mellors and his smooth white loins. He came running. ‘I heard a shot, I thought ah! poachers.’
    ‘There are no ah! poachers,’ said Lord Chatterley. it was me.’
    He pointed to the dead bird. Mellors stared, picked up the bird showing the tag on its leg. ‘That’s my prize racing