Lady Chatterley's Lover

pigeon,’ he blurted.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mellors,’ said Lord Chatterley. ’I’ll see it won’t happen again.’
    ‘Of course it can’t happen again,’ said Mellors. it’s dead.’
    ‘I’m very, very sorry. I’ll see you are compensated. Meantime, don’t waste it, have it for dinner.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you, your lordship,’ said Mellors, respectfully saluting, knowing in a few hours he would be fucking her ladyship.
    ‘Do you know anything about motors?’ asked Clifford sharply.
    ‘Do I know anything about motors!’ repeated Mellors. ‘Look man! I’m asking you !’, said Clifford, using his handkerchief to wipe the last of the blood from his nose, ’I’m afraid I don’t, sir, if it had been racing pigeons...’ Lord Chatterley wasn’t driving a racing pigeon.
    ‘Can you get underneath and have a look?’
    Mellors, on his back, pulled himself under the chair.
    ‘Can you see anything?’ said Clifford impatiently.
    ‘Not from under here,’ he said. ‘The chair’s in the way.’ Lord Chatterley fumed, why did he employ idiots?
    ‘The engine seems all right,’ came Mellors’ muffled voice.
    ‘I don’t suppose you can do anything,’ said Clifford.
    ‘Yes, I could come out,’ said Mellors.
    Lord Chatterley, like a rabbi, beat his breast in frustration.
    ‘Is it indigestion dear?’ said Lady Chatterley.
    He regained his composure. ‘Mellors?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ came the voice from under the chair, ’I’m going to advance the ignition. I want you to see what happens.’
    Advancing the ignition he pressed the starter, there was a loud bang and the engine throbbed into life.
    ‘Has anything happened?’ he shouted to Mellors.
    ‘Yes!’ shouted Mellors. ‘My shirt’s caught fire.’
    The smouldering Mellors came out from under the chair, his face blackened with oil.
    ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said Clifford sympathetically.
    ‘You’re sorry,’ said Mellors.
    The engine stopped. ‘Can you give me a push?’ said Clifford.
    Mellors gripped the back of the chair and as he did the engine burst into life. Alas! it was in reverse and ran backwards over Mellors.
    ‘What are you doing down there?’ said the enraged lord.
    ‘I’m getting up, sir,’ said Mellors.
    ‘You’re no good to me down there, man,’ said the heartless lord.
    He revved up the engine. Suddenly, without warning, the chair shot sideways, jettisoning the crippled lord into a ditch full of water.
    ‘Someone will pay for this,’ he raged.
    ‘No, darling, it’s all free,’ said Constance as she and Mellors pulled the bedraggled lord out.
    Together he and Constance tried to get his lordship into the chair.
    ‘Will you stop your bloody dog barking at me,’ fumed the lord.
    He took a swipe at the dog which turned and bit one of his dead legs.
    Mellors shouted, ‘Heel, heel.’
    ‘Don’t say that !’ said the lord. ‘He’s just bitten my heel.’
    Mellors gave the dog a kick up the arse.
    ‘It’s no good, the chair will have to be pushed,’ said Clifford with an affectation of sang-froid .
    Constance winced at his sang-froid , doing it in French didn’t fool her, she knew it meant composure of mind; imperturbability; freedom from agitation! [Fr. sang blood; froid cold].
    Mellors went to push the chair, but only propelled himself backwards. Mellors was ten stone, Lord Chatterley was eighteen: an eight-stone advantage. Even adding Mellors’ two-stone dog, Lord Chatterley still had the advantage, even adding his six-pound dead pigeon wasn’t enough, with this six-stone eight-pound disadvantage.
    ‘Do you mind pushing me home, Mellors my man?’ said Clifford in a superior disdainful voice.
    Never mind, thought Mellors, ‘my man’, tonight he would be fucking Lady Chatterley, that should even things up. He took a firm grip on the chair and pushed. He took a firm grip on the chair and pushed. He grip on the chair firm and on. He on chair the grip push on he. Push he on grip took firm chair. ‘What’s stopping you, Mellors?’ said Lord Chatterley. it’s you and the chair, sir,’ Mellors said, is it too heavy?’ said Constance.
    ‘No, your ladyship, it’s not too heavy. I’m too light,’ he said.
    Mellors would have one more try. Rolling up his sleeves, he spat on is hands but missed, it landed on the back of Sir Clifford’s neck.
    ‘Something’s landed on my neck,’ said Sir Clifford, it’s only some spit, darling,’ said Constance soothingly. ‘What’s spit doing on my neck?’