Lady Chatterley's Lover

Clifford clenched his fists. ‘My wife push as well!! Do you know what you’re saying?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Mellors. ‘I made it up as I went along.’
    ‘But using my wife, a lady, as a common labourer! What would people say?’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Mellors. ‘I don’t know what people would say.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ said Sir Clifford.
    ‘Positive.’
    ‘Well, somebody must know what people would say,’ said Sir Clifford.
    ‘Look, darling,’ said Constance, ’I’m going to help Mellors, so please hold this.’ She handed him the dead pigeon.
    ‘Look, darling,’ said Sir Clifford. ‘I don’t want you to push. I’m perfectly willing to stay here while you go and get help.’
    ‘You can’t stay here all night,’ she said uncertainly.
    ‘Yes, as long as you send some food out,’ he said.
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Well, I’d like to start with Brown Windsor soup, then a fish course, grilled salmon, main course? chicken fricassée.’
    ‘No, no, darling,’ she protested. ‘By the time it got here it would be cold.’
    He mused. ‘Yes, you’re right, there’s nothing worse than cold chicken fricassée.’
    Sir Clifford wanted to murder Mellors.
    ‘Have you ever eaten cold chicken fricassée?’ queried Sir Clifford.
    ‘Er no, sir, I haven’t,’ said Mellors.
    ‘Well I have ,’ said the triumphant lord. ‘And believe it is worse than pneumonia.’
    ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Mellors respectfully. ‘But have you ever had pneumonia?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well I have and it is worse than cold chicken fricassée. I mean pneumonia lasts two weeks, chicken fricassée wouldn’t last that long.’
    Constance interrupted, ‘I gave my dog a cold chicken fricassée once and he finished it in five minutes.’
    ‘Whose bloody side are you on?’ roared Sir Clifford. ‘Pneumonia or chicken fricassée?’
    Shaking with fury he released his hold on the dead pigeon, it fell to the ground. In a flash Mellors’ dog Fred had the bird tight in his jaws.
    ‘Come here,’ ordered Mellors. ‘Give me that,’ he ordered. ‘Let go,’ he ordered. ‘Put that down,’ he ordered. ‘Stop that,’ he ordered, to no avail. The sun was setting. Time was short. ‘Good dog,’ he said trying to pull the bird free, but Fred was not a good dog, he held the bird like a vice.
    ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Mellors. He took ten paces back, ran and kicked the dog up the arse, the pigeon shot out the other end. ‘Good dog,’ said Mellors to the convulsed canine.
    ‘Look,’ said anxious Sir Clifford, it’s getting dark.’
    ‘I know,’ said Mellors. it happens every night around here.’
    Together Constance and Mellors continued to push the chair. He suffered a brief prolapse.
    ‘Are you all right?’ said Constance.
    ‘Just a prolapse, my lady,’ he said, pushing it back in.
    As they pushed he glimpsed her milk white wrist and the flame of strength went down his back and up his smooth white loins, agitating his wedding tackle. 51 In a brief pause she kissed his hand, the very one he had used on his prolapse.
    ‘Why have we stopped?’ asked the irritated Sir Clifford, it’s Mellors, dear, he’s had a prolapse.’ She wanted to add, ‘And he’s squeezing my tits.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Sir Clifford. ‘Here Mellors, this will make you feel better, have a pull at this,’ and passed him his brandy flask.
    Mellors pulled the flask, ’I’m pulling it, Sir Clifford, but nothing’s happening.’
    Sir Clifford took the flask, unscrewed the top. ‘This is how you pull,’ he said, then drank the flask dry and put it back in his pocket.
    ‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ve made myself feel better for you.’
    ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll know next time,’ said Mellors.
    How cruel Clifford was, thought Constance. For the first time she hated him as if he ought to be obliterated from the earth. She would start by trying to obliterate him from Wragby, but it wouldn’t be easy to obliterate a person, but with him she had a start, his legs were already obliterated.
    Three prolapses later they were at the top of the hill and on to the flat.
    ‘Look, I’m shagged out,’ whispered Mellors to her ladyship. ‘I can’t fuck tonight.’
    It was a shattering blow to her ladyship, who had worked all the positions out for that night including one against the gas stove.
    Clifford was saying that Sir Malcolm had written to ask would Constance drive him in his small car to Venice. Constance laughed out