Lady Chatterley's Lover

his help,’ she said, beside herself with rage.
    One of her spoke, ‘That poor man Mellors had been ill with cold chicken fricassée — I mean pneumonia. If I were the working class I’d let you whistle for your service!’
    ‘I don’t mind whistling for service, listen.’ Therewith he whistled a chorus of ’Roses Are Blooming in Piccardy’.
    ‘There,’ he said. ‘That should bring even the deafest servant running!’
    Constance boiled. This man had the emotional depth of a blocked drain or an Out of Order phone box.
    ‘Poor Mellors,’ she said with a stifled sob. ’If he’d been sitting in that chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as you behaved, what would you have done to him ?’
    ‘I’d have had him put down, why? His werewolf mother could have him for dinner.’
    ‘As if he weren’t as much a man as you are.’
    ‘He isn’t as much a man as me: he’s only ten stone and I’m eighteen!’
    ‘He’s ten stone because you pay him starvation wages.’
    ‘I pay him two pounds a week, a man can starve quite comfortably on that. He can always eat one of his carrier pigeons.’
    ‘Have you no feelings, Clifford?’ she said.
    ‘You know I only have them from the waist upwards. Why, do you want to feel me?’ he laughed.
    She shook her head in disbelief. ‘If I were Mellors I’d tell you to keep your two pounds a week.’
    ‘Oh, that would be most welcome,’ he said.
    ‘You make me sick!’ she said.
    ‘Oh, would you like a bucket?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m utterly ashamed of you.’
    She jumped to her feet, which were over in the corner.
    ‘My father is twenty times the human being you are,’ she said.
    ‘He must be huge,’ said Clifford.
    She sat in stunned silence.
    Clifford rang the bell for Mrs Bolton.
    ‘Mrs Bolton,’ he smiled. ‘Will you take Lady Chatterley outside and put her under the cold tap.’
    Mrs Bolton took Constance down to the kitchen. Standing there, his face red, his eyes standing out like the stoppers on a harmonium was Fields, swaying, with a gas stove over his head.
    ‘I’ve done it, I’ve done it,’ he gasped. ‘Despite Rita Lurch.’
    ‘Put that gas stove down at once, there’s a dinner in it!’
    Mrs Bolton took Constance to the tap. It was leaking.
    ‘Is that dripping?’ she said.
    ‘No, it’s water,’ said Mrs Bolton.
    Mrs Bolton plunged Lady Chatterley’s head under the tap.
    ‘Why is he doing this to me?’ she sighed.
    ‘ He’s not doing it me lady, I am.’
    ‘Then why are you doing it?’ queried her ladyship.
    ‘Because he’s not,’ Mrs Bolton explained, a stickler for detail. ‘You see with his legs, he’d never make it to the sink.’
    ‘This is mental cruelty,’ said my lady, ’I’ll take him to court, I’ll charge him.’
    ‘What with, mam?’
    ‘Drowning. I’d accuse him of drowning me. Would you be a witness?’
    Mrs Bolton. ‘I can’t, mam.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You’re not drowned yet.’
    Behind them a life and death drama was in process as Fields, his legs collapsing, tried to lower the gas stove. Halfway down he lost his grip and the whole stove crashed to the floor and shattered in all directions.
    ‘Oh, my God,’ shrieked Mrs Bolton as a piece landed on her foot. ‘Tonight’s dinner is in there,’ she said, delving among the pieces. Like a miracle the dinner was intact.
    Constance went to her room furious. She took the stairs two at a time, then three, finally six; nearly splintered in two, it inflamed and krupled her blurzon, she applied hot towels, she put on Pond’s vanishing cream, and for half an hour it vanished. When it came back she marked it with a cross so Mellors would know where it was. She made her plans for the evening, he’d sweep the chicken shit away and put the blanket down. She didn’t want to hate Clifford or his legs. She didn’t want him to know anything about her, least of all being fucked by the gamekeeper. This squabble about how he treated the servants was an old one. Mellors had quite an old one. She found Clifford stupidly insentient, tough and indiarubbery (Eh?). Where other people were concerned. Some of the concerned people were Tom Loon, Dick Squats, Len Lighthower, Lord Mountbatten and Eric Grins: those unconcerned were Mrs Gladys Scrote and The Reverend Notts of Rhodesia.
    That night for dinner she wore her magnificent black velvet dress, she went down the stairs with grace, poise and dignity. It was sad when she tripped over the cat.
    ‘Have you hurt