Lady Chatterley's Lover

at judging arses he was a rank amateur.
    The time was nearing for her holiday in Venice. Hilda arrived, she looked like a trainee Lesbian. She arrived in a two-seater car with her suit-case strapped firmly behind. (That can’t be right!) Constance had arranged with Mellors if everything promised well for their night together, she would hang a green shawl out of the window; if it wasn’t she’d hang out a red one. She prayed he was not colour blind.
    ‘It will be so good’, said Mrs Bolton, ‘for your ladyship to have a change.’
    Yes, Venice would be a great change from fucking naked in the woods during a thunderstorm.
    ‘You don’t mind looking after Sir Clifford while I’m away?’
    Mrs Bolton didn’t mind, he already owed her £8,000 playing pontoon; if this went on, soon Wragby Hall would be hers.
    Constance confessed to Hilda she was carrying on with the gamekeeper.
    ‘You’ll regret it!’ said Hilda.
    ‘I shan’t,’ cried Constance.
    No, she would never regret that twelve-inch prick.
    ‘You’ll get over him quite soon,’ Hilda predicted.
    Yes, she would get over him, he liked it like that.
    ‘How old is this gamekeeper?’ said Hilda.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Constance.
    After their two days and nights of fucking he looked seventy.
    ‘I would give up tonight’s escapade,’ said Hilda.
    ‘No! I must stay with him tonight or I can’t go to Venice.’
    Hilda didn’t know it but her sister was just one fuck away from Venice, then the holiday could start.
    Hilda had the car ready for the assignation — the cuckolded husband thought they were driving to London for the boat train, like all good cuckolded husbands should — waving goodbye he shouted, ‘Goodbye Hilda. Keep an eye on her.’
    ‘I’ll keep two,’ said Hilda with lightning sharp wit. She could have said ‘three’ but a quick count of her optics would prove the lie.
    Everybody waved. Constance looked back to see Sir Clifford being wheeled away by Mrs Bolton to pontoon and bankruptcy.
    Constance wore her motoring goggles and disguising cap, even her own mother wouldn’t have recognized her, primarily because she was dead. Because of Hilda’s opposition, she would stand by her gamekeeper through thick and thin, indeed he was both, thick and thin. He admitted that when he was counting pheasants’ eggs, after he got to twenty, his brain hurt.
    They had stopped at the level-crossing to let the London train through, on board were the victorious London Irish Rugby Team. They had played a local village team from Garthby. By half time the Irish had amassed a total of 96 points to 3, therefore the Irish captain declared, so he and his team left, leaving the Garthby team to finish the game on their own. They went on to score 100 points and win.
    Their car arrived at a footpath in the woods.
    ‘Here we are,’ said Constance.
    Hilda looked around, indeed Constance was right. Here they were. She saw 63 a shadowy figure.
    ‘Shadowy figure, who are you?’ said Constance excitedly.
    ‘I am’, said shadowy figure, ‘Oliver Mellors, gamekeeper to Lord Chatterley of Wragby Hall.’
    So shadowy figure was him, what luck. Shadowy figure could have been anybody, it was anybody and he was called Oliver Mellors. They waited for Hilda to get out. But Hilda shut the door of the car and sat tight.
    ‘This is my sister, who has shut the car door and is sitting tight. Won’t you come and speak to her? Hilda, this is Mister Mellors.’
    The gamekeeper lifted his hat.
    ‘Is that it?’ said Hilda. ‘Can’t the fellow talk?’
    He mumbled some kind of reply but stopped when his brain hurt.
    ‘Hilda, do come to the cottage,’ pleaded Constance.
    The gamekeeper led the way.
    ‘He knows these woods like the back of his hands,’ said Constance.
    Why then, thought Hilda, are we all struggling in the middle of a bramble thicket trying to escape?
    Lacerated from head to foot, they eventually found the path. He went on ahead, they followed on foot. There was a fresh sweet scent in the air. It was his Anzora haircream. Nobody spoke. There was nothing to say, but any minute he might lift his hat yet again. What should have been a ten-minute walk took an hour.
    ‘I took a wrong turning,’ he said.
    ‘No!’ said Hilda. ‘You took every wrong turning.’
    Inside the cottage they sat around the fire. He seemed nervous of Hilda, he kept a distance from her, backing away from her against the wall.
    ‘Would you like a drink?’
    Yes! The girls