Lady Chatterley's Lover

his career, he was skint. Being asked to Wragby, he was grateful for a night’s lodgings. He arrived in a thirty-year-old Morris with a ‘For Sale’ sign in the window. Kudos! Having worked in America, Paddy would have a lot of kudos! In fact Paddy had brought a whole bag of it. Clifford was a coming man, here he came to greet Paddy, but seeing him Clifford’s soul recoiled.
    Paddy Michaelis was wearing an Irish kilt and playing the bagpipes! He played his way to the top of the steps. ‘Dat was der war march of de O’Neils,’ he said.
    ‘Of course it was,’ said Clifford.
    Paddy led him to the front room with ‘The brave Fenian boys’. Poor Clifford, thought Constance, like Paddy he wanted to be known, known to that vast amorphous world he did not know — Cricklewood, Lewisham and Neasden came to mind. In between bagpipe solos Clifford was very polite to Paddy, whose halitosis reached you six feet away. Yet this man was famous: this man, when as a corpse, had escaped from a refuse-can and must know a thing or two. There was something about him Constance liked, she had caught a glimpse of it just hanging below his kilt, and she caught her breath at the sight of it. He talked to Clifford sensibly, briefly, practically, earnestly, intensely, heatedly, ominously, paternally, optimistically, fiendishly, hedonistically, spiritually and concluded with ‘My Wild Irish Rose’ on the bagpipes. It was one in the morning when he finished. Clifford backed his wheelchair away to avoid the halitosis.
    ‘When did you start to make money?’ said Clifford ten feet away.
    At the mention of the word money Paddy fell in a faint to the floor; gradually he came to. ‘Money,’ he said crossing himself, taking out his wallet and kissing it. ‘Money is a trick, once you make money you go on up to a point.’
    ‘You mean you get a head like a pencil,’ said Clifford.
    ‘Not if you’re careful,’ said Paddy.
    There was a pause followed by a second pause, but so close together were they, you couldn’t tell the difference.
    Constance said, ‘Is it difficult being a playwright?’
    ‘No, there’s nothing in it,’ he said turning to her in a sudden flash. Again she caught sight of it and her right leg flew out.
    Embarrassed she said, ‘Paddy, are you alone?’
    ‘No,’ said Paddy. ‘You’re both here, didn’t you know that?’
    ‘I meant,’ said Constance, pulling her leg back in, ‘do you live alone?’
    ‘No, I have a Greek servant. He cooks for me. I’m going to marry,’ he said.
    ‘You’re going to marry your Greek servant?’ said Clifford, backing away as Paddy and his halitosis advanced.
    ‘No,’ said Paddy. ‘The lady of my choice, oh yes, I must marry.’
    ‘It sounds like going to have your tonsils out,’ said Constance.
    ‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Paddy. ‘I said I must marry, I never said anything about tonsils, you don’t have to have them out to marry. Have you had your tonsils out Lady Chatterley?’
    ‘No,’ she said.
    ‘See?’ said Paddy, ‘that hasn’t affected your marriage.’ he said.
    At dinner Paddy gave Constance long, bed-hot glances, suddenly her arm shot up, hurling her chicken leg in the air. The butler who had often played on the outfield caught the chicken leg low down. ‘Owszat,’ he said.
    ‘Oh,’ said Constance, ‘I feel so stupid.’ Clifford leant over and felt her, yes she did feel stupid.
    ‘Don’t you like chicken normally?’ said Paddy.
    ‘No, no, this chicken was perfectly normal,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
    ‘I didn’t see anything come over you, you must be imagining, dear,’ said Clifford.
    ‘Please, sir,’ said the butler. ‘It was the chicken leg that came over.’
    ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Wait there in case there are any more.’ Constance decided to change the subject. ‘Do you have anybody in mind to marry, Paddy?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mademoiselle Marie la Taché, 15 Rue de Lyon, Paris, see here.’ He passed Constance a photograph.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘This is a photo of an elephant.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Paddy. ‘It’s very good isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Constance. ‘What has it got to do with Mademoiselle Marie la Taché?’
    ‘The elephant has nothing to do with Mademoiselle Marie la Taché,’ said Paddy. ‘They both live separate lives, he in Africa, she in France.’
    ‘Don’t drink any more please, Paddy,’ pleaded Clifford. ‘Yes, I have had rather a