John Thomas & Lady Jane

her nose.’
    ‘Oh good,’ thought Constance.
    Eventually Clifford with his crutches
moved along the platform in waltz time — one-two-three, one-two-three
accompanied by his male nurse Field. He looked like the survivor of some old
earth-bound aboriginal race.
    ‘I don’t mind coming back,’ said Constance. ‘It is — I don’t know how to put it — part of one’s destiny.’
    ‘You feel that, do you?’ he said.
    ‘Yes, I feel it in my right knee when
the weather is cold. But you are wonderful,’ she said, looking at him, yet
shrinking away from him. ‘Tell me how you did it.’
    ‘What? Going on crutches? I tell you
I yielded to Mrs Bolton’s urging. Mrs Bolton got the crutches. At first I kept
crashing forward on my face but soon I learned to trust Field. He would throw
himself in front of me to break my fall. When he’d had enough he’d just let me
crash face forward.’
    England seemed uncomfortable; it was like an
ill-fitting suit, an unflushed toilet.
    Mrs Bolton was on the steps welcoming
Constance home, her face a mass of bruises and stitches.
    ‘Welcome to Wragby, my lady!’
    ‘You’re welcome to it too,’ said Constance.
    She sat like a strange bird from the
sun on the arm of Clifford’s chair where the red fire glowed. And the red fire
of coal made her feel uneasy, frightened her a little as it frightens wild
animals. Gorillas never go near a fire, nor do kangaroos, kiwis, tigers, pumas,
lions or cobras, wombats or Rhesus monkeys, and now Lady Chatterley.
    The thought of the south suddenly
seemed to have cast a spell on him too. He could see the sun in her. And it
seemed to him like new life. He drew her forth, her feelings, her impressions —
she did one of Isadora Duncan, Marie Lloyd, Mary Pickford.
    In the morning, when she came down,
she was shocked at the change in Clifford. He seemed almost in a state of coma.
Had Mrs Bolton put too much brandy in his Horlicks the night before?
    ‘It seems as if men do suffer that
way since the war. So we mustn’t wonder at Sir Clifford, must we? He was in the
war.’
    ‘Any news in the Soames scandal?’ she
asked Mrs Bolton.
    ‘No, my lady! He’s going away — or
else gone. To Canada, they say. He came and saw Sir Clifford. He handed in his
gun and his clockwork tortoise with revolving eyes.’
    Constance said no more.
    Everything felt burdensome and heavy,
the cupboard, the billiard table, the piano.
    Next morning she set out to find him.
She had great difficulty crossing the busy road. ‘There’s a pedestrian crossing
further up,’ said a man.
    ‘I hope he’s having better luck than
me,’ she said.
    As she passed the Methodist Chapel
they were singing:
     
    I need thee, Oh I need thee
    Every hour I need thee!
     
    Fancy being the Saviour, on call for
twenty-four hours a day.
    She made for Mrs Soames’s cottage.
The door stood open and she saw an old woman at the table rolling out paste for
a gooseberry pie. Connie tapped, and the old woman turned to the door.
    ‘Lady Chat’ley!’ she said with
grovelling surprise.
    ‘Is Soames in?’ said Constance.
    ‘He’s in bed.’
    Constance didn’t quite know what to say so she said,
‘Isn’t he well?’
    ‘He’s better than he was.’
    The little woman’s sentences came out
sharp and short, like a rap on the knuckles.
    ‘Could you please not speak to me
like a rap on the knuckles,’ said Constance.
    ‘D’you want me to call him?’ she
said.
    ‘Would you mind? Would he be getting
up soon?
    ‘I s’h’d call him for his dinner,
anyhow. Come in: Sit down, and don’t notice the pig-sty I m in.
    She came in, sat down and didn’t
notice the pigsty she was in.
    ‘Oliver! Get up! There’s Lady
Chat’ley come for you.’
    Constance, Lady Chatterley the
aristocrat, heard his footsteps, in stocking feet, cross the floor overhead and
descend the creaking stairs.
    His eyes met Constance’s, and she
felt a vivid pain at her heart.
    ‘You’re going away?’ said Constance, across the room.
    He lowered his face to hide the
disfigurement between his knees. The light was behind him. But his voice came
harsh and strong:
    ‘Yes! tonight. To Sheffield.’
    ‘What kind of work?’ she said.
    ‘Labouring! In Jephson’s Steel Works
stamping the cutlery with EPNS.’
    His voice was so harsh and his tongue
seemed so queer you would hardly know it was him speaking. It sounded as if it
was coming from the jam cupboard.
    ‘Why’, said Constance, ‘are you
speaking to me from