Free Lady Chatterley's Lover by Spike Milligan Page A

straighten ‘ee up,’ he said grabbing her leg and pulling it free.
    The touch of his hand on her leg sent a thrill running up it into her bloomers up past her waist elastic where it dispersed. It was a near thing, in fact it went very near her thing. He looked at her with his wicked blue eyes, then he looked at her through his wicked brown ones.
    ‘Why,’ he began. ‘Yo ladyship’s welcom’ ter th’ut an’ th’key an’ iverythink. On’y this t’I’me o th’year ther’s bods ter set.’
    She listened to him in amazement. ‘What in Christ’s name are you talking about?’ she said.
    He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way, he had seen many odd comics do it, Ivor Cutler was one and Dirty Derick Dull, both at Lewisham Hippodrome.
    ‘I’ve seen Dirty Derick Dull do that at the Lewisham Hippodrome,’ said Constance.
    ‘Well, your ladyship, if you don’t want the key I’ll be going,’ he said completely free of the vernacular.
    She went home in confusion not knowing what she thought or felt, she felt her leg where he had, but it was nowhere near as thrilling.

NEUF
    --------

    C onstance, even though she was on Keplers Malt three times a day felt weak. In the whole world there was no help. She often opened a window and shouted help! Two or three times the fire brigade came, but nothing else. Money and sex were the two great manias. How she missed Paddy’s pound under her pillow. Like Colonic Irrigation she felt washed out. Insanity, was it happening to Clifford? He had started to wear his underpants back to front in the event of the river breaking its banks! He was not aware of the great desert tracts in his consciousness, there could be camels there!
    It was a lovely day. Clifford asked Mrs Bolton, ‘I think I’ll have those hyacinths taken away.’
    ‘They smell beautiful,’ she said.
    ‘The scent,’ he said. ‘It’s a little funereal.’
    ‘I went to a little funeral,’ she said. ‘It was Ben Dreggs, a dwarf from Cottles Circus.’
    ‘This circus dwarf,’ said Clifford, ‘what did he do?’
    ‘He died,’ she said. ‘That’s why they buried him.’
    ‘What did he die from?’ said Clifford.
    ‘He died from elephant,’ she said.
    ‘Died from... elephant ? said Clifford.
    ‘Yes, one trod on him,’ she said.
    She worshipped him, she did everything for him, she swam the Channel for him and was even now making a model of St Paul’s out of 10,000 matchsticks.
    ‘Will you shave yourself this morning or would you rather I did?’ she said.
    ‘Yes, I’d rather you went and shaved yourself,’ he said.
    Indeed, she would do anything for him, even a bank. Constance was tempted to say, ‘For God’s sake, don’t sink into the hands of that woman.’ But she found she didn’t care for him enough to say it, in the long run; on a short run she found it quite easy. She had run thirty yards, then said to him, ‘For God’s sake, don’t sink into the hands of that woman.’
    ‘Why did you run thirty yards to tell me that? Ten would have done,’ he said smiling and tapping his nose but nothing fell out.
    To keep Clifford Mrs Bolton learned to type. So now Clifford could dictate a letter to her. ‘C,’ he would say, and she would take it down, rather slowly but correctly. Between them it took seven months to write a letter. He was very patient with her, spelling out difficult words like ‘Zogxtipilxow kmtpet’ and phrases in French ‘ Vin de Table ’.’
    Now Constance would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse for going up to her room after dinner, though she went there after dinner, when she got there there wasn’t a sign of dinner.
    No sooner had she gone than Clifford rang for Mrs Bolton. ‘You rang, Sir Clifford,’ she said.
    ‘No, it was the bell,’ he said.
    He taught her upper-class games, piquet, bezique and knock-down-ginger. He was educating her. ‘Two plus two is four,’ he told her.
    ‘Are you sure?’ she said, eyes glowing with excitement and