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mind what man’s child you had,’ said Clifford revving the engine of his wheelchair till he was obscured in a cloud of carbon-monoxide smoke.
    In the cloud she could hear him swearing and coughing, when it cleared she said, ‘Having a son by another man, women have different feelings about the wrong sort of fellow.’
    ‘Well, you ought to know, you must have felt a few in your time,’ he said with a twisted grin that went round the back of his head and back again. ‘I mean the man has to be intelligent, someone from Lloyds of London.’
    ‘Would one of the Names do?’ she said.
    ‘Yes, as long as it wasn’t Shaka Zulu.’
    She was watching a brown spaniel, running from a tree he had been drenching. It started barking, whereupon a man stepped from behind the tree and kicked it up the arse. ‘Now die for the King,’ said the man. The dog rolled over on its back and lay still.
    ‘Mellors!’ said Clifford; the man saluted and came to attention. A soldier. ‘Forward march,’ said Clifford. ‘Halt! Stand at ease! Will you turn my chair around and get it started?’
    The man at once slung his rifle over his shoulder, landing it on the ground behind him.
    ‘Constance, this is the new gamekeeper, Mellors,’ said Clifford.
    The man lifted his hat, showing his thick hair, he turned slowly to show it all. His hair had been shorn so severely it looked like a cross between a coconut and a hand grenade. He stared at Constance to see what she was like, she was like Lady Chatterley.
    ‘You’ve been here some time, haven’t you?’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘since I kicked the dog’s arse about fifteen minutes ago.’
    ‘How do you like it?’ she said.
    ‘How do I like what, your ladyship?’ he replied.
    ‘I meant how did you like it here?’ she said.
    ‘I like it here very much, your ladyship.’
    A conversation of absolute futility. Mellors went to the dog and told him he could stop dying for the King. Starting Clifford’s engine he pushed the chair to the hazel thicket ( Corylus avellana ).
    ‘Is that all?’ said Mellors, once again taking his cap off and revolving 360 degrees.
    ‘No, you’d better come along.’
    ‘Fuck,’ said Mellors under his breath.
    ‘No,’ said Clifford, ‘the engine isn’t strong enough to go up the hill.’
    ‘Neither am I,’ said Mellors; for no reason he kicked his dog up the arse again.
    Straining, Mellors pushed Lord Chatterley uphill till they reached a covert of Larch ( Larix decidua ). Connie ran forward to open the gate, the two men looked at her in passing.
    ‘Eyes right!’ ordered Clifford.
    Mellors looked at her to see what she looked like. Yes, she still looked like Lady Chatterley and had big tits. She saw in his eyes detachment and suffering. Both were correct. The detachment was C Company Welsh Guards in which he was on the reserve, the suffering was he had piles ( Haemorrhoides vulgaris ). Mellors strained, pushing the chair, every now and then they stopped when he fainted.
    ‘Come on, Mellors, you can do it,’ said Clifford to the horizontal gamekeeper. ‘Not tired, darling?’ said Clifford.
    ‘I am a bit,’ said Mellors.
    ‘I didn’t mean you,’ said Clifford. ‘Connie.’
    ‘No, I’m not tired,’ she said, but she was.
    Everything in her life seemed worn out, especially her fanny. It had not recovered from Paddy. Her dissatisfaction was older than the hills, about 10 million years BC. It was one of the oldest dissatisfactions in the world and had once been on view at the Kensington Natural History Museum.
    They came to the house. Clifford, with powerful arms, swung himself to his house chair and fell between them.
    ‘Ups-a-daisy,’ said Constance.
    ‘That’s no bloody good,’ said the cripple on the floor. Carefully they lifted him into his wheelchair. Constance lifted his dead legs into position and just in case she counted them.
    ‘Nothing else to go up, sir,’ said Mellors. ‘Ben Nevis? The Matterhorn?’
    ‘No,