‘What went wrong? Anything you can tell me?’ Duncan asked.
‘I can tell you,’ said Parkin. ‘She’d tell you, it appears. It’s only she offered me for us to live together — on her money — and I can’t see my way to it.’
‘What’s the obstacle?’
‘She’d wish she hadn’t after a bit. She likes me, in her way. But she’s always glad to get away from me. I’ve noticed it every time. Like today.’
‘Perhaps you thwart her. Neither she nor her sister can bear to be thwarted.’
‘I don’t know as I thwart her. When we’ve been real nice, mind you, it’s always been the same. “I must go now! Goodbye!”’
‘To get back to Sir Clifford?’
‘Ay, to Wragby.’
‘I suppose she had to get back.’
‘Yes, she had. But she was always that fligg to say it, I always knowed — “I must go now. Goodbye!” It was as if she was eager to say it to me.’
‘And you minded?’
‘I suppose I must a’ done, else I shouldn’t mind now.’
Duncan thought for a time. ‘But if she wants you to go and live with her, she can’t be so anxious to get away from you,’ he said.
‘She’d say it. From time to time she’d say it. And she’d go. Just to show as she was free to go: free to come, and free to go. She’d be my-lady just the same.’
‘No, you’re wrong. It’s not my-lady. She was the same as a lassie, before there was any ladyship about it. It’s her nature. — Why not let her do it?’
‘Why, I don’t care! On’y not to me. It’s like a slap in the face when you’ve been that warm with a woman, and you could lie with your arm around her for ever. But she gets up. — “I’m afraid I must go. Goodbye!” You can feel her pining to say it, even before she does get it out. — It’s like a kick in the balls to you, when you can’t somehow let her go from under your touch.’
Duncan watched the road ahead. ‘The thing a woman calls her freedom, it’s a devil’s instinct in her nowadays,’ said Duncan. ‘And I suppose you told her what you told me?’
‘No! Not that! I didn’t let her know that. But I told her I couldn’t live in her house and take her money and let her be top dog. That’s what sent her off.’
‘It would! Letting a paltry thing like money stand between you!’ Duncan smiled slyly and ironically. ‘I can hear her. Mind you, she’d never begrudge you.’
‘I know it! I know it! She’d never be mean,’ said Parkin in a hot voice. Then he shook his head. ‘But she’d get a man under. She couldn’t help it.’
‘She’d try to get him all to herself if she was keen on him. That she would do — try to pin him in some corner, all for herself. Would you care, though?’
‘God knows!’ said Parkin. ‘I canna start it, that’s all. I canna go into her house an’ live on her money. I’d rather the steel fell on me and laid me out.’
Duncan looked at him curiously. ‘Feel so strongly about it?’ he said. ‘I don’t think I should mind that part so much.’
‘You’re different an’ you’re situated different. You aren’t a working man. You’re a gentleman of her own class.’
‘I? The son of a poor Scotch minister! You’d better not let Sir Clifford hear you. He thinks I’m a long way down the ladder. Not that it matters to me. Nor to her — she’s not got that sort of mind. —But why would you hate to go and live on some quiet farm and work it along with her?’
‘If I had my own money I might. But I don’t know — I’m a working man when everything’s said an’ done, an’ I might as well stick to it. I was brought up wi’ working men — why should I try to get up among th’ others? I don’t like ’em. I don’t like gentlemen from what I’ve seen of ’em. So what should I want to go amongst ’em for?’
‘You told me I was a gentleman.’
‘Ay! But you’re like her — you don’t care one road nor another. You’re sort of a bit of both. But I’m what I know I am, working class. What’s the good of gainsaying it and trying to rise up!’
‘You’re very much like her, and like me — you don’t really care,’ said Duncan. ‘You’re not an ordinary man. You’re one of the odd ones that don’t fit in any class. I’m another, Constance is another, so is her sister Hilda. Clifford Chatterley’s a bird of his class. It’s his limitation and makes me want to kick him. — But you’re no more the commonplace working man than I am the commonplace gentleman or she the commonplace lady. — We’re all of us white blackbirds, when it comes to class limitations.’
Parkin puzzled over this.
‘I know,’ he said, in a secret voice, ‘I’m not what Bill is — nor my mates at Jephson’s. But that’s because I never was a contented one. My mother always said something ailed me — so I suppose that’s it. I was always fretting at something. I suppose summat’s amiss wi’ me —always has been. I’ve always felt it since I can remember — as if summat was amiss wi’ me, an’ I wasn’t contented in my inside, like other chaps. Yet the men at Jephson’s seems to like me, an’ they don’t want me to go. Neither do I want to leave them —’
They were already in sight of Uthwaite’s twisted spire. It was early: Constance’s train would not be in yet. The car ran on swiftly, in silence, till they were down in the knot of a town.
‘Shall we go into the Sun and have a cup of tea? Or would you like me to drive you to Tevershall and comeback for her?’
‘I shan’t go to Tevershall tonight. I s’ll go to Sheffield straight from here. If I go to Tevershall she’ll be askin’ for me, ’appen — and I don’t want to face her again today.’
They went into the Sun, the old posting hotel that now is the motor-car hotel. In the lounge was a comfortable fire: and no people but themselves. They were quiet, neither having much to say to the other any more. Parkin glanced at the clock.
‘I’ll get the four o’clock bus,’ he said.
‘Will you?’
There was a certain sense of disaster. After all, the connection between Parkin and Constance was a real thing. Parkin was peaked and looked as if he was going to be beheaded. Duncan felt the sense of catastrophe, and his kindness rose again. It was ten minutes to four.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘If you’ll stay here in Uthwaite till I’ve taken her to Wragby, I’ll come back and fetch you. And we can talk it over: what you and she will do: or what you might possibly do. Perhaps you’ll both manage better through me than with one another. What do you think?’
Parkin, who had a peculiarly forlorn look like a stray cat that’s got no home, glanced suspiciously.
‘Why what could we say more than we have said!’ he exclaimed testily.
‘God knows! Please yourself. I’ll come back for you if you like. If not — you’ll have to run for the bus.’
He looked at the clock, and Parkin did the same. But he did not rise. He sat sulkily in his chair till five minutes past four. Then he gave a sort of gasping sigh.
‘Ay!’ he said. ‘I’ve no right, though, to let you go to a lot of trouble about it. Only what am I to do?’ He looked at the other man in dismal, exasperated perplexity.
‘I’m not going to advise you,’ laughed Duncan. ‘Perhaps if you both broke it off now it would be easier for you. The future’s bound to be difficult. It’s for you to decide.’
To this he got no answer. It was a quarter past four. Both men glanced at the clock, and each caught the other doing it.
‘Ay, she’s not far off now!’ said Parkin grimly, and Duncan broke into a laugh.
‘She might be your dreaded wife!’ he said.
Parkin shifted jerkily in his chair.
‘Ay!’ he said shortly. ‘A woman’s nothing to a man till she’s got herself inside him. Then it’s worse than that malaria as some chaps got so bad out there in Gallipoli. It comes on in bouts, and all your inside turns over. I can feel her comin’ as if somebody was going to stab me.’
‘Why stab you?’ said Duncan, laughing.
‘Eh! It’s how it feels. As if somebody was goin’ to stick me in th’ back o’ th’ neck.’ He ducked his head between his shoulders, wincing away from something behind him.
Duncan laughed and reached for his gloves. ‘Well!’ he said. ‘I’ll be back here by six at the latest.’
‘You don’t want to bother about me!’ Parkin persisted. ‘Let me go by bus — or th’ train.’
‘Would you rather?’
Duncan put the question simply and finally. Parkin looked at him as a faltering boy might, uncertain, humiliated, angry, confused, and paralysed.
‘I was thinking about you having to come and go,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Don’t bother about me. I shall escape Sunday dinner at Wragby: that’s good enough for me. Well! I’ll be back here not later than six.’
‘Here! You’re forgetting the scarf!’ Parkin handed him his wrap. Duncan was wearing hers.
‘So I am! I’ll bring you another.’
He went. Parkin sat down to listen for the train.
The train was almost punctual. Constance seemed very composed.
‘I wondered if you’d have got here,’ she said.
‘Been here nearly an hour.’
‘Yes. We had to wait at Trent.’
They went up to the car. She had seen Duncan wearing her scarf. Now she saw his lying on the seat.
‘Why have you changed scarves?’ she asked.
‘Parkin wouldn’t have yours. Op for obstinacy! Here!’ and he pulled hers from round his neck.
She took it without a word, and they started home. She was calm and dignified.
‘He told me you’d had a row,’ said Duncan.
‘Did he!’
‘You’ve said goodbye for good, I hear!’
‘Have we?’ she said.
‘He seemed to think so.’
‘Oh!’
The thing went no further.
‘I think it’s probably just as well,’ said Duncan. ‘Incompatibility of station, you might say. Nice man though: much too susceptible to women though: and a bit of a boor, I admit, after Clifford. Clifford’s every inch a gentleman — even to the half of his little finger that the bullet blew away. It must be somewhere, a speck of dust. It’ll be a speck of gentlemanly dust wherever it is, refusing to mingle with the common clay.’
‘Why not!’ said Constance.
‘Why not indeed?’
The car ran rapidly forward.
‘Sunday tea-time!’ said Duncan. ‘I always think of the kirk. There’s only three things a Scotchman can believe in: God, money, or women: and you can only believe in one at a time — or else in nothing. Connie?’
‘What?’
‘You’re half-English. What do you believe in? Just yourself?’
‘Probably.’
‘Ay! as Op says. ’Appen so!’
But she was not going to be drawn.
‘Do you know, Lady Chatterley, what I’ve promised to do?’
‘How should I?’
‘I have promised to go back to Op when I’ve deposited you, and take him your last word and convey him to Sheffield.’
He could feel the anger glow in her.
‘You’ll have to invent it then,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The last word.’
‘Oh, that’s no effort to me.’
He took off the gear as they came to the top of Tevershall hill. ‘Surely the son of a Scotch minister can invent the last word of a woman like you!’ he said as they ran smoothly down the long incline of the village. In a few moments he was tooting at Wragby lodge gates: they ran up through the dense coppice that screened the park, and to the house.
Constance got out. ‘You’re coming in?’ she said.
‘Didn’t I tell you I was coming back?’
‘But you’ll have tea first?’
‘Didn’t I tell you we waited an hour at Uthwaite and had tea at the Sun?’
‘But what are you going to say?’
‘Didn’t I tell you I’d invent it? I’m an improvvisatore, I can only do it on the spot. A rivederci! I shan’t be back to dinner, so don’t let them lay for me.’
And with a smile and a bow, he set the car in motion and swept into sudden speed round the oval sweep of the drive in front of the old house. He was angry. Constance could feel it in the very motion of his car. Well! she too was angry.
Duncan drove back very rapidly to Uthwaite. Parkin was not at the hotel. But in a few moments he came sauntering down the street. He hurried forward in some surprise.
‘You’ve been quick!’ he said.
‘Quite! Get in!’
In another moment they were buzzing along the Sheffield road. Neither said anything. Duncan was too busy driving. And the miles dropped away. Nevertheless, lights were all on before they came to the town. It was dark.
‘Have dinner with me,’ said Duncan.
‘Nay! I’ll get home!’
‘I’ve got to have dinner somewhere — too late to get back. I don’t want to have it alone. So come and have dinner with me.’
Parkin could do no other than obey. They went to the Victoria. Duncan, being angry, was short and peremptory with the waiters. There was only a sprinkling of people in the dining-room.
‘What’ll you drink?’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘I’m having whiskey and soda.’
‘I’ll have the same then.’
Quick, nervous, and angry, Duncan began the meal. He drank up his whiskey and ordered another — also for Parkin. And during the meal he said nothing. After dinner he went to the lounge and drank a neat whiskey with his coffee. Parkin did the same. Duncan ordered more whiskey — and took only a dash of soda. Parkin did the same.
Duncan remained perfectly sober, only he grew intense. On his pale cheeks the pallor deepened. Parkin, being naturally fresh-coloured, became flushed, and his eyes grew very bright.
‘Want to talk?’ asked Duncan peremptorily.
‘Ay — if you do,’ said Parkin, his bright eyes growing brighter. Duncan had not yet uttered a syllable about her.
‘I don’t — particularly,’ rapped Duncan. ‘But I will, for your sake. She refused to send any message. She refused even to mention you.’
‘She did?’
‘Yes.’
Duncan sipped his whiskey.
‘Wha’ d’ you feel about her?’ he barked. ‘Can you let her go out of your life — forget her — blot it out?’ He spoke like an actor and made vehement gestures.
‘I — I shan’t die of love — I should think — if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s not what I mean. No man would die of love for a really modern woman, such as she is. But could you marry some other nice woman, a bit younger than yourself, and cut her out — cut her out?’
‘I don’t know as why I need marry anybody,’ said Parkin, his bright eyes shining.
‘Ha! You! If some woman didn’t attract you you’d attract her. You’re that sort. — How are you getting on in your lodgings with Mr and Mrs What’s-their-name?’
‘I’m all right. Tewson’s their name.’
‘And isn’t Mrs Tewson in love with you yet?’
‘In love with me? I don’t know about in love. She likes me.’
‘Thrilled by you?’
‘Ay! ’Appen she is.’
‘You thrilled by her?’
‘I like her, but I’m not thrilled by her.’
‘Husband mind?’
‘No! I don’t think so.’
‘Do they ask any of their young lady friends in in the evening?’
‘Ay! There’s Bill’s sister comes in most nights.’
‘How old?’
‘I’ve not asked her.’
‘Thirty?’
‘Maybe twenty-seven or eight.’
‘Do you like her?’
‘Ay! She’s a nice lass as iver was.’
‘Would you marry her?’
‘Me? Marry he
r?’
Parkin’s eyes were very bright and amused under this fire of questions. But at the last something like fear sprung into them.
‘I’ve no idea of marrying her,’ he said gravely. ‘Nor of marrying anybody.’
But Duncan had seen enough in the recoil and gravity of the other man’s eyes to know all he wanted.
‘If Sir Clifford died — would you marry Constance?’ came the next quick question.
There was a long pause.
‘Ay, ’appen I should if she wanted me — if she wanted me — which I doubt. — And I don’t wish Sir Clifford all that harm, mind you.’
‘Of course not! And if you married her — would you go and live on a farm or in some pleasant house with her — in some place of her choosing?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know! What do I know? If I get a driver’s job — we might live a bit out of Sheffield, in a nice house for her — and I could come in to my job.’
‘Why do you care about your job? It’s not worth caring about, I should have thought. Have some more whiskey. I’m having some.’
He pressed the bell for more drinks, then repeated: ‘Why do you care about your job?’
‘That’s another thing!’ said Parkin, lowering his voice. ‘I’m secretary for our men, at our works, of the Communist league. That’s another thing I don’t want to drop.’
‘Really! Does she know?’
‘I’ve not told her.’
‘Why not?’
‘We don’t brag about it a lot. — An’ she’s Lady Chatterley, mind you, be she what else she may.’
‘So you’re a Communist.’
Parkin glanced round the lounge.
‘Yes! But we don’t go round telling folks.’
‘Really! And you want Soviets like in Russia?’
‘Yes! Workin’ men mustn’t sell their work, it comes to selling your soul if you have to. We’ll do our share of the work to keep everything alive. But we won’t sell our work to make profits for other people.’
‘You want to be like Russia? You want to kill off all the upper classes, for example?’
‘No! There’s no need to kill ’em — except maybe a few. But they can climb down an’ be like other folks, can’t they?’
‘I don’t know. A monkey can climb down a tree. But when he’s down he’s neither a dog nor a human being, he’s still a monkey.’
The First Lady Chatterley's Lover Page 25