Ask Them for Help

‘Are yer cold?’ I hear the man ask quietly.

‘No! But I must go,’ the woman replies.

I hesitate, hiding behind the wall.

‘I must go,’ she repeats. I hear rustling, and the barrow creaks again. I assume they are getting dressed, so I pause, then step out from behind the shed.

‘Hello,’ I try to sound friendly. ‘I don’t suppose either of you has a pen I could borrow?’ Even as I say the words I realise what a stupid question this is. The woman is sitting on the edge of the wheelbarrow, wiping tears from her eyes, and she shrieks and quickly stands, turning away from me when I speak. The man looks at me calmly whilst buttoning his red corduroy trousers. He is moderately tall, and lean, with a red face, red hair and moustache, and distant eyes.

‘Who a’tha’?’ he says. He glances at the woman, who has her back to us.

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ I ask.

He steps closer to me, moving quickly but quietly. His voice has a hint of menace this time. ‘This ‘ere’s private land. Wha’s tha’ doin’ ‘ere?’

I take a step back, I’m a bit scared of this guy. ‘I’m lost. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I don’t know where I am. I don’t suppose you have a pen?’

‘Appen I don’t. Ah’ll show yer off the grounds.’ I could tell this wasn’t an offer, but an order.

‘Mellors, no.’ The woman walks over, and the man backs off a little. He glares at her, it looks like some unspoken warning, but she is clearly in charge. ‘I apologise, you startled us,’ she says, pleasantly. ‘Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Lady Constance Chatterley, and you have arrived at my estate at Wragby. I would be happy to extend a more suitable welcome up at the house, where I might assist you better.’

The red-faced man interrupts. ‘Your Ladyship? Will Sir Clifford be at the house?’ Again, I sense this is a warning.

‘Sir Clifford will be writing, or being tended by Mrs Bolton. Mister Mellors, I trust I’ll see you tomorrow when I come to the hut? To visit the chickens?’

‘Very good, m’Lady,’ he grumbles, turning to collect his gear and throw it in the barrow.

She addresses me. ‘I’m afraid you are unlikely to meet my husband, he is ever so busy lately. But please, come with me, Mister…’

‘McFate, but please call me Zanzibar.’

She loops her arm in mine as we walk across the grass away from the shed. ‘Zanzibar, what a delightful name! You must call me Connie.’