ACT I

 

 

SCENE I

 

 

 

    A collier’s kitchen — not poor. Windsor chairs, deal table, dresser of painted wood, sofa covered with red cotton stuff. Time: About half-past two of a winter’s afternoon.

 

    A large, stoutish woman of sixty-five, with smooth black hair parted down the middle of her head: MRS GASCOIGNE.

 

    Enter a young man, about twenty-six, dark, good-looking; has his right arm in a sling; does not take off cap: JOE GASCOIGNE.

 

 

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I s’d ha’ thought thy belly ‘ud a browt thee whoam afore this.

 

JOE sits on sofa without answering.

 

Doesn’t ter want no dinner?

 

JOE (looking up): I want it if the’ is ony.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ if the’ isna, tha can go be out? Tha talks large, my fine jockey! (She puts a newspaper on the table; on it a plate and his dinner.) Wheer dost reckon ter’s bin?

 

JOE: I’ve bin ter th’ office for my munny.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’s niver bin a’ this while at th’ office.

 

JOE: They kep’ me ower an hour, an’ then gen me nowt.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Gen thee nowt! Why, how do they ma’e that out? It’s a wik sin’ tha got hurt, an’ if a man wi’ a broken arm canna ha’ his fourteen shillin’ a week accident pay, who can, I s’d like to know?

 

JOE: They’ll gie me nowt, whether or not.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ for why, prithee?

 

JOE (does not answer for some time; then, sullenly): They reckon I niver got it while I wor at work.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Then where did ter get it, might I ax? I’d think they’d like to lay it onto me.

 

JOE: Tha talks like a fool, Mother.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha looks like one, me lad.

 

She has given him his dinner; he begins to eat with a fork.

 

Here, hutch up, gammy-leg — gammy-arm.

 

He makes room; she sits by him on the sofa and cuts up his meat for him.

 

It’s a rum un as I should start ha’in’ babies again, an’ feedin’ ‘em wi’ spoon-meat. (Gives him a spoon.) An’ now let’s hear why they winna gi’e thee thy pay. Another o’ Macintyre’s dirty knivey dodges, I s’d think.

 

JOE: They reckon I did it wi’ foolery, an’ not wi’ work.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Oh indeed! An’ what by that?

 

JOE (eating): They wunna gie me nowt, that’s a’.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s a nice thing! An’ what did ter say?

 

JOE: I said nowt.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha wouldna’! Tha stood like a stuffed duck, an’ said thank-yer.

 

JOE: Well, it wor raight.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: How raight?

 

JOE: I did do it wi’ foolery.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Then what did ter go axin’ fer pay fer?

 

JOE: I did it at work, didna I? An’ a man as gets accident at work’s titled ter disability pay, isna he?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha said a minnit sin’ as tha got it wi’ foolery.

 

JOE: An’ so I did.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I niver ‘eered such talk i’ my life.

 

JOE: I dunna care what ter’s ‘eered an’ what t’asna. I wor foolin’ wi’ a wringer an’ a pick-heft — ta’s it as ter’s a mind.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What, down pit?

 

JOE: I’ th’ stall, at snap time.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Showin’ off a bit, like?

 

JOE: Ye’.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ what then?

 

JOE: Th’ wringer gen me a rap ower th’arm, an’ that’s a’.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ tha reported it as a accident?

 

JOE: It wor accident, worn’t it? I niver did it a’purpose.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But a pit accident.

 

JOE: Well, an’ what else wor’t? It wor a h’accident I got i’ th’ pit, i’ th’ sta’ wheer I wor workin’.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But not while tha wor workin’.

 

JOE: What by that? — it wor a pit accident as I got i’ th’ stall.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But tha didna tell ‘em how it happened.

 

JOE: I said some stuff fell on my arm, an’ brok’ it. An’ worna that trew?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It wor very likely trew enough, lad, if on’y they’d ha’ believed it.

 

JOE: An they would ha’ believed it, but for Hewett bully-raggin’ Bettesworth ‘cos he knowed he was a chappil man. (He imitates the underground manager, Hewett, and Bettesworth, a butty.) “About this accident, Bettesworth. How exactly did it occur?” “I couldn’t exactly say for certing, sir, because I wasn’t linkin’.” “Then tell me as near as you can.” “Well, Mester, I’m sure I don’t know.” “That’s curious, Bettesworth — I must have a report. Do you know anything about it, or don’t you? It happened in your stall; you’re responsible for it, and I’m responsible for you.” “Well, Gaffer, what’s right’s right, I suppose, ter th’ mesters or th’ men. An’ ‘e wor conjurin’ a’ snap-time wi’ a pick-heft an’ a wringer, an’ the wringer catched ‘im ower th’ arm.” “I thought you didn’t know!” “I said for certain — I didn’t see exactly how ‘twas done.”

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Hm.

 

JOE: Bettesworth ‘ud non ha’ clat-fasted but for nosy Hewett. He says, “Yo know, Joseph, when he says to me, ‘Do you know anything about that haccident?’ — then I says to myself, ‘Take not the word of truth hutterly outer thy mouth.’“

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: If he took a bit o’ slaver outen’s mouth, it ‘ud do.

 

JOE: So this mornin’ when I went ter th’ office, Mester Salmon he com out an’ said: “‘Ow did this haccident occur, Joseph?” and I said, “Some stuff fell on’t.” So he says, “Stuff fell on’t, stuff fell on’t! You mean coal or rock or what?” So I says, “Well, it worn’t a thipenny bit.” “No,” he says, “but what was it?” “It wor a piece o’ clunch,” I says. “You don’t use clunch for wringers,” he says, “do you?” “The wringin’ of the nose bringeth forth blood,” I says —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, you know you never did. (She begins making a pudding.)

 

JOE: No — b’r I’d ha’ meant t’r’a done.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: We know thee! Tha’s done thysen one i’ th’ eye this time. When dost think tha’ll iver get ter be a butty, at this rate? There’s Luther nowt b’r a day man yet.

 

JOE: I’d as lief be a day man as a butty, i’ pits that rat-gnawed there’s hardly a stall worth havin’; an’ a company as ‘ud like yer ter scrape yer tabs afore you went home, for fear you took a grain o’ coal.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Maybe — but tha’s got ter get thy livin’ by ‘em.

 

JOE: I hanna. I s’ll go to Australia.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’lt do no such thing, while I’m o’ this earth.

 

JOE: Ah, but though, I shall — else get married, like our Luther.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: A fat sight better off tha’lt be for that.

 

JOE: You niver know, Mother, dun yer?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: You dunna, me lad — not till yer find yerself let in. Marriage is like a mouse-trap, for either man or woman. You’ve soon come to th’ end o’ th’ cheese.

 

JOE: Well, ha’ef a loaf’s better nor no bread.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, wheer’s th’ loaf as tha’d like ter gnawg a’ thy life?

 

JOE: Nay, nowhere yet.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, dunna thee talk, then. Tha’s done thysen harm enow for one day, wi’ thy tongue.

 

JOE: An’ good as well, Mother — I’ve aten my dinner, a’most.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ swilled thy belly afore that, methinks.

 

JOE: Niver i’ this world!

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: And I’ve got thee to keep on ten shillin’s a wik club-money, han I?

 

JOE: Tha needna, if ter doesna want. Besides, we s’ll be out on strike afore we know wheer we are.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I’m sure. You’ve on’y bin in —

 

JOE: Now, Mother, spit on thy hands an’ ta’e fresh hold. We s’ll be out on strike in a wik or a fortnit —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Strike’s a’ they’re fit for — a pack o’ slutherers as . . .

 

Her words tail off as she goes into pantry.

 

JOE (to himself): Tha goes chunterin’ i’ th’ pantry when somebody’s at th’ door. (Rises, goes to door.)

 

MRS PURDY’S VOICE: Is your mother in?

 

JOE: Yi, ‘er’s in right enough.

 

MRS PURDY: Well, then, can I speak to her?

 

JOE (calling): Mrs Purdy wants ter speak to thee, Mother.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE crosses the kitchen heavily, with a dripping-pan; stands in doorway.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Good afternoon.

 

MRS PURDY: Good afternoon.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Er — what is it?

 

MRS PURDY enters. She is a little fat, red-faced body in bonnet and black cape.

 

MRS PURDY: I wanted to speak to yer rather pertickler.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (giving way): Oh, yes?

 

ALL THREE enter the kitchen. MRS PURDY stands near the door.

 

MRS PURDY (nodding at JOE): Has he had a haccident?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Broke his arm.

 

MRS PURDY: Oh my! that’s nasty. When did ‘e do that?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: A wik sin’ to-day.

 

MRS PURDY: In th’ pit?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Yes — an’s not goin’ to get any accident pay — says as ‘e worn’t workin’; he wor foolin’ about.

 

MRS PURDY: T-t-t-t! Did iver you know! I tell you what, missis, it’s a wonder they let us live on the face o’ the earth at all — it’s a wonder we don’t have to fly up i’ th’ air like birds.

 

JOE: There’d be a squark i’ th’ sky then!

 

MRS PURDY: But it is indeed. It’s somethink awful. They’ve gave my mester a dirty job o’ nights, at a guinea a week, an’ he’s worked fifty years for th’ company, an’ isn’t but sixty-two now — said he wasn’t equal to stall-workin’, whereas he has to slave on th’ roads an’ comes whoam that tired he can’t put’s food in’s mouth.

 

JOE: He’s about like me.

 

MRS PURDY: Yis. But it’s no nice thing, a guinea a week.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, that’s how they’re servin’ ‘em a’ round — widders’ coals stopped — leadin’ raised to four-an’-eight — an’ ivry man niggled down to nothink.

 

MRS PURDY: I wish I’d got that Fraser strung up by th’ heels — I’d ma’e his sides o’ bacon rowdy.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: He’s put a new manager to ivry pit, an’ ivry one a nigger-driver.

 

MRS PURDY: Says he’s got to economise — says the company’s not a philanthropic concern —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But ta’es twelve hundred a year for hissen.

 

MRS PURDY: A mangy bachelor wi’ ‘is iron-men.

 

JOE: But they wunna work.

 

MRS PURDY: They say how he did but coss an’ swear about them American Cutters. I should like to see one set outer ‘im — they’d work hard enough rippin’s guts out — even iron’s got enough sense for that. (She suddenly subsides.)

 

There is a pause.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: How do you like living down Nethergreen?

 

MRS PURDY: Well — we’re very comfortable. It’s small, but it’s handy, an’ sin’ the mester’s gone down t’a guinea —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It’ll do for you three.

 

MRS PURDY: Yes.

 

Another pause.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: The men are comin’ out again, they say.

 

MRS PURDY: Isn’t it summat sickenin’? Well, I’ve werritted an’ werritted till I’m soul-sick —

 

JOE: It sends yer that thin an’ threadbare, y’have ter stop sometime.

 

MRS PURDY: There can be as much ache in a motherly body as in bones an’ gristle, I’m sure o’ that.

 

JOE: Nay, I’m more than bones an’ gristle.

 

MRS PURDY: That’s true as the day.

 

Another long pause.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ how have yer all bin keepin’?

 

MRS PURDY: Oh, very nicely — except our Bertha.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Is she poorly, then?

 

MRS PURDY: That’s what I com ter tell yer. I niver knowed a word on’t till a Sat’day, nor niver noticed a thing. Then she says to me, as white as a sheet, “I’ve been sick every morning, Mother,” an’ it com across me like a shot from a gun. I sunk down i’ that chair an’ couldna fetch a breath. — An’ me as prided myself! I’ve often laughed about it, an’ said I was thankful my children had all turned out so well, lads an’ wenches as well, an’ said it was a’cause they was all got of a Sunday — their father was too drunk a’ Saturday, an’ too tired o’ wik-days. An’ it’s a fact, they’ve all turned out well, for I’d allers bin to chappil. Well, I’ve said it for a joke, but now it’s turned on me. I’d better ha’ kep’ my tongue still.

 

JOE: It’s not me, though, missis. I wish it wor.

 

MRS PURDY: There’s no occasions to ma’e gam’ of it neither, as far as I can see. The youngest an’ the last of ‘em as I’ve got, an’ a lass as I liked, for she’s simple, but she’s good-natured, an’ him a married man. Thinks I to myself, “I’d better go to’s mother, she’ll ha’e more about ‘er than’s new wife — for she’s a stuck-up piece o’ goods as ever trod.”

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, what d’yer mean?

 

MRS PURDY: I mean what I say — an’ there’s no denyin’ it. That girl — well, it’s nigh on breakin’ my heart, for I’m that short o’ breath. (Sighs.) I’m sure!

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why don’t yer say what yer mean?

 

MRS PURDY: I’ve said it, haven’t I? There’s my gal gone four month wi’ childt to your Luther.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nay, nay, nay, missis! You’ll never ma’e me believe it.

 

MRS PURDY: Glad would I be if I nedna. But I’ve gone through it all since Sat’day on. I’ve wanted to break every bone in ‘er body — an’ I’ve said I should on’y be happy if I was scraightin’ at ‘er funeral — an’ I’ve said I’d wring his neck for ‘im. But it doesn’t alter it — there it is — an’ there it will be. An’ I s’ll be a grandmother where my heart heaves, an’ maun drag a wastrel baby through my old age. An’ it’s neither a cryin’ nor a laughin’ matter, but it’s a matter of a girl wi’ child, an’ a man six week married.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But our Luther never went wi’ your Bertha. How d’you make it out?

 

MRS PURDY: Yea, yea, missis — yea indeed.

 

JOE: Yi, Mother, he’s bin out wi’ ‘er. She wor pals wi’ Liza Ann Varley, as went out wi’ Jim Horrocks. So Jim he passed Bertha onter our Luther. Why, I’ve had many a glass wi’ the four of ‘em, i’ “Th’ Ram”.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I niver knowed nowt o’ this afore.

 

JOE: Tha doesna know ivrythink, Mother.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ it’s well I don’t, methinks.

 

JOE: Tha doesna want, neither.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I dunno what we’re goin’ to do, missis. He’s a young married man.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ she’s a girl o’ mine.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: How old is she?

 

MRS PURDY: She wor twenty-three last September.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well then, I sh’d ‘a thought she’d ha’ known better.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ what about him, missis, as goes and gets married t’r another fine madam d’rectly after he’s been wi’ my long lass?

 

JOE: But he never knowed owt about.

 

MRS PURDY: He’d seen th’ blossom i’ flower, if he hadna spotted the fruit a-comin’.

 

JOE: Yi — but —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi but what?

 

JOE: Well — you dunna expect — ivry time yer cast yer bread on th’ wathers, as it’ll come whoam to you like.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I dunno what we’re goin’ to do.

 

MRS PURDY: I thought I’d better come to you, rather than —

 

JOE: Ah, you non want it gettin’ about — an’ she’d best not know — if it can be helped.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I can’t see for why.

 

MRS PURDY: No indeed — a man as plays fast an’ loose first wi’ one an’ then goes an’ marries another stuck-up piece . . .

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ a wench as goes sittin’ i’ “Th’ Ram” wi th’ fellers mun expect what she gets, missis.

 

MRS PURDY: ‘Appen so, ‘appen so. An’ th’ man maun abide by what he’s gi’en.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I dunno what we’re goin’ to do!

 

JOE: We’d best keep it as quiet as we can.

 

MRS PURDY: I thinks to mysen, “It’ll non become me to go an’ jack up a married couple, for if he’s at fault, it’s her as ‘ud ha’e ter suffer.” An’ though she’s haughty, I knowed her mother, as nice a body as ever stept, an’ treated scandylos by Jim Hetherington. An’, thinks I, she’s a horphan, if she’s got money, an’ nobbut her husband i’ th’ world. Thinks I to mysen it’s no good visitin’ it on ‘er head, if he’s a villain. For whatever th’ men does, th’ women maun ma’e up for. An’ though I do consider as it’s nowt b’r a dirty trick o’ his’n to ta’e a poor lass like my long thing, an’ go an’ marry a woman wi’ money —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Woman wi’ money, an’ peace go wi’ ‘er, ‘er an’ ‘er money! What she’s got, she’ll keep, you take my word for it, missis.

 

MRS PURDY: Yes, an’ she’s right of it.

 

JOE: Nay, Mother, she’s non close.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Isn’t she? — oh, isn’t she? An’ what is she then? All she wanted was as much for her money as she could get. An’ when she fun as nob’dy was for sale but our Luther, she says, “Well, I’ll take it.”

 

JOE: Nay, it worna like that — it wor him as wor that come-day-go-day —

 

MRS PURDY: God send Sunday.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ what more canna man do, think yer, but ax a woman? When has thee ever done as much?

 

JOE: No, I hanna, ‘cos I’ve niver seen th’ woman as I wanted to say “snap” — but he slormed an’ she —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Slormed! Thee slorm but one fiftieth part to any lass thee likes, an’ see if ‘er’s not all over thee afore tha’s said six words. Slormed! ‘Er wor that high an’ mighty, ‘er wanted summat bett’nor ‘im.

 

JOE: Nay — I reckon he niver showed the spunk of a sprat-herring to ‘er.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Did thee show any more? Hast iver done? Yet onybody ‘ud think tha wor for marryin’ ‘er thysen.

 

JOE: If I’d ha’ bin for marryin’ ‘er, I’d ha’ gone wholesale, not ha’ fudged and haffled.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But tha worna for marryin’ neither ‘er nor nobody.

 

JOE: No, I worna.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: No, tha worna.

 

There is a long pause. The mother turns half apologetically, half explanatorily, to MRS PURDY.

 

It’s like this ‘ere, missis, if you’ll not say nothink about it — sin’ it’s got to come out atween us. He courted Minnie Hetherington when she wor at her uncle’s, at th’ “Bell o’ Brass”, an’ he wor nowt bu’r a lad o’ twenty-two, an’ she twenty-one. An’ he wor gone on ‘er right enow. Then she had that row wi’ ‘er uncle, for she wor iver overbearin’ an’ chancy. Then our Luther says to me, “I s’ll ax ‘er to marry me, Mother,” an’ I says: “Tha pleases thysen, but ter my thinkin’ tha’rt a sight too young an’ doesna know thy own mind.” Howsoever, much notice ‘e takes o’ me.

 

JOE: He took a lot o’ notice on thee, tha knows well enough.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ for what shouldn’t he? Hadn’t I bin a good mother to ‘im i’ ivry shape an’ form? Let her make him as good a wife as I made him a mother! Well — we’ll see. You’ll see him repent the day. But they’re not to be bidden. An’ so, missis, he did ax ‘er, as ‘e’d said ‘e should. But hoity-toity an’ no thank yer, she wasna for havin’ him, but mun go an’ be a nursery governess up i’ Manchester. Thinks I to myself, she’s after a town johnny, a Bertie-Willie an’ a yard o’ cuffs. But he kep’ on writin’ to ‘er, now an’ again — an’ she answered — as if she wor standin’ at top of a flight of steps —

 

JOE: An’ ‘appen on’y wanted fetchin’ down.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Wi’ a kick from behint, if I’d ha’ had th’ doin’ o’t. So they go mornin’ on. He sees ‘er once i’ a blew moon. If he goes ter Manchester, she condescends to see him for a couple of hours. If she comes here, she ca’s i’ this house wi’ a “how-do-you-do, Mrs Gascoigne”, an’ off again. If they go f’r a walk . . .

 

JOE: He’s whoam again at nine o’clock.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: If they go for a walk it’s “Thank you, I mustn’t be very late. Good night, Luther.” I thought it ud niver come ter nothink. Then ‘er uncle dies an’ leaves her a hundred pounds, which considerin’ th’ way she’d been with ‘im, was more than I’d ha’ gen her — an’ she was a bit nicer. She writes ter Luther ter come an’ see ‘er an’ stop a couple o’ days. He ta’es her to the the-etter, an’s for goin’ i’ th’ pit at a shillin’, when she says: “It’s my treat, Luther, and five shillin’ seats apiece, if you please.”

 

JOE: An’ he couldna luik at th’ performance, for fear as the folks was luikin’ at ‘im.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ after th’ the-etter, it must be supper wi’ a man i’ a tail-coat an’ silver forks, an’ she pays. “Yes,” says I when he told me, “that’s the tricks of servants, showin’ off afore decent folk.”

 

JOE: She could do what she liked, couldn’t she?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, an’ after that, he didna write, ‘cept to say thank yer. For it put ‘im in a horkard position. That wor four years ago, an’ she’s nobbut seen him three times sin’ that. If she could but ha’ snapped up somebody else, it ‘ud bin good-bye to Luther —

 

JOE: As tha told him many a time.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: As I told him many a time, for am I to sit an’ see my own lad bitted an’ bobbed, tasted an’ spit out by a madam i’ service? Then all of a suddin, three months back, come a letter: “Dear Luther, I have been thinking it over, an’ have come to the opinion that we’d better get married now, if we are ever goin’ to. We’ve been dallying on all these years, and we seem to get no further. So we’d better make the plunge, if ever we’re going to. Of course you will say exactly what you think. Don’t agree to anything unless you want to. I only want to say that I think, if we’re ever going to be married, we’d better do it without waiting any longer.” Well, missis, he got that letter when he com whoam fra work. I seed him porin’ an’ porin’, but I says nowt. Then he ate some o’s dinner, and went out. When he com in, it wor about haef past ten, an’ ‘e wor white as a sheet. He gen me that letter, an’ says: “What’s think o’ that, Mother?” Well, you could ha’ knocked me down wi’ a feather when I’d read it. I says: “I think it’s tidy cheek, my lad.” He took it back an’ puts ‘s pocket, an’ after a bit, ‘e says: “What should ter say, Mother?” “Tha says what’s a mind, my lad,” I says. So he begins unlacin’ ‘s boots. Sudden he stops, an’ wi’s boot-tags rattlin’, goes rummagin’ for th’ pen an’ ink. “What art goin’ to say?” I says. “I’m goin’ ter say, ‘er can do as ‘er’s a mind. If ‘er wants ter be married, ‘er can, an’ if ‘er doesna, ‘er nedna.” So I thinks we could leave it at that. He sits him down, an’ doesna write more nor a side an’ a haef. I thinks: “That’s done it, it’ll be an end between them two now.” He niver gen th’ letter to me to read.

 

JOE: He did to me. He says: “I’m ready an’ willin’ to do what you want, whenever yer want. I’m earnin’ about thirty-five bob a week, an’ haven’t got any money because my mother gi’es me what I ax for ter spend. But I can have what I ask for to set up house with. Your loving — Luther.” He says to me: “Dost think it’s a’right?” I says: “I s’d think so; ‘er maun ma’e what ‘er likes out on’t.”

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: On th’ Monday after, she wor here livin’ at ‘er A’nt’s an’ th’ notice was in at th’ registrar. I says: “What money dost want?” He says: “Thee buy what tha thinks we s’ll want.” So he tells Minnie, an’ she says: “Not bi-out I’m theer.” Well, we goes ter Nottingham, an’ she will ha’e nowt b’r old-fashioned stuff. I says: “That’s niver my mind, Minnie.” She says: “Well, I like it, an’ yo’ll see it’ll look nice. I’ll pay for it.” Which to be sure I never let her. For she’d had a mester as made a fool of her, tellin’ her this an’ that, what wor good taste, what wor bad.

 

JOE: An’ it does look nice, Mother, their house.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: We’ll see how it looks i’ ten years’ time, my lad, wi’ th’ racket an’ tacket o’ children. For it’s not serviceable, missis.

 

MRS PURDY (who has been a sympathetic and exclamative listener): Then it’s no good.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ that’s how they got married.

 

JOE: An’ he went about wi’s tail atween his legs, scared outer’s life.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: For I said no more. If he axed me owt, I did it; if he wanted owt, I got it. But it wasn’t for me to go interferin’ where I wasn’t wanted.

 

JOE: If ever I get married, Mother, I s’ll go i’ lodgin’s six month aforehand.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’d better — ter get thysen a bit case-hardened.

 

JOE: Yi. But I’m goin’ t’r Australia.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I come withee, then.

 

JOE: Tha doesna.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I dunna fret — tha’lt non go.

 

MRS PURDY: Well, it was what I should call a bit off-hand, I must say.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: You can see now how he got married, an’ who’s to blame.

 

JOE: Nay, yo’ canna ma’e ‘er to blame for Bertha. Liza Ann Varley’s ter blame for th’ lass goin’ out o’ nights.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ there I thought they wor both i’ Varley’s — not gallivantin’.

 

JOE: They often was. An’ Jim Horrocks is ter blame fer couplin’ ‘er onter our Luther, an’ him an’ her’s ter blame for the rest. I dunno how you can lay it on Minnie. You might as well lay it on ‘er if th’ childt wor mine.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (sharply): Tha’d ha’e more sense!

 

JOE: I’d try.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But now she’s played fast an’ loose wi’ him — twice I know he axed ‘er to ha’e him — now she’s asked for what she’s got. She’s put her puddin’ in her mouth, an’ if she’s burnt herself, serve her right.

 

MRS PURDY: Well, I didn’t want to go to court. I thought, his mother’ll be th’ best one to go to —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: No — you mun go to him hisself — go an’ tell him i’ front of her — an’ if she wants anythink, she mun ma’e arrangements herself.

 

JOE: What was you thinkin’ of, Missis Purdy?

 

MRS PURDY: Well, I was thinkin’, she’s a poor lass — an’ I didn’t want ‘er to go to court, for they ax such questions — an’ I thought it was such a thing, him six wik married — though to be sure I’d no notions of how it was — I thought, we might happen say, it was one o’ them electricians as was along when they laid th’ wires under th’ road down to Batsford — and —

 

JOE: And arrange for a lump sum, like?

 

MRS PURDY: Yes — we’re poor, an’ she’s poor — an’ if she had a bit o’ money of ‘er own — for we should niver touch it — it might be a inducement to some other young feller — for, poor long thing, she’s that simple —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, ter my knowledge, them as has had a childt seems to get off i’ marriage better nor many as hasn’t. I’m sure, there’s a lot o’ men likes it, if they think a woman’s had a baby by another man.

 

MRS PURDY: That’s nothing to trust by, missis; you’ll say so yourself.

 

JOE: An’ about how much do you want? Thirty pounds?

 

MRS PURDY: We want what’s fair. I got it fra Emma Stapleton; they had forty wi’ their Lucy.

 

JOE: Forty pound?

 

MRS PURDY: Yes.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, then, let her find it. She’s paid for nothing but the wedding. She’s got money enough, if he’s none. Let her find it. She made the bargain, she maun stick by it. It was her dip i’ th’ bran-tub — if there’s a mouse nips hold of her finger, she maun suck it better, for nobody axed her to dip.

 

MRS PURDY: You think I’d better go to him? Eh, missis, it’s a nasty business. But right’s right.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Right is right, Mrs Purdy. And you go tell him a-front of her — that’s the best thing you can do. Then iverything’s straight.

 

MRS PURDY: But for her he might ha’ married our Bertha.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: To be sure, to be sure.

 

MRS PURDY: What right had she to snatch when it pleased her?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: That’s what I say. If th’ woman ca’s for th’ piper, th’ woman maun pay th’ tune.

 

MRS PURDY: Not but what —

 

JOE: It’s a nasty business.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nasty or not, it’s hers now, not mine. He’s her husband. “My son’s my son till he takes him a wife,” an’ no longer. Now let her answer for it.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ you think I’d better go when they’re both in?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I should go to-night, atween six an’ seven, that’s what I should do.

 

JOE: I never should. If I was you, I’d settle it wi’out Minnie’s knowin’ — it’s bad enough.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What’s bad enough?

 

JOE: Why, that.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What?

 

JOE: Him an’ ‘er — it’s bad enough as it is.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (with great bitterness): Then let it be a bit worse, let it be a bit worse. Let her have it, then; it’ll do her good. Who is she, to trample eggs that another hen would sit warm? No — Mrs Purdy, give it her. It’ll take her down a peg or two, and, my sirs, she wants it, my sirs, she needs it!

 

JOE (muttering): A fat lot o’ good it’ll do.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What has thee ter say, I should like to know? Fed an’ clothed an’ coddled, tha art, an’ not a thing tha lacks. But wait till I’m gone, my lad; tha’lt know what I’ve done for thee, then, tha will.

 

JOE: For a’ that, it’s no good ‘er knowin’.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Isna it? — isna it? If it’s not good for ‘er, it’s good for ‘im.

 

JOE: I dunna believe it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Who asked thee to believe it? Tha’s showed thysen a wise man this day, hasn’t ter? Wheer should ter be terday but for me? Wheer should ter iver ha’ bin? An’ then tha sits up for to talk. It ud look better o’ thee not to spit i’ th’ hand as holds thy bread an’ butter.

 

JOE: Neither do I.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Doesn’t ter! Tha has a bit too much chelp an’ chunter. It doesna go well, my lad. Tha wor blortin’ an’ bletherin’ down at th’ office a bit sin’, an’ a mighty fool tha made o’ thysen. How should thee like to go home wi’ thy tale o’ to-day, to Minnie, might I ax thee?

 

JOE: If she didna like it, she could lump it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It ‘ud be thee as ‘ud lump, my lad. But what does thee know about it? ‘Er’s rip th’ guts out on thee like a tiger, an’ stan’ grinnin’ at thee when tha shrivelled up ‘cause tha’d no inside left.

 

MRS PURDY: She looks it, I must admit — every bit of it.

 

JOE: For a’ that, it’s no good her knowing.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I say it is — an’ thee, tha shiftly little know-all, as blorts at one minute like a suckin’ calf an’ th’ next blethers like a hass, dunna thee come layin’ th’ law down to me, for I know better. No, Mrs Purdy, it’s no good comin’ to me. You’ve a right to some compensation, an’ that lass o’ yours has; but let them as cooked the goose eat it, that’s all. Let him arrange it hisself — an’ if he does nothink, put him i’ court, that’s all.

 

MRS PURDY: He’s not goin’ scot-free, you may back your life o’ that.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: You go down to-night atween six an’ seven, an’ let ‘em have it straight. You know where they live?

 

MRS PURDY: I’ Simson Street?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: About four houses up — next Holbrooks.

 

MRS PURDY (rising): Yes.

 

JOE: An’ it’ll do no good. Gie me th’ money, Mother; I’ll pay it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha wunna!

 

JOE: I’ve a right to th’ money — I’ve addled it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: A’ right — an’ I’ve saved it for thee. But tha has none on’t till tha knocks me down an’ ta’es it out o’ my pocket.

 

MRS PURDY: No — let them pay themselves. It’s not thy childt, is it?

 

JOE: It isna — but the money is.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: We’ll see.

 

MRS PURDY: Well, I mun get back. Thank yer, missis.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: And thank you! I’ll come down to-morrow — at dark hour.

 

MRS PURDY: Thank yer. — I hope yer arm’ll soon be better.

 

JOE: Thank yer.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ll come down to-morrow. You’ll go to-night — atween six an’ seven?

 

MRS PURDY: Yes — if it mun be done, it mun. He took his own way, she took hers, now I mun take mine. Well, good afternoon. I mun see about th’ mester’s dinner.

 

JOE: And you haven’t said nothink to nobody?

 

MRS PURDY: I haven’t — I shouldn’t be flig, should I?

 

JOE: No — I should keep it quiet as long’s you can.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: There’s no need for a’ th’ world to know — but them as is concerned maun abide by it.

 

MRS PURDY: Well, good afternoon.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Good afternoon.

 

JOE: Good afternoon.

 

Exit MRS PURDY.

 

Well, that’s a winder!

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Serve her right, for tip-callin’ wi’m all those years.

 

JOE: She niver ought to know.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I — I could fetch thee a wipe ower th’ face, I could!

 

He sulks. She is in a rage.

 

 

 

 

SCENE II

 

 

 

    The kitchen of LUTHER GASCOIGNE’S new home.

 

    It is pretty — in “cottage” style; rush-bottomed chairs, black oak-bureau, brass candlesticks, delft, etc. Green cushions in chairs. Towards five o’clock. Firelight. It is growing dark.

 

    MINNIE GASCOIGNE is busy about the fire: a tall, good-looking young woman, in a shirt-blouse and dark skirt, and apron. She lifts lids of saucepans, etc., hovers impatiently, looks at clock, begins to trim lamp.

 

 

 

MINNIE: I wish he’d come. If I didn’t want him, he’d be here half-an-hour since. But just because I’ve got a pudding that wants eating on the tick . . . ! He — he’s never up to the cratch; he never is. As if the day wasn’t long enough!

 

Sound of footsteps. She seizes a saucepan, and is rushing towards the door. The latch has clacked. LUTHER appears in the doorway, in his pit-dirt — a collier of medium height, with fair moustache. He has a red scarf knotted round his throat, and a cap with a Union medal. The two almost collide.

 

LUTHER: My word, you’re on the hop!

 

MINNIE (disappearing into scullery): You nearly made me drop the saucepan. Why are you so late?

 

LUTHER: I’m non late, am I?

 

MINNIE: You’re twenty minutes later than yesterday.

 

LUTHER: Oh ah, I stopped finishing a stint, an’ com up wi’ a’most th’ last batch.

 

He takes a tin bottle and a dirty calico snap-bag out of his pocket, puts them on the bureau; goes into the scullery.

 

MINNIE’S VOICE: No!

 

She comes hurrying out with the saucepan. In a moment, LUTHER follows. He has taken off his coat and cap, his heavy trousers are belted round his hips, his arms are bare to above the elbow, because the pit-singlet of thick flannel is almost sleeveless.

 

LUTHER: Tha art throng!

 

MINNIE (at the fire, flushed): Yes, and everything’s ready, and will be spoiled.

 

LUTHER: Then we’d better eat it afore I wash me.

 

MINNIE: No — no — it’s not nice —

 

LUTHER: Just as ter’s a mind — but there’s scarce a collier in a thousand washes hissen afore he has his dinner. We niver did a-whoam.

 

MINNIE: But it doesn’t look nice.

 

LUTHER: Eh, wench, tha’lt soon get used ter th’ looks on me. A bit o’ dirt’s like a veil on my face — I shine through th’ ‘andsomer. What hast got? (He peers over her range.)

 

MINNIE (waving a fork): You’re not to look.

 

LUTHER: It smells good.

 

MINNIE: Are you going to have your dinner like that?

 

LUTHER: Ay, lass — just for once.

 

He spreads a newspaper in one of the green-cushioned armchairs and sits down. She disappears into the scullery with a saucepan. He takes off his great pit-boots. She sets a soup-tureen on the table, and lights the lamp. He watches her face in the glow.

 

Tha’rt non bad-luikin’ when ter’s a mind.

 

MINNIE: When have I a mind?

 

LUTHER: Tha’s allers a mind — but when ter lights th’ lamp tha’rt i’ luck’s way.

 

MINNIE: Come on, then.

 

He drags his chair to the table.

 

LUTHER: I s’ll ha’e ter ha’e a newspaper afront on me, or thy cloth’ll be a blackymoor. (Begins disarranging the pots.)

 

MINNIE: Oh, you are a nuisance! (Jumps up.)

 

LUTHER: I can put ‘em a’ back again.

 

MINNIE: I know your puttings back.

 

LUTHER: Tha couldna get married by thysen, could ter? — so tha’lt ha’e ter ma’e th’ best on me.

 

MINNIE: But you’re such a bother — never here at the right time — never doing the right thing —

 

LUTHER: An’ my mouth’s ter wide an’ my head’s ter narrow. Shalt iver ha’ come ter th’ end of my faults an’ failin’s?

 

MINNIE (giving him soup): I wish I could.

 

LUTHER: An’ now tha’lt snap mu head off ‘cos I slobber, shanna tha?

 

MINNIE: Then don’t slobber.

 

LUTHER: I’ll try my luck. What hast bin doin’ a’ day?

 

MINNIE: Working.

 

LUTHER: Has our Joe bin in?

 

MINNIE: No. I rather thought he might, but he hasn’t.

 

LUTHER: You’ve not been up home?

 

MINNIE: To your mother’s? No, what should I go there for?

 

LUTHER: Eh, I dunno what ter should go for — I thought tha ‘appen might.

 

MINNIE: But what for?

 

LUTHER: Nay — I niver thowt nowt about what for.

 

MINNIE: Then why did you ask me?

 

LUTHER: I dunno. (A pause.)

 

MINNIE: Your mother can come here, can’t she?

 

LUTHER: Ay, she can come. Tha’ll be goin’ up wi’ me to-night — I want ter go an’ see about our Joe.

 

MINNIE: What about him?

 

LUTHER: How he went on about’s club money. Shall ter come wi’ me?

 

MINNIE: I wanted to do my curtains.

 

LUTHER: But tha’s got a’ day to do them in.

 

MINNIE: But I want to do them to-night — I feel like it.

 

LUTHER: A’ right. — I shanna be long, at any rate.

 

(A pause.)

 

What dost keep lookin’ at?

 

MINNIE: How?

 

LUTHER: Tha keeps thy eye on me rarely.

 

MINNIE (laughing): It’s your mouth — it looks so red and bright, in your black face.

 

LUTHER: Does it look nasty to thee?

 

MINNIE: No — no-o.

 

LUTHER (pushing his moustache, laughing): It ma’es you look like a nigger, i’ your pit-dirt — th’ whites o’ your eyes!

 

MINNIE: Just.

 

She gets up to take his plate; goes and stands beside him. He lifts his face to her.

 

I want to see if I can see you; you look so different.

 

LUTHER: Tha can see me well enough. Why dost want to?

 

MINNIE: It’s almost like having a stranger.

 

LUTHER: Would ter rather?

 

MINNIE: What?

 

LUTHER: Ha’e a stranger?

 

MINNIE: What for?

 

LUTHER: Hao — I dunno.

 

MINNIE (touching his hair): You look rather nice — an’ your hair’s so dirty.

 

LUTHER: Gi’e me a kiss.

 

MINNIE: But where? You’re all grime.

 

LUTHER: I’m sure I’ve licked my mouth clean.

 

MINNIE (stooping suddenly, and kissing him): You don’t look nearly such a tame rabbit, in your pit-dirt.

 

LUTHER (catching her in his arms): Dunna I? (Kisses her.) What colour is my eyes?

 

MINNIE: Bluey-grey.

 

LUTHER: An’ thine’s grey an’ black.

 

MINNIE: Mind! (She looks at her blouse when he releases her.)

 

LUTHER (timid): Have I blacked it?

 

MINNIE: A bit.

 

She goes to the scullery; returns with another dish.

 

LUTHER: They talkin’ about comin’ out again

 

MINNIE (returning): Good laws! — they’ve no need.

 

LUTHER: They are, though.

 

MINNIE: It’s a holiday they want.

 

LUTHER: Nay, it isna. They want th’ proper scale here, just as they ha’e it ivrywhere else.

 

MINNIE: But if the seams are thin, and the company can’t afford.

 

LUTHER: They can afford a’ this gret new electric plant; they can afford to build new houses for managers, an’ ter give blo — ter give Frazer twelve hundred a year.

 

MINNIE: If they want a good manager to make the pits pay, they have to give him a good salary.

 

LUTHER: So’s he can clip down our wages.

 

MINNIE: Why, what are yours clipped down?

 

LUTHER: Mine isn’t, but there’s plenty as is.

 

MINNIE: And will this strike make a butty of you?

 

LUTHER: You don’t strike to get made a butty on.

 

MINNIE: Then how do you do it? You’re thirty-one.

 

LUTHER: An’ there’s many as owd as me as is day-men yet.

 

MINNIE: But there’s more that aren’t, that are butties.

 

LUTHER: Ay, they’ve had luck.

 

MINNIE: Luck! You mean they’ve had some go in them.

 

LUTHER: Why, what can I do more than I am doin’?

 

MINNIE: It isn’t what you do, it’s how you do it. Sluther through any job; get to th’ end of it, no matter how. That’s you.

 

LUTHER: I hole a stint as well as any man.

 

MINNIE: Then I back it takes you twice as long.

 

LUTHER: Nay, nor that neither.

 

MINNIE: I know you’re not much of a workman — I’ve heard it from other butties, that you never put your heart into anything.

 

LUTHER: Who hast heard it fra?

 

MINNIE: From those that know. And I could ha’ told it them, for I know you. You’ll be a day-man at seven shillings a day till the end of your life — and you’ll be satisfied, so long as you can shilly-shally through. That’s what your mother did for you — mardin’ you up till you were all mard-soft.

 

LUTHER: Tha’s got a lot ter say a’ of a suddin. Thee shut thy mouth.

 

MINNIE: You’ve been dragged round at your mother’s apron-strings, all the lot of you, till there isn’t half a man among you.

 

LUTHER: Tha seems fond enough of our Joe.

 

MINNIE: He is th’ best in the bunch.

 

LUTHER: Tha should ha’ married him, then.

 

MINNIE: I shouldn’t have had to ask him, if he was ready.

 

LUTHER: I’d axed thee twice afore — tha knowed tha could ha’e it when ter wanted.

 

MINNIE: Axed me! It was like asking me to pull out a tooth for you.

 

LUTHER: Yi, an’ it felt like it

 

MINNIE: What?

 

LUTHER: Axin’ thee to marry me. I’m blessed if it didna feel like axin’ the doctor to pull ten teeth out of a stroke.

 

MINNIE: And then you expect me to have you!

 

LUTHER: Well, tha has done, whether or not.

 

MINNIE: I — yes, I had to fetch you, like a mother fetches a kid from school. A pretty sight you looked. Didn’t your mother give you a ha’penny to spend, to get you to go?

 

LUTHER: No; she spent it for me.

 

MINNIE: She would! She wouldn’t even let you spend your own ha’penny. You’d have lost it, or let somebody take it from you.

 

LUTHER: Yi. Thee.

 

MINNIE: Me! — me take anything from you! Why, you’ve got nothing worth having.

 

LUTHER: I dunno — tha seems ter think so sometimes.

 

MINNIE: Oh! Shilly-shally and crawl, that’s all you can do. You ought to have stopped with your mother.

 

LUTHER: I should ha’ done, if tha hadna hawksed me out.

 

MINNIE: You aren’t fit for a woman to have married, you’re not.

 

LUTHER: Then why did thee marry me? It wor thy doin’s.

 

MINNIE: Because I could get nobody better.

 

LUTHER: I’m more class than I thought for, then.

 

MINNIE: Are you! Are you!

 

JOE’S voice is heard.

 

JOE: I’m comin’ in, you two, so stop snaggin’ an’ snarlin’.

 

LUTHER: Come in; ‘er’ll ‘appen turn ‘er tap on thee.

 

JOE enters.

 

JOE: Are you eatin’ yet?

 

LUTHER: Ay — it ta’es ‘er that long ter tell my sins. Tha’s just come right for puddin’. Get thee a plate outer t’cupboard — an’ a spoon outer t’basket.

 

JOE (at the cupboard): You’ve got ivrythink tip-top. What should ter do if I broke thee a plate, Minnie?

 

MINNIE: I should break another over your head.

 

He deliberately drops and smashes a plate. She flushes crimson.

 

LUTHER: Well, I’m glad it worna me.

 

JOE: I’m that clumsy wi’ my left ‘and, Minnie! Why doesna ter break another ower my head?

 

LUTHER (rising and putting pudding on a plate): Here, ta’e this an’ sit thee down.

 

His brother seats himself.

 

Hold thy knees straight, an’ for God’s sake dunna thee break this. Can ter manage?

 

JOE: I reckon so. If I canna, Minnie’ll feed me wi’ a spoon. Shonna ter?

 

MINNIE: Why did you break my plate?

 

JOE: Nay, I didna break it — it wor the floor.

 

MINNIE: You did it on purpose.

 

JOE: How could I? I didn’t say ter th’ floor: “Break thou this plate, O floor!”

 

MINNIE: You have no right.

 

JOE (addressing the floor): Tha’d no right to break that plate — dost hear? I’d a good mind ter drop a bit o’ puddin’ on thy face.

 

He balances the spoon; the plate slides down from his knee, smash into the fender.

 

MINNIE (screams): It’s my best service! (Begins to sob.)

 

LUTHER: Nay, our Joe!

 

JOE: ‘Er’s no occasions ter scraight. I bought th’ service an’ I can get th’ plates matched. What’s her grizzlin’ about?

 

MINNIE: I shan’t ask you to get them matched.

 

JOE: Dunna thee, an’ then tha runs no risk o’ bein’ denied.

 

MINNIE: What have you come here like this for?

 

JOE: I haena come here like this. I come ter tell yer our Harriet says, would yer mind goin’ an’ tellin’ ‘er what she can do with that childt’s coat, as she’s made a’ wrong. If you’d looked slippy, I’d ha’ ta’en yer ter th’ Cinematograph after. But, dearly-beloved brethren, let us weep; these our dear departed dinner-plates . . . Come, Minnie, drop a tear as you pass by.

 

LUTHER (to MINNIE): Tha needna fret, Minnie, they can easy be matched again.

 

MINNIE: You’re just pleased to see him make a fool of me, aren’t you?

 

LUTHER: He’s non made a fool o’ thee — tha’s made a fool o’ thysen, scraightin’ an’ carryin’ on.

 

JOE: It’s a fact, Minnie. Nay, let me kiss thee better.

 

She has risen, with shut face.

 

He approaches with outstretched left arm. She swings round, fetches him a blow over his upper right arm. He bites his lip with pain.

 

LUTHER (rising): Has it hurt thee, lad? Tha shouldna fool wi’ her.

 

MINNIE watches the two brothers with tears of mortification in her eyes. Then she throws off her apron, pins on her hat, puts on her coat, and is marching out of the house.

 

LUTHER: Are you going to Harriet’s?

 

JOE: I’ll come and fetch you in time for th’ Cinematograph.

 

The door is heard to bang.

 

JOE (picking up broken fragments of plates): That’s done it.

 

LUTHER: It’s bad luck — ne’er mind. How art goin’ on?

 

JOE: Oh, alright.

 

LUTHER: What about thy club money?

 

JOE: They wunna gi’e’t me. But, I say, sorry — tha’rt for it.

 

LUTHER: Ay — I dunno what ‘er married me for, f’r it’s nowt bu’ fault she finds wi’ me, from th’ minnit I come i’ th’ house to th’ minnit I leave it.

 

JOE: Dost wish tha’d niver done it? — niver got married?

 

LUTHER (sulky): I dunno — sometimes.

 

JOE (with tragic emphasis): Then it’s the blasted devil!

 

LUTHER: I dunno — I’m married to ‘er, an’ she’s married to me, so she can pick holes i’ me as much as she likes —

 

JOE: As a rule, she’s nice enough wi’ me.

 

LUTHER: She’s nice wi’ ivrybody but me.

 

JOE: An’ dost ter care?

 

LUTHER: Ay — I do.

 

JOE: Why doesn’t ter go out an’ leave her?

 

LUTHER: I dunno.

 

JOE: By the Lord, she’d cop it if I had ‘er.

 

Pause.

 

LUTHER: I wor comin’ up to-night.

 

JOE: I thought tha would be. But there’s Mrs Purdy comin’ ter see thee.

 

LUTHER: There’s who?

 

JOE: Mrs Purdy. Didna ter ha’e a bit of a go wi’ their Bertha, just afore Minnie wrote thee?

 

LUTHER: Ay. Why?

 

JOE: ‘Er mother says she’s wi’ childt by thee. She come up ter my mother this afternoon, an’ said she wor comin’ here tonight.

 

LUTHER: Says what?

 

JOE: Says as their Bertha’s goin’ ter ha’e a child, an’ ‘er lays it on ter thee.

 

LUTHER: Oh, my good God!

 

JOE: Isna it right?

 

LUTHER: It’s right if ‘er says so.

 

JOE: Then it’s the blasted devil! (A pause.) So I come on here ter see if I could get Minnie to go up to our Harriet.

 

LUTHER: Oh, my good God!

 

JOE: I thought, if we could keep it from ‘er, we might settle summat, an’ ‘er niver know.

 

LUTHER (slowly): My God alive!

 

JOE: She said she’d hush it up, an’ lay it ont’r a electrician as laid th’ cable, an’ is gone goodness knows where — make an arrangement, for forty pound.

 

LUTHER (thoughtfully): I wish I wor struck dead.

 

JOE: Well, tha arena’, an’ so tha’d better think about it. My mother said as Minnie ought to know, but I say diff’rent, an’ if Mrs Purdy doesna tell her, nobody need.

 

LUTHER: I wish I wor struck dead. I wish a ton o’ rock ‘ud fa’ on me to-morrer.

 

JOE: It wunna for wishin’.

 

LUTHER: My good God!

 

JOE: An’ so — I’ll get thee forty quid, an’ lend it thee. When Mrs Purdy comes, tell her she shall ha’e twenty quid this day week, an’ twenty quid a year from now, if thy name’s niver been mentioned. I believe ‘er’s a clat-fart.

 

LUTHER: Me a childt by Bertha Purdy! But — but what’s that for — now there’s Minnie?

 

JOE: I dunno what it’s for, but theer it is, as I’m tellin’ thee. I’ll stop for another haef an hour, an’ if ‘er doesna come, than mun see to ‘er by thysen.

 

LUTHER: ‘Er’ll be back afore ha’ef an hour’s up. Tha mun go an’ stop ‘er . . . I — I niver meant — Look here, our Joe, I — if I — if she — if she — My God, what have I done now!

 

JOE: We can stop her from knowin’.

 

LUTHER (looking round): She’ll be comin’ back any minnit. Nay, I niver meant t’r ha’. Joe . . .

 

JOE: What?

 

LUTHER: She — she —

 

JOE: ‘Er niver ned know.

 

LUTHER: Ah, but though . . .

 

JOE: What?

 

LUTHER: I — I — I’ve done it.

 

JOE: Well, it might ha’ happened t’r anybody.

 

LUTHER: But when ‘er knows — an’ it’s me as has done it . . .

 

JOE: It wouldn’t ha’ mattered o’ anyhow, if it had bin sumb’dy else. But tha knows what ter’s got ter say. Arena’ ter goin’ ter wesh thee? Go an’ get th’ panchion.

 

LUTHER (rising): ‘Er’ll be comin’ in any minnit.

 

JOE: Get thee weshed, man.

 

LUTHER (fetching a bucket and lading-can from the scullery, and emptying water from the boiler): Go an’ ta’e ‘er somewhere, while Mrs Purdy goes, sholl ter?

 

JOE: D’rectly. Tha heered what I telled thee?

 

There is a noise of splashing in the scullery. Then a knock.

 

JOE goes to the door. He is heard saying “Come in.”

 

Enter MRS PURDY.

 

MRS PURDY: I hope I’ve not come a-mealtimes.

 

JOE: No, they’ve finished. Minnie’s gone up t’r our Harriet’s.

 

MRS PURDY: Thank the Lord for small mercies — for I didn’t fancy sittin’ an’ tellin’ her about our Bertha.

 

JOE: We dunna want ‘er ter know. Sit thee down.

 

MRS PURDY: I’m of that mind, mester, I am. As I said, what’s th’ good o’ jackin’ up a young married couple? For it won’t unmarry ‘em nor ma’e things right. An’ yet, my long lass oughtner ter bear a’ th’ brunt.

 

JOE: Well, an’ ‘er isna goin’ to.

 

MRS PURDY: Is that Mester weshin’?

 

JOE: Ah.

 

MRS PURDY: ‘As ter towd him?

 

JOE: Ah.

 

MRS PURDY: Well, it’s none o’ my wishin’s, I’m sure o’ that. Eh, dear, you’ve bin breakin’ th’ crockery a’ready!

 

JOE: Yes, that’s me, bein’ wallit.

 

MRS PURDY: T-t-t! So this is ‘ow she fancied it?

 

JOE: Ah, an’ it non luiks bad, does it?

 

MRS PURDY: Very natty. Very nice an’ natty.

 

JOE (taking up the lamp): Come an’ look at th’ parlour.

 

JOE and MRS PURDY exit R.

 

MRS PURDY’S VOICE: Yis — yis — it’s nice an’ plain. But a bit o’ red plush is ‘andsomer, to my mind. It’s th’old-fashioned style, like! My word, but them three ornyments is gaudy-lookin’.

 

JOE: An’ they reckon they’re worth five pound. ‘Er mester gen ‘em ‘er.

 

MRS PURDY: I’d rather had th’ money.

 

JOE: Ah, me an’ a’.

 

During this time, LUTHER has come hurrying out of the scullery into the kitchen, rubbing his face with a big roller-towel. He is naked to the waist. He kneels with his knees on the fender, sitting on his heels, rubbing himself. His back is not washed. He rubs his hair dry.

 

Enter JOE, with the lamp, followed by MRS PURDY.

 

MRS PURDY: It’s uncommon, very uncommon, Mester Gaskin — and looks well, too, for them as likes it. But it hardly goes wi’ my fancy, somehow, startin’ wi’ second-hand, owd-fashioned stuff. You dunno who’s sotten themselves on these ‘ere chairs, now, do you?

 

LUTHER: It ma’es no diff’rence to me who’s sot on ‘em an’ who ‘asna.

 

MRS PURDY: No — you get used to’m.

 

LUTHER (to JOE): Shall thee go up t’r our Harriet’s?

 

JOE: If ter’s a mind. (Takes up his cap. To MRS PURDY): An’ you two can settle as best you can.

 

MRS PURDY: Yes — yes. I’m not one for baulkin’ mysen an’ cuttin’ off my nose ter spite my face.

 

LUTHER has finished wiping himself. He takes a shifting shirt from the bureau, and struggles into it; then goes into the scullery.

 

JOE: An’ you sure you’ll keep it quiet, missis?

 

MRS PURDY: Am I goin’ bletherin’ up street an’ down street, think yer?

 

JOE: An’ dunna tell your Bob.

 

MRS PURDY: I’ve more sense. There’s not a word ‘e ‘ears a-whoam as is of any count, for out it ‘ud leak when he wor canned. Yes, my guyney — we know what our mester is.

 

Re-enter LUTHER, in shirt and black trousers. He drops his pit-trousers and singlet beside the hearth.

 

MRS PURDY bends down and opens his pit-trousers.

 

MRS PURDY: Nay, if ter drops ‘em of a heap, they niver goin’ ter get dry an’ cosy. Tha sweats o’ th’ hips, as my lads did.

 

LUTHER: Well, go thy ways, Joe.

 

JOE: Ay — well — good luck. An’ good night, Mrs Purdy.

 

MRS PURDY: Good night.

 

Exit JOE.

 

There are several moments of silence.

 

LUTHER puts the broken pots on the table.

 

MRS PURDY: It’s sad work, Mester Gaskin, f’r a’ on us.

 

LUTHER: Ay.

 

MRS PURDY: I left that long lass o’ mine fair gaunt, fair chalked of a line, I did, poor thing. Not bu’ what ‘er should ‘a ‘ad more sense.

 

LUTHER: Ah!

 

MRS PURDY: But it’s no use throwin’ good words after bad deeds. Not but what it’s a nasty thing for yer t’r ‘a done, it is — an’ yer can scarce look your missis i’ th’ face again, I should think. (Pause.) But I says t’r our Bertha, “It’s his’n, an’ he mun pay!” Eh, but how ‘er did but scraight an’ cry. It fair turned me ower. “Dunna go to ‘m, Mother,” ‘er says, “dunna go to ‘m for to tell him!” “Yi,” I says, “right’s right — tha doesna get off wi’ nowt, nor shall ‘e neither. ‘E wor but a scamp to do such a thing,” I says, yes, I did. For you was older nor ‘er. Not but what she was old enough ter ha’e more sense. But ‘er wor allers one o’ th’ come-day go-day sort, as ‘ud gi’e th’ clothes off ‘er back an’ niver know ‘er wor nek’d — a gra’t soft looney as she is, an’ serves ‘er right for bein’ such a gaby. Yi, an’ I believe ‘er wor fond on thee — if a wench can be fond of a married man. For one blessing, ‘er doesna know what ‘er wor an’ what ‘er worn’t. For they mau talk o’ bein’ i’ love — but you non in love wi’ onybody, wi’out they’s a chance o’ their marryin’ you — howiver much you may like ‘em. An’ I’m thinkin’, th’ childt’ll set ‘er up again when it comes, for ‘er’s gone that wezzel-brained an’ doited, I’m sure! An’ it’s a mort o’ trouble for me, mester, a sight o’ trouble it is. Not as I s’ll be hard on ‘er. She knowed I wor comin’ ‘ere to-night, an’s not spoke a word for hours. I left ‘er sittin’ on th’ sofey hangin’ ‘er ‘ead. But it’s a weary business, mester, an’ nowt ter be proud on. I s’d think tha wishes tha’d niver clapt eyes on our Bertha.

 

LUTHER (thinking hard): I dunna — I dunna. An’ I dunna wish as I’d niver seen ‘er, no, I dunna. ‘Er liked me, an’ I liked ‘er.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ ‘appen, but for this ‘ere marriage o’ thine, tha’d ‘a married ‘er.

 

LUTHER: Ah, I should. F’r ‘er liked me, an’ ‘er worna neither nice nor near, nor owt else, an’ ‘er’d bin fond o’ me.

 

MRS PURDY: ‘Er would, an’ it’s a thousand pities. But what’s done’s done.

 

LUTHER: Ah, I know that.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ as for yer missis —

 

LUTHER: ‘Er mun do as ‘er likes.

 

MRS PURDY: But tha’rt not for tellin’ ‘er?

 

LUTHER: ‘Er — ’er’ll know some time or other.

 

MRS PURDY: Nay, nay, ‘er nedna. You married now, lad, an’ you canna please yoursen.

 

LUTHER: It’s a fact.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ Lizzy Stapleton, she had forty pound wi’ ‘er lad, an’ it’s not as if you hadn’t got money. An’ to be sure, we’ve none.

 

LUTHER: No, an’ I’ve none.

 

MRS PURDY: Yes, you’ve some atween you — an’ — well . . .

 

LUTHER: I can get some.

 

MRS PURDY: Then what do you say?

 

LUTHER: I say as Bertha’s welcome t’r any forty pounds, if I’d got it. For — for — missis, she wor better to me than iver my wife’s bin.

 

MRS PURDY (frightened by his rage): Niver, lad!

 

LUTHER: She wor — ah but though she wor. She thought a lot on me.

 

MRS PURDY: An’ so I’m sure your missis does. She naggles thy heart out, maybe. But that’s just the wrigglin’ a place out for hersen. She’ll settle down comfortable, lad.

 

LUTHER (bitterly): Will she!

 

MRS PURDY: Yi — yi. An’ tha’s done ‘er a crewel wrong, my lad. An’ tha’s done my gel one as well. For, though she was old enough to know better, yet she’s good-hearted and trusting, an’ ‘ud gi’e ‘er shoes off ‘er feet. An’ tha’s landed ‘er, tha knows. For it’s not th’ bad women as ‘as bastards nowadays — they’ve a sight too much gumption. It’s fools like our’n — poor thing.

 

LUTHER: I’ve done everything that was bad, I know that.

 

MRS PURDY: Nay — nay — young fellers, they are like that. But it’s wrong, for look at my long lass sittin’ theer on that sofey, as if ‘er back wor broke.

 

LUTHER (loudly): But I dunna wish I’d niver seen ‘er, I dunna. It wor — it wor — she wor good to me, she wor, an’ I dunna wish I’d niver done it.

 

MRS PURDY: Then tha ought, that’s a’. For I do — an’ ‘er does.

 

LUTHER: Does ‘er say ‘er wishes ‘er’d niver seen me?

 

MRS PURDY: ‘Er says nowt o’ nohow.

 

LUTHER: Then ‘er doesna wish it. An’ I wish I’d ha’ married ‘er.

 

MRS PURDY: Come, my lad, come. Married tha art —

 

LUTHER (bitterly): Married I am, an’ I wish I worna. Your Bertha ‘er’d ‘a thought a thousand times more on me than she does. But I’m wrong, wrong, wrong, i’ ivry breath I take. An’ I will be wrong, yi, an’ I will be wrong.

 

MRS PURDY: Hush thee — there’s somebody comin’.

 

They wait.

 

Enter JOE and MINNIE, JOE talking loudly.

 

MINNIE: No, you’ve not, you’ve no right at all. (To LUTHER): Haven’t you even cleared away? (To MRS PURDY): Good evening.

 

MRS PURDY: Good evenin’, missis. I was just goin’ — I’ve bin sayin’ it looks very nice, th’ ‘ouse.

 

MINNIE: Do you think so?

 

MRS PURDY: I do, indeed.

 

MINNIE: Don’t notice of the mess we’re in, shall you? He (pointing to JOE) broke the plates — and then I had to rush off up to Mrs Preston’s afore I could clear away. And he hasn’t even mended the fire.

 

LUTHER: I can do — I niver noticed.

 

MINNIE (to MRS PURDY): Have a piece of cake? (Goes to cupboard.)

 

MRS PURDY: No, thanks, no, thanks. I mun get off afore th’ Co-op shuts up. Thank yer very much. Well — good night, all.

 

JOE opens the door; MRS PURDY goes out.

 

MINNIE (bustling, clearing away as LUTHER comes in with coals): Did you settle it?

 

LUTHER: What?

 

MINNIE: What she’d come about.

 

LUTHER: Ah.

 

MINNIE: An’ I bet you’ll go and forget.