LUTHER: Oh ah!

 

MINNIE: And poor old Bob Purdy will go on just the same.

 

LUTHER: Very likely.

 

MINNIE: Don’t let the dust all go on the hearth. Why didn’t you clear away? The house was like a pigsty for her to come into.

 

LUTHER: Then I wor the pig.

 

MINNIE (halting): Why — who’s trod on your tail now?

 

LUTHER: There’d be nobody to tread on it if tha wor out.

 

MINNIE: Oh — oh, dearo’ me. (To JOE): I think we’d better go to the Cinematograph, and leave him to nurse his sore tail.

 

JOE: We better had.

 

LUTHER: An’ joy go with yer.

 

MINNIE: We certainly shan’t leave it at home. (To JOE): What time does it begin?

 

JOE: Seven o’clock.

 

MINNIE: And I want to call in Sisson’s shop. Shall you go with me, or wouldn’t you condescend to go shopping with me? (She has cleared the table, brought a tray and a bowl, and is washing up the pots.)

 

JOE: Dost think I’m daunted by Polly Sisson?

 

MINNIE: You’re braver than most men if you dare go in a shop. Here, take a towel and wipe these pots.

 

JOE: How can I?

 

MINNIE: If you were a gentleman, you’d hold the plates in your teeth to wipe them.

 

JOE: Tha wouldna look very ladylike at th’ end on’t.

 

MINNIE: Why?

 

JOE: Why, hast forgot a’ready what a shine tha kicked up when I broke them two other plates? (He has got a towel, and wedging a plate against his thighs, is laboriously wiping it.)

 

MINNIE: I never kicked up a shine. It is nice of you!

 

JOE: What?

 

MINNIE: To do this for me.

 

LUTHER has begun sweeping the hearth.

 

JOE: Tha’s got two servants.

 

MINNIE: But I’m sure you want to smoke while you’re doing it — don’t you now?

 

JOE: Sin’ tha says so. (Fumbles in his pocket.)

 

MINNIE (hastily wiping her hands, puts a cigarette between his lips — gets matches from the mantelpiece, ignoring her husband, who is kneeling sweeping the hearth — lights his cigarette): It’s so nice to have a lamed man. You feel you’ve got an excuse for making a fuss of him. You’ve got awfully nice eyes and eyebrows. I like dark eyes.

 

JOE: Oh ah!

 

LUTHER rises hastily, goes in the passage, crosses the room quietly. He wears his coat, a red scarf and a cap.

 

MINNIE: There’s more go in them than in blue. (Watches her husband go out. There is silence between the two.)

 

JOE: He’ll come round again.

 

MINNIE: He’ll have to. He’ll go on sulking now. (Her face breaks.) You — you don’t know how hard it is.

 

JOE: What?

 

MINNIE (crying a few fierce tears): This . . .

 

JOE (aghast): What?

 

MINNIE: Why — you don’t know. You don’t know how hard it is, with a man as — as leaves you alone all the time.

 

JOE: But — he niver hardly goes out.

 

MINNIE: No, but — you don’t know — he leaves me alone, he always has done — and there’s nobody . . .

 

JOE: But he . . .

 

MINNIE: He never trusts me — he leaves me so alone — and — (a little burst of tears) it is hard! (She changes suddenly.) You’ve wiped your plates; my word, you are a champion.

 

JOE: I think so an’ a’.

 

MINNIE: I hope the pictures will be jolly — but the sad ones make me laugh more, don’t they you?

 

JOE: I canna do wi’ ‘em.

 

 

 

CURTAIN

 

 

 

 

ACT II

 

 

 

    The same evening — eleven o’clock, LUTHER’S house.

 

    MINNIE, alone, weeping. She gets up, fills the kettle, puts it on the hob, sits down, weeps again; then hears somebody coming, dries her eyes swiftly, turns the lamp low.

 

    Enter LUTHER. He stands in the doorway — is rather tipsy; flings his cap down, sits in his chair, lurching it slightly. Neither speaks for some moments.

 

 

 

LUTHER: Well, did yer like yer pictures?

 

MINNIE: Where have you been?

 

LUTHER: What does it matter where I’ve been?

 

MINNIE: Have you been drinking?

 

LUTHER: What’s it matter if I have?

 

MINNIE: It matters a lot to me

 

LUTHER: Oh ah!

 

MINNIE: Do you think I’m going to sleep with a man who is half-drunk?

 

LUTHER: Nay, I non know who tha’rt goin’ ter sleep wi’.

 

MINNIE (rising): I shall make the bed in the other room.

 

LUTHER: Tha’s no ‘casions. I s’ll do very nicely on t’ sofa; it’s warmer.

 

MINNIE: Oh, you can have your own bed.

 

LUTHER: If tha doesna sleep in it, I dunna.

 

MINNIE: And if you do, I don’t.

 

LUTHER: Tha pleases thysen. Tha can sleep by thysen for iver, if ter’s a mind to’t.

 

MINNIE (who has stood hesitating): Oh, very well!

 

She goes upstairs, returns immediately with a pillow and two blankets, which she throws on the sofa.

 

LUTHER: Thank yer kindly.

 

MINNIE: Shall you rake?

 

LUTHER: I’ll rake.

 

She moves about; lays table for his morning’s breakfast: a newspaper, cup, plate, etc. — no food, because it would go dry; rinses his tin pit-bottle, puts it and his snap-bag on the table.

 

I could do it for mysen. Tha ned do nowt for me.

 

MINNIE: Why this sudden fit of unselfishness?

 

LUTHER: I niver want thee to do nowt for me, niver no more. No, not so much as lift a finger for me — not if I wor dyin’.

 

MINNIE: You’re not dying; you’re only tipsy.

 

LUTHER: Well, it’s no matter to thee what I am.

 

MINNIE: It’s very comfortable for you to think so.

 

LUTHER: I know nowt about that.

 

MINNIE (after a pause): Where have you been to-night?

 

LUTHER: There an’ back, to see how far it is.

 

MINNIE (making an effort): Have you been up to your mother’s?

 

LUTHER: Where I’ve bin, I’ve bin, and where I haven’t, I haven’t.

 

MINNIE: Pah! — you needn’t try to magnify it and make a mountain. You’ve been to your mother’s, and then to “The Ram”.

 

LUTHER: All right — if tha knows, tha knows, an’ theer’s an end on’t.

 

MINNIE: You talk like a fool.

 

LUTHER: That comes o’ bein’ a fool.

 

MINNIE: When were you a fool?

 

LUTHER: Ivry day o’ my life, an’ ivry breath I’ve ta’en.

 

MINNIE (having finished work, sits down again): I suppose you haven’t got it in you to say anything fresh.

 

LUTHER: Why, what dost want me ter say? (He looks at her for the first time.)

 

MINNIE (with a queer catch): You might be more of a man if you said you were sorry.

 

LUTHER: Sorry! Sorry for what?

 

MINNIE: You’ve nothing to be sorry for, have you?

 

LUTHER (looking at her, quickly): What art goin’ ter say?

 

MINNIE: It’s what are you going to say. (A silence.)

 

LUTHER (doggedly): I’m goin’ ter say nowt.

 

MINNIE (bitterly): No, you’re not man enough to say anything — you can only slobber. You do a woman a wrong, but you’re never man enough to say you’re sorry for it. You’re not a man, you’re not — you’re something crawling!

 

LUTHER: I’m glad! I’m glad! I’m glad! No, an’ I wouldna ta’e’t back, no. ‘Er wor nice wi’ me, which is a thing tha’s niver bin. An’ so tha’s got it, an’ mun keep it.

 

MINNIE: Who was nice with you?

 

LUTHER: She was — an’ would ha’e bin at this minnit, but for thee.

 

MINNIE: Pah! — you’re not fit to have a wife. You only want your mother to rock you to sleep.

 

LUTHER: Neither mother, nor wife, neither thee nor onybody do I want — no — no.

 

MINNIE: No — you’ve had three cans of beer.

 

LUTHER: An’ if ter niver sleeps i’ th’ bed wi’ me again, an’ if ter niver does a hand’s turn for me niver no more, I’m glad, I’m glad. I non want thee. I non want ter see thee.

 

MINNIE: You mean coward. Good God! I never thought you were such a mean coward as this.

 

LUTHER: An’ as for thy money — yi, I wouldna smell on’t. An’ neither thine, nor our Joe’s, nor my mother’s will I ha’e. What I addle’s my own. What I gi’e thee, I gie thee. An’ she maun ha’e ten shillin’s a month, an’ tha maun abide by’t.

 

MINNIE: What are you talking about?

 

LUTHER: My mother wouldna gi’e me th’ money. She says she’s done her share. An’ tha’s done thine. An’ I’ve done mine, begod. An’ what yer canna chew yer maun swaller.

 

MINNIE: You must be quite drunk.

 

LUTHER: Must I? Alright, it’s Dutch courage then. A’right, then Dutch courage it is. But I tell thee, tha does as ter’s a mind. Tha can leave me, an’ go back inter service, if ter wants. What’s it ter me, if I’m but a lump o’ suck i’ th’ ‘ouse wheer tha art? Tha should ha’ had our Joe — he’s got more go than me. An’ I should ha’ had ‘er. I’d got go enough for her; ‘appen a bit too much.

 

MINNIE: Her? Who?

 

LUTHER: Her! An’ I’m glad ‘er’s wi’ my childt. I’m glad I did it. I’m glad! For tha’s wiped tha feet on me enough. Yi, tha’s wiped thy feet on me till what’s it to me if tha does it or not? It isna! An’ now — tha maun abide by what ter’s got, tha maun. I s’ll ha’e to — an’ by plenty I hadna got I’ve abided. An’ so — an’ so — yi.

 

MINNIE: But who is it you — who is she?

 

LUTHER: Tha knowed a’ along.

 

MINNIE: Who is it?

 

They are both silent.

 

Aren’t you going to speak?

 

LUTHER: What’s the good?

 

MINNIE (coldly): But I must know.

 

LUTHER: Tha does know.

 

MINNIE: I can assure you I don’t.

 

LUTHER: Then assure thysen an’ find out.

 

Another silence.

 

MINNIE: Do you mean somebody is going to have a baby by you?

 

LUTHER: I mean what I’ve said, an’ I mean nowt else.

 

MINNIE: But you must tell me.

 

LUTHER: I’ve boiled my cabbage twice a’ready, hanna I?

 

MINNIE: Do you mean somebody is going to have a child by you?

 

LUTHER: Tha can chew it ower, if ter’s a mind.

 

MINNIE (helpless): But . . . (She struggles with herself, then goes calm.)

 

LUTHER: That’s what I say — but . . . !

 

A silence.

 

MINNIE: And who is she?

 

LUTHER: Thee, for a’ I know.

 

MINNIE (calmly, patiently): I asked you a question.

 

LUTHER: Ah — an’ I ‘eered thee.

 

MINNIE: Then answer me — who is she?

 

LUTHER: Tha knows well enow — tha knowed afore they’d towd thee —

 

MINNIE: Nobody has told me. Who is she?

 

LUTHER: Well, tha’s seed ‘er mother.

 

MINNIE (numb): Mrs Purdy?

 

LUTHER: Yi.

 

MINNIE: Their Bertha?

 

LUTHER: Yi.

 

A silence.

 

MINNIE: Why didn’t you tell me?

 

LUTHER: Tell thee what?

 

MINNIE: This.

 

LUTHER: Tha knowed afore I did.

 

MINNIE: I know now.

 

LUTHER: Me an’ a’.

 

A pause.

 

MINNIE: Didn’t you know till to-night?

 

LUTHER: Our Joe telled me when tha’d just gone — I niver dreamt afore — an’ then ‘er mother . . .

 

MINNIE: What did her mother come for?

 

LUTHER: Ter see if we could hush it up a’cause o’ thee, an’ gi’e ‘er a lump sum.

 

MINNIE: Hush it up because of me?

 

LUTHER: Ah — lay it ont’r an electrician as wor wi’ th’ gang as laid th’ cable down to Balford — he’s gone God knows where.

 

MINNIE: But it’s yours.

 

LUTHER: I know that.

 

MINNIE: Then why lay it onto somebody else?

 

LUTHER: Because o’ thee.

 

MINNIE: But why because of me?

 

LUTHER: To stop thee knowin’, I s’d think.

 

MINNIE: And why shouldn’t I know?

 

LUTHER: Eh, I dunno.

 

A pause.

 

MINNIE: And what were you going to do to stop me knowing?

 

LUTHER: ‘Er axed for forty pounds down.

 

MINNIE: And if you paid forty pounds, you got off scot-free?

 

LUTHER: Summat so.

 

MINNIE: And where were the forty pounds coming from?

 

LUTHER: Our Joe said ‘e’d lend ‘em me. I thought my mother would, but ‘er said ‘er wouldna — neither would she gi’e’t our Joe ter lend me, she said. For I wor a married man now, an’ it behoved my wife to look after me. An’ I thought tha knowed. I thought tha’d twigged, else bin telled. An’ I didna care, an’ dunna care.

 

MINNIE: And this is what you married me to!

 

LUTHER: This is what tha married me to. But I’ll niver ax thee for, no, not so much as the liftin’ of a finger — no —

 

MINNIE: But when you wrote and told me you were willing to marry me, why didn’t you tell me this?

 

LUTHER: Because — as I’ve telled thee — I didna know till this very mortal night.

 

MINNIE: But you knew you’d been with her.

 

LUTHER: Ay, I knowed that.

 

A pause.

 

MINNIE: And why didn’t you tell me?

 

LUTHER: What for should I tell thee? What good would it ha’ done thee? Tha niver towd me nowt.

 

MINNIE: So that is how you look at it?

 

LUTHER: I non care how I look at it.

 

A pause.

 

MINNIE: And was there anybody else?

 

LUTHER: How dost mean?

 

MINNIE: Have you been with any other woman?

 

LUTHER: I dunno — I might — I dunno.

 

MINNIE: That means you have.

 

LUTHER: I’m thirty.

 

MINNIE: And who were they?

 

LUTHER: I dunno. I’ve niver bin much wi’ anybody — little, very little — an’ then it wor an off-chance. Our Joe wor more that way than me — I worn’t that way.

 

A pause.

 

MINNIE: So — this was what I waited for you for!

 

LUTHER: Yha niver waited for me. Tha had me a’cause tha couldna get nobody better.

 

MINNIE: And so —

 

LUTHER (after a moment): Yi, an’ so. An’ so, I non care what ter does. If ter leaves me —

 

MINNIE (in a flash): What’s the good of me leaving you? Aren’t I married to you — tied to you?

 

LUTHER: Tha could leave me whether or not. I should go t’r Australia wi’ our Joe.

 

MINNIE: And what about that girl?

 

LUTHER: I should send ‘er th’ money.

 

MINNIE: And what about me?

 

LUTHER: Tha’d please thysen.

 

MINNIE: Should you like me to leave you, and let you go to Australia?

 

LUTHER: ‘Appen I should.

 

MINNIE: What did you marry me for?

 

LUTHER: ‘Cos tha axed me.

 

MINNIE: Did you never care for me?

 

He does not answer.

 

Didn’t you?

 

He does not answer.

 

Didn’t you?

 

LUTHER (slowly): You niver wanted me — you thought me dirt.

 

MINNIE: Ha! (A pause.) You can have the forty pounds.

 

LUTHER (very doggedly): I shanna.

 

MINNIE: She’s got to be paid.

 

LUTHER: Tha keeps thy money.

 

MINNIE: Then where shall you get it from?

 

LUTHER: I s’ll pay ‘er month by month.

 

MINNIE: But you can’t. Think!

 

LUTHER: Then I’ll borrow forty quid somewhere else, an’ pay it back i’ instalments. Tha keeps thy money.

 

MINNIE: You can borrow it from me.

 

LUTHER: I shall not.

 

MINNIE: Very well. I only wanted not to have the bother of paying month by month. I think I shall go back to my old place.

 

LUTHER: Tha pleases thysen.

 

MINNIE: And you can go and live with your mother again.

 

LUTHER: That I should niver do — but tha pleases thysen. We’ve bin married seven wik come Tuesday.

 

MINNIE: I niver ought to ha’ done it.

 

LUTHER: What?

 

MINNIE: Married you.

 

LUTHER: No.

 

MINNIE: For you never cared enough.

 

LUTHER: Yi — it’s my fault.

 

MINNIE: Yes.

 

LUTHER: It would be. Tha’s niver made a fault i’ thy life.

 

MINNIE: Who are you, to talk about my faults!

 

LUTHER: Well —

 

A pause.

 

MINNIE: I shall write to Mr Westlake to-morrow.

 

LUTHER: Tha does as pleases thee.

 

MINNIE: And if they can’t take me back straight away, I shall ask him if he knows another place.

 

LUTHER: A’right. An’ we’ll sell th’ furniture.

 

MINNIE (looking round at her home): Yes.

 

LUTHER: It’ll non bring ha’ef tha giv for’t — but it’ll bring enough ter ta’e me out theer.

 

MINNIE: I’ll make up what you lose by it, since I chose it.

 

LUTHER: Tha can give ter them as’ll ha’e.

 

MINNIE: But I shall feel I owe it you.

 

LUTHER: I’ve had six weeks o’ married life wi’ thee. I mun pay for that.

 

MINNIE: You are mean, mean.

 

LUTHER: I know — though tha’rt first as has telled me so. When dost reckon tha’lt go?

 

MINNIE: I’ll go to-morrow if you want to get rid of me.

 

LUTHER: Nay — tha does just as pleases thysen. I non want ter get rid on thee. Nay, nay, it’s not that. It’s thee as wants ter go.

 

MINNIE: At any rate, I s’ll have a place inside a fortnight.

 

LUTHER (dully): Alright.

 

MINNIE: So I shall have to trouble you till then.

 

LUTHER: But I dunna want thee ter do owt for me — no, I dunna.

 

MINNIE: I shall keep the house, in payment for my board and lodgings. And I’ll make the bed up in the back room, and I’ll sleep there, because it’s not furnished, and the house is yours.

 

LUTHER: Th’art — tha’rt — I wish I might strike thee down!

 

MINNIE: And I shall keep the account of every penny I spend, and you must just pay the bills.

 

LUTHER (rising suddenly): I’ll murder thee afore tha does.

 

He goes out. She sits twisting her apron. He returns with a large lump of coal in his hands, and rakes the fire.

 

MINNIE: You cared more for her than for me.

 

LUTHER: For who?

 

MINNIE: For her. She was the sort of sawney you ought to have had. Did she think you perfect?

 

LUTHER (with grim satisfaction): She liked me.

 

MINNIE: And you could do just as you wanted with her?

 

LUTHER: She’d ha’ done owt for me.

 

MINNIE: And it flattered you, did it? Because a long stalk wi’ no flower was at your service, it flattered you, did it? My word, it ought — As for your Joe, he’s not a fool like you, and that’s why women think more of him. He wouldn’t want a Bertha Purdy. He’d get a woman who was something — and because he knew how to appreciate her. You — what good are you?

 

LUTHER: I’m no good, but to fetch an’ carry.

 

MINNIE: And a tuppenny scullery-girl could do that as well.

 

LUTHER: Alright.

 

MINNIE: I’ll bet even Bertha Purdy thinks what a clown you are. She never wanted you to marry her, did she?

 

LUTHER: She knowed I wouldn’t.

 

MINNIE: You flatter yourself. I’ll bet she never wanted you. I shouldn’t be surprised if the child isn’t somebody else’s, that she just foists on you because you’re so soft.

 

LUTHER: Oh ah!

 

MINNIE: It even flatters you to think it’s yours.

 

LUTHER: Oh ah!

 

MINNIE: And quite right too — for it’s the only thing you could have to be proud of. And then really it’s not you . . .

 

LUTHER: Oh ah!

 

MINNIE: If a woman has a child, and you think you’re the cause, do you think it’s your doings?

 

LUTHER: If tha has one, it will be.

 

MINNIE: And is that anything for you to be proud of? Me whom you’ve insulted and deceived and treated as no snail would treat a woman! And then you expect me to bear your children!

 

LUTHER: I dunna expect thee. If tha does tha does.

 

MINNIE: And you gloat over it and feel proud of it!

 

LUTHER: Yi, I do.

 

MINNIE: No — no! I’d rather have married a tramp off the streets than you. And — and I don’t believe you can have children.

 

LUTHER: Theer tha knows tha’rt a liar.

 

MINNIE: I hate you.

 

LUTHER: Alright.

 

MINNIE: And I will leave you, I will.

 

LUTHER: Tha’s said so afore.

 

MINNIE: And I mean it.

 

LUTHER: Alright.

 

MINNIE: But it’s your mother’s doing. She mollycoddled and marded you till you weren’t a man — and now — I have to pay for it.

 

LUTHER: Oh ah!

 

MINNIE: No, you’re not a man!

 

LUTHER: Alright. They’s plenty of women as would say I am.

 

MINNIE: They’d be lying to get something out of you.

 

LUTHER: Why, what could they get outer me?

 

MINNIE: Yes — yes — what could they . . . (She stutters to a close.)

 

He begins to take off his boots.

 

LUTHER: If tha’rt goin’, tha’d better go afore th’ strike begins. We should be on short commons then — ten bob a wik.

 

MINNIE: There’s one thing, you’d be on short commons without me. For nobody would keep you for ten shillings a week, unless you went to your mother’s.

 

LUTHER: I could live at our Harriet’s, an’ pay ‘er off after. An’ there’d be th’ furniture sold.

 

MINNIE: And you’d be delighted if there was a strike, so you could loaf about. You don’t even get drunk. You only loaf. You’re lazy, lazy, and without the stomach of a louse. You want a strike.

 

LUTHER: Alright.

 

MINNIE: And I hope you’ll get what you deserve, I do.

 

LUTHER: Tha’rt gi’en it me.

 

MINNIE (lifting her hand suddenly): How dare you say so — how dare you! I’m too good for you.

 

LUTHER (sullenly): I know.

 

MINNIE: Yes.

 

She gets a candle, lights it, and goes to bed. He flings on his scarf and coat and waistcoat, throws the pillow on the hearthrug, wraps himself in the blankets, blows the lamp out, and lies down.

 

 

 

CURTAIN

 

 

 

 

ACT III

 

 

 

    A fortnight later — afternoon. The kitchen of LUTHER GASCOIGNE’S house.

 

    MRS GASCOIGNE, senior, alone. Enter MINNIE GASCOIGNE, dressed from travelling. She is followed by a CABMAN carrying a bag.

 

 

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What — is it you!

 

MINNIE: Yes. Didn’t you get my wire?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Thy wire! Dost mean a tallygram? No, we’n had nowt though th’ house ‘as bin shut up.

 

MINNIE (to the CABMAN): Thank you. How much?

 

CABMAN: Ha’ef-a-crown.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Ha’ef-a-crown for commin’ from th’ Midland station! Why, tha non know what’s talkin’ about.

 

MINNIE (paying him): Thank you.

 

CABMAN: Thank yer. Good afternoon. The CABMAN goes out.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: My word, tha knows how ter ma’e th’ money fly.

 

MINNIE: I couldn’t carry a bag.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha could ha’ come i’ th’ ‘bus ter Eastwood an’ then a man ‘ud ‘a browt it on.

 

MINNIE: It is raining.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt neither sugar nor salt.

 

MINNIE: I wonder you didn’t get my telegram.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I tell thee, th’ ‘ouse wor shut up last night.

 

MINNIE: Oh!

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I dunno wheer ‘e slep’ — wi’ some o’s pals I should think.

 

MINNIE: Oh!

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Thinks I to mysen, I’d better go an’ get some dinner ready down theer. So I telled our Joe ter come ‘ere for’s dinner as well, but they’m neither on ‘em bin in yet. That’s allers t’road when it’s strike. They stop mormin’ about, bletherin’ and boomin’ an’ meals, bless yer, they don’t count. Tha’s bin i’ Manchester four days then?

 

MINNIE: Yes.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Ay. — Our Luther’s niver bin up ter tell me. If I hadna ha’ met Mrs Pervin fra next door here, I should niver ha’ knowed a word. That wor yisterday. So I sent our Joe down. But it seems ‘e’s neither bin a-whoam yesterday nor th’ day afore. He slep’ i’ th’ ‘ouse by hissen for two nights. So Mrs Sharley said. He said tha’d gone ter Manchester on business.

 

MINNIE: Yes.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But he niver come ter tell me nowt on’t.

 

MINNIE: Didn’t he?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s trew what they say:

 

    “My son’s my son till he ta’es him a wife,

    But my daughter’s my daughter the whole of her life.”

 

MINNIE: Do you think so?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I’m sure. An’ th’ men’s been out ten days now, an’ such carryin’s-on.

 

MINNIE: Oh! Why — what?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Meetin’s ivry mornin’ — crier for ever down th’ street wi’s bell — an’ agitators. They say as Fraser dursn’t venture out o’ th’ door. Watna’ pit-top’s bin afire, and there’s a rigiment o’ soldiers drillin’ i’ th’ statutes ground — bits o’ things they are, an’ a’, like a lot o’ little monkeys i’ their red coats — Staffordshire men. But wiry, so they say. Same as marched wi’ Lord Roberts to Candyhar. But not a man among ‘em. If you watch out fra th’ gardin end, you’ll see ‘em i’ th’ colliers’ train goin’ up th’ line ter Watna’ — wi’ their red coats jammed i’ th’ winders. They say as Fraser’s got ten on ‘em in’s house ter guard him — an’ they’s sentinels at pit top, standin’ wi’ their guns, an’ th’ men crackin’ their sides wi’ laughing at ‘em.

 

MINNIE: What for?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nay, that I canna tell thee. They’ve got the Black Watch up at Heanor — so they says — great big Scotchmen i’ kilts. They look well, ha’en them i’ Heanor, wi’ a’ them lasses.

 

MINNIE: And what is all the fuss about?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Riotin’. I thought tha’d bobbled off ter Manchester ter be i’ safety.

 

MINNIE: Oh, no — I never knew there was any danger.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: No more there is, as far as that goes. What’s up atween you an’ our Luther?

 

MINNIE: Oh, nothing particular.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I knowed summat wor amiss, when ‘e niver come up. It’s a fortnight last Tuesday, sin’ ‘e’s set foot i’ my house — an’ I’ve niver clapt eyes on him. I axed our Joe, but he’s as stubborn as a jackass, an’ you canna get a word out on ‘im, not for love nor money.

 

MINNIE: Oh!

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Talks o’ goin’ t’r Australay. But not if I can help it. An’ hints as if our Luther — you not thinkin’ of it, are you?

 

MINNIE: No, I’m not — not that I know of.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: H’m! It’s a rum go, when nobody seems ter know where they are, nor what they’re goin’ ter do. But there’s more blort than bustle, i’ this world. What took thee to Manchester?

 

MINNIE: Oh, I just wanted to go, on business.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Summat about thy money, like?

 

MINNIE: Yes.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Our Luther wor axin’ me for forty pound, th’ last time ‘e wor up — but I didna see it. No — I fun’ him a’ as ‘e wanted for’s marriage, and gen ‘im ten pound i’ hand, an’ I thought it ‘ud suffice. An’ as for forty pound — it’s ter much, that’s what I think.

 

MINNIE: I don’t.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Oh, well, if tha doesna, a’ well an’ good. ‘Appen he’s paid it, then?

 

MINNIE: Paid it! Why, wheer was he to get it from?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I thought you had it atween you.

 

MINNIE: We haven’t.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, how dost mean?

 

MINNIE: I mean we’ve neither of us got as much as forty pounds.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Dost mean tha hasna?

 

MINNIE: No, I haven’t.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What’s a-gait now?

 

MINNIE: Nothing.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What hast bin up to?

 

MINNIE: I? Nothing. I went to Manchester to settle a little business, that’s all.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: And wheer did ter stop?

 

MINNIE: I stayed with my old master.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Wor there no missis, then?

 

MINNIE: No — his wife is dead. You know I was governess for his grandchildren, who were born in India.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: H’m! So tha went to see him?

 

MINNIE: Yes — I’ve always told him everything.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: So tha went clat-fartin’ ter ‘im about our Luther, did ter?

 

MINNIE: Well — he’s the only soul in the world that I can go to.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: H’m! It doesna become thee, methinks.

 

MINNIE: Well!

 

Footsteps are heard.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Here’s them lads, I s’d think.

 

Enter LUTHER and JOE.

 

JOE (to MINNIE): Hello! has thee come?

 

MINNIE: Yes. I sent a wire, and thought someone might come to meet me.

 

JOE: Nay, there wor no wire. We thought tha’d gone for good.

 

MINNIE: Who thought so?

 

JOE: Well — didna tha say so?

 

MINNIE: Say what?

 

JOE: As tha’d go, an’ he could do what he liked?

 

MINNIE: I’ve said many things.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: So that was how it stood! Tha’rt a fool, our Luther. If ter ta’es a woman at ‘er word, well, tha deserves what ter gets.

 

LUTHER: What am I to do, might I ax?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nay, that thy wits should tell thee. Wheer hast bin these two days?

 

LUTHER: I walked ower wi’ Jim Horrocks ter their Annie’s i’ Mansfield.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I’m sure she’d got enough to do, without two men planting themselves on her. An’ how did ter get back?

 

LUTHER: Walked.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Trapsein’ thy shoe-leather off thee feet, walkin’ twenty miles. Hast had thy dinner?

 

JOE: We’ve both had free dinners at th’ Methodist Chapel.

 

LUTHER: I met Tom Heseldine i’ “Th’ Badger Box”, Mother.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Oh ay! Wide-mouthed as iver, I reckon.

 

JOE: Just same. But what dost think, Mother? It’s leaked out as Fraser’s got a lot o’ chaps to go to-morrer mornin’, ter see after th’ roads an’ a’ that.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Th’ roads wants keepin’ safe, dunna they?

 

JOE: Yi — but if th’ mesters wunna ha’e th’ union men, let ‘em do it theirselves.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha talks like a fool.

 

LUTHER: What right ha’ they ter get a lot of scrawdrags an’ blacklegs in ter do our work? A’ th’ pit maun fa’ in, if they wunna settle it fair wi’ us.

 

JOE: Then workin’s is ours, an’ th’ mesters’. If th’ mesters wunna treat us fair, then they mun keep ‘em right theirselves. They non goin’ ter ha’e no third body in.

 

MINNIE: But even when it’s settled, how are you going back, if the roof has come in, and the roads are gone?

 

JOE: Tha mun ax th’ mesters that. If we canna go back ter th’ rotten owd pits no more, we mun look elsewhere. An’ th’ mesters can sit atop o’ their pits an’ stroke ‘em.

 

LUTHER (to MINNIE): If I got a woman in to do th’ housework as tha wunna do for me, tha’d sit smilin’, shouldn’t ter?

 

MINNIE: She could do as she liked.

 

LUTHER: Alright. Then, Mother, ‘appen tha’lt boss this house. She run off ter Manchester, an’ left me ter starve. So ‘appen tha’lt come an’ do for me.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nay — if ter wants owt tha mun come ter me.

 

JOE: That’s right. Dunna thee play blackleg i’ this establishment.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I s’ll mind my own business.

 

JOE (to MINNIE): Now, does thee think it right, Minnie, as th’ mesters should get a lot o’ crawlin’ buggers in ter keep their pits i’ order, when th’ keepin’ o’ them pits i’ order belongs by right to us?

 

MINNIE: It belongs to whosoever the masters pay to do it.

 

LUTHER: A’ right. Then it belongs to me to ha’e any woman in ter do for me, as I’ve a mind. Tha’s gone on strike, so I ha’e the right ter get anybody else.

 

MINNIE: When have I gone on strike? I have always done your housework.

 

LUTHER: Housework — yi! But we dunna on’y keep th’ roof from comin’ in. We get as well. An’ even th’ housework tha went on strike wi’. Tha skedaddled off ter Manchester, an’ left me to’t.

 

MINNIE: I went on business.

 

LUTHER: An’ we’ve come out on strike “on business”.

 

MINNIE: You’ve not; it’s a game.

 

LUTHER: An’ the mesters’ll ta’e us back when they’re ready, or when they’re forced to. An’ same wi’ thee by me.

 

MINNIE: Oh!

 

JOE: We got it fr’ Tom Rooke — ’e wor goin’ ter turn ‘em down. At four to-morrer mornin’, there’s ower twenty men goin’ down.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: What a lot of fools men are! As if th’ pits didn’t need ter be kep’ tidy, ready for you to go back to’m.

 

JOE: They’ll be kep’ tidy by us, then an’ when we’ve a mind — an’ by nobody else.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha talks very high an’ mighty. That’s because I ha’e th’ feedin’ on thee.

 

JOE: You put it like our Luther says, then. He stands for t’mesters, an’ Minnie stands for t’men — cos ‘er’s gone on strike. Now becos she’s went ter Manchester, had he got ony right ter ha’e Lizzie Charley in for a couple o’ nights an’ days?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha talks like a fool!

 

JOE: I dunna.

 

MINNIE: He’s welcome to Lizzie Charley.

 

JOE: Alright. — She’s a nice gel. We’ll ax ‘er to come in an’ manage th’ ‘ouse — he can pay ‘er.

 

MINNIE: What with?

 

JOE: Niver you mind. Should yer like it?

 

MINNIE: He can do just as he likes.

 

JOE: Then should I fetch her? — should I, Luther?

 

LUTHER: If ter’s a mind.

 

JOE: Should I, then, Minnie?

 

MINNIE: If he wants her.

 

LUTHER: I want somebody ter look after me.

 

JOE: Right tha art. (Puts his cap on.) I’ll say as Minnie canna look after th’ house, will ‘er come. That it?

 

LUTHER: Ah.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Dunna be a fool. Tha’s had a can or two.

 

JOE: Well — ’er’ll be glad o’ the job.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: You’d better stop him, one of you.

 

LUTHER: I want somebody ter look after me — an’ tha wunna.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Eh dear o’ me! Dunna thee be a fool, our Joe.

 

Exit JOE.

 

What wor this job about goin’ ter Manchester?

 

LUTHER: She said she wouldna live wi’ me, an’ so ‘er went. I thought ‘er’d gone for good.

 

MINNIE: You didn’t — you knew.

 

LUTHER: I knowed what tha’d towd me — as tha’d live wi’ me no longer. Tha’s come back o’ thy own accord.

 

MINNIE: I never said I shouldn’t come back.

 

LUTHER: Tha said as tha wouldna live wi’ me. An’ tha didna, neither, — not for —

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, Minnie, you’ve brought it on your own head. You put him off, an’ you put him off, as if ‘e was of no account, an’ then all of a sudden you invited him to marry you —

 

MINNIE: Put him off! He didn’t need much putting off. He never came any faster than a snail.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Twice, to my knowledge, he axed thee — an’ what can a man do more?

 

MINNIE: Yes, what! A gramophone in breeches could do as much.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Oh, indeed! What ailed him was, he wor in collier’s britches, i’stead o’ a stool-arsed Jack’s.

 

MINNIE: No — what ailed him was that you kept him like a kid hanging on to you.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: An’ tha bit thy own nose off, when ter said him nay. For had ter married him at twenty-three, there’d ha’ been none of this trouble.

 

MINNIE: And why didn’t I? Why didn’t I? Because he came in his half-hearted “I will if you like” fashion, and I despised him, yes I did.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: And who are you to be despising him, I should like to know?

 

MINNIE: I’m a woman, and that’s enough. But I know now, it was your fault. You held him, and persuaded him that what he wanted was you. You kept him, like a child, you even gave him what money he wanted, like a child. He never roughed it — he never faced out anything. You did all that for him.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: And what if I did! If you made as good a wife to him as I made a mother, you’d do.

 

MINNIE: Should I? You didn’t care what women your sons went with, so long as they didn’t love them. What do you care really about this affair of Bertha Purdy? You don’t. All you cared about was to keep your sons for yourself. You kept the solid meal, and the orts and slarts any other woman could have. But I tell you, I’m not for having the orts and slarts, and your leavings from your sons. I’ll have a man, or nothing, I will.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s rare to be some folks, ter pick and choose.

 

MINNIE: I can’t pick and choose, no. But what I won’t have, I won’t have, and that is all.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (to LUTHER): Have I ever kept thee from doin’ as tha wanted? Have I iver marded and coddled thee?

 

LUTHER: Tha hasna, beguy!

 

MINNIE: No, you haven’t, perhaps, not by the look of things. But you’ve bossed him. You’ve decided everything for him, really. He’s depended on you as much when he was thirty as when he was three. You told him what to do, and he did it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: My word, I’ve never known all he did.

 

MINNIE: You have — everything that mattered. You maybe didn’t know it was Bertha Purdy, but you knew it was some woman like her, and what did you care? She had the orts and slarts, you kept your son. And you want to keep him, even now. Yes — and you do keep him.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: We’re learnin’ a thing or two, Luther.

 

LUTHER: Ay.

 

Enter JOE.

 

MINNIE: Yes! What did you care about the woman who would have to take some after you? Nothing! You left her with just the slarts of a man. Yes.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Indeed! I canna see as you’re so badly off. You’ve got a husband as doesn’t drink, as waits on you hand and foot, as gives you a free hand in everything. It’s you as doesn’t know when you’re well off, madam.

 

MINNIE: I’d rather have had a husband who knocked me about than a husband who was good to me because he belonged to his mother. He doesn’t and can’t really care for me. You stand before him. His real caring goes to you. Me he only wants sometimes.

 

JOE: She’ll be in in a minute.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt the biggest fool an’ jackanapes, our Joe, as iver God made.

 

MINNIE: If she crosses that doorstep, then I go for good.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (bursting into fury — to JOE): Tha see what thy bobby interferin’ has done.

 

JOE: Nay — that’s how it stood.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha mun go an’ stop her, our Luther. Tell ‘er it wor our Joe’s foolery. An’ look sharp.

 

LUTHER: What should I go for?

 

LUTHER goes out, furious.

 

MINNIE: You see — you see! His mother’s word is law to him. He’d do what I told him, but his feel would be for you. He’s got no feeling for me. You keep all that.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: You talk like a jealous woman.

 

MINNIE: I do! And for that matter, why doesn’t Joe marry, either? Because you keep him too. You know, in spite of his bluster, he cares more for your little finger than he does for all the women in the world — or ever will. And it’s wrong — it’s wrong. How is a woman ever to have a husband, when the men all belong to their mothers? It’s wrong.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Oh, indeed! — is it? You know, don’t you? You know everything.

 

MINNIE: I know this, because I’ve suffered from it. Your elder sons you let go, and they are husbands. But your young sons you’ve kept. And Luther is your son, and the man that lives with me. But first, he’s your son. And Joe ought never to marry, for he’d break a woman’s heart.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha hears, lad! We’re bein’ told off.

 

JOE: Ah, I hear. An’ what’s more, it’s true, Mother.

 

MINNIE: It is — it is. He only likes playing round me and getting some pleasure out of teasing me, because he knows I’m safely married to Luther, and can never look to him to marry me and belong to me. He’s safe, so he likes me. If I were single, he’d be frightened to death of me.

 

JOE: Happen I should.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt a fool.

 

MINNIE: And that’s what you’ve done to me — that’s my life spoiled — spoiled — ay, worse than if I’d had a drunken husband that knocked me about. For it’s dead.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt shoutin’ because nowt ails thee — that’s what tha art.

 

JOE: Nay, Mother, tha knows it’s right. Tha knows tha’s got me — an’ll ha’e me till ter dies — an’ after that — yi.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha talks like a fool.

 

JOE: And sometimes, Mother, I wish I wor dead, I do.

 

MINNIE: You see, you see! You see what you’ve done to them. It’s strong women like you, who were too much for their husbands — ah!

 

JOE: Tha knows I couldna leave thee, Mother — tha knows I couldna. An’ me, a young man, belongs to thy owd age. An’ there’s nowheer for me to go, Mother. For tha’rt gettin’ nearer to death an’ yet I canna leave thee to go my own road. An’ I wish, yi, often, as I wor dead.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Dunna, lad — dunna let ‘er put these ideas i’ thy head.

 

JOE: An’ I can but fritter my days away. There’s no goin’ forrard for me.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nay, lad, nay — what lad’s better off than thee, dost reckon?

 

JOE: If I went t’r Australia, th’ best part on me wouldna go wi’ me.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha wunna go t’r Australia!

 

JOE: If I went, I should be a husk of a man. I’m allers a husk of a man, Mother. There’s nowt solid about me. The’ isna.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Whativer dost mean? You’ve a’ set on me at once.

 

JOE: I’m nowt, Mother, an’ I count for nowt. Yi, an’ I know it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha does. Tha sounds as if tha counts for nowt, as a rule, doesn’t ter?

 

JOE: There’s not much of a man about me. T’other chaps is more of fools, but they more of men an’ a’ — an’ they know it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: That’s thy fault.

 

JOE: Yi — an’ will be — ter th’ end o’ th’ chapter.

 

Enter LUTHER.

 

MINNIE: Did you tell her?

 

LUTHER: Yes.

 

MINNIE: We’ll have some tea, should we?

 

JOE: Ay, let’s. For it’s bin dry work.

 

She sets the kettle on.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I mun be goin’.

 

MINNIE: Wait and have a cup of tea. I brought a cake.

 

JOE: But we non goin’ ter ha’e it, are we, Luther, these ‘ere blacklegs goin’ down interferin’.

 

LUTHER: We arena.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But how are you going to stop them?

 

JOE: We s’ll manage it, one road or t’other.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: You’ll non go gettin’ yourselves into trouble.

 

LUTHER: We in trouble enow.

 

MINNIE: If you’d have had Lizzie Charley in, what should you have paid her with?

 

LUTHER: We should ha’ found the money somewhere.

 

MINNIE: Do you know what I had to keep house on this week, Mother?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Not much, sin’ there wor nowt but ten shillin’ strike pay.

 

MINNIE: He gave me five shillings.

 

LUTHER: Tha could ha’ had what things ter wanted on strap.

 

MINNIE: No — but why should you keep, to drink on, as much as you give me to keep house on? Five shillings!

 

JOE: Five bob’s non a whackin’ sight o’ pocket money for a man’s week.

 

MINNIE: It is, if he earns nothing. It was that as finished me off.

 

JOE: Well, tha niver ned go short — tha can let him.

 

MINNIE: I knew that was what he thought. But if he wouldna have my money for one thing, he wasn’t going to for another.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, what wouldn’t he have it for?

 

MINNIE: He wouldn’t have that forty pounds, when I went on my knees to beg and beseech him to.

 

LUTHER: Tha did! Tha throwed it at me as if I wor a beggar as stank.

 

MINNIE: And you wouldn’t have it when I asked you.

 

LUTHER: No — an’ wouldna ha’e it now.

 

MINNIE: You can’t.

 

LUTHER: I dunna want it.

 

MINNIE: And if you don’t find money to keep the house on, we shall both of us starve. For you’ve got to keep me. And I’ve got no money of my own now.

 

LUTHER: Why, what dost mean?

 

MINNIE: I mean what I say.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, what?

 

MINNIE: I was sick of having it between us. It was but a hundred and twenty. So I went to Manchester and spent it.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’s bin an’ spent a hundred and twenty pound i’ four days?

 

MINNIE: Yes, I have.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Whativer are we comin’ to!

 

JOE: That wor a stroke worth two. Tell us what tha bought.

 

MINNIE: I bought myself a ring, for one thing. I thought if I ever had any children, and they asked me where was my engagement ring, I should have to show them something, for their father’s sake. Do you like it? (Holds out her hand to JOE.)

 

JOE: My word, but that’s a bobby-dazzler. Look, Mother.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: H’m.

 

JOE takes the ring off.

 

JOE: My word, but that’s a diamond, if you like. How much did it cost?

 

MINNIE: Thirty pounds. I’ve got the bill in my pocket.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I only hope you’ll niver come to want some day.

 

MINNIE: Luther must see to that.

 

JOE: And what else did ter buy?

 

MINNIE: I’ll show you. (Gets her bag, unlocks it, takes out three prints.)

 

JOE: I dunna reckon much ter these.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Nor me neither. An’ how much has ter gen for them apiece?

 

MINNIE: That was twenty-five pounds. They’re beautiful prints.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I dunna believe a word tha says.

 

MINNIE: I’ll show you the bill. My master’s a collector, and he picked them for me. He says they’re well worth the money. And I like them.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I niver seed such a job in my life. T-t-t-t! Well, a’ I can say is, I hope tha’ll niver come ter want. Throwin’ good money i’ th’ gutter like this. Nay, I feel fair bad. Nay! T-t-t-t! Such tricks! And such bits o’ dirty paper!

 

JOE: I’d rather ha’e the Co-op almanack.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: So would I, any day! What dost say to’t, our Luther?

 

LUTHER: ‘Er does as ‘er likes.

 

MINNIE: I had a lovely time with Mr Westlake, choosing them at the dealer’s. He is clever.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha towd him tha wanted to get rid o’ thy money, did ter?

 

MINNIE: No — I said I wanted some pictures for the parlour, and asked him if he’d help me choose.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Good money thrown away. Maybe the very bread of your children.

 

MINNIE: Nay, that’s Luther’s duty to provide.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, a’ I can say is, I hope you may never come ter want. If our Luther died . . .

 

MINNIE: I should go back to work.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: But what if tha’d three or four children?

 

MINNIE: A hundred and twenty pounds wouldn’t make much odds then.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, a’ I can say, I hope tha’lt niver live ter rue the day.

 

JOE: What dost think on ‘er, Luther?

 

LUTHER: Nay, she’s done as she liked with her own.

 

MINNIE (emptying her purse in her lap): I’ve got just seventeen shillings. You drew your strike pay yesterday. How much have you got of that, Luther?

 

LUTHER: Three bob.

 

MINNIE: And do you want to keep it?

 

LUTHER: Ah.

 

MINNIE: Very well . . . I shall spend this seventeen shillings till it’s gone, and then we shall have to live on soup-tickets.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ll back my life!

 

JOE: And who’ll fetch the soup?

 

MINNIE: Oh, I shall. I’ve been thinking, that big jug will do nicely. I’m in the same boat as other men’s wives now, and so I must do the same.

 

JOE: They’ll gi’e you strap at West’s.

 

MINNIE: I’m not going to run up bills, no, I’m not. I’ll go to the free teas, and fetch soup, an’ with ten shillings a week we shall manage.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, that’s one road, lass.

 

MINNIE: It’s the only one. And now, if he can provide, he must, and if he can’t, he must tell me so, and I’ll go back into service, and not be a burden to him.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: High and mighty, high and mighty! We’ll see, my lass; we’ll see.

 

MINNIE: That’s all we can do.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha doesna care how he takes it.

 

MINNIE: The prints belong to both of us. (Hands them to LUTHER.) You haven’t said if you like them yet.

 

LUTHER (taking them, suddenly rams them in the fire): Tha can go to hell.

 

MINNIE (with a cry): Ah! — that’s my ninety pounds gone. (Tries to snatch them out.)

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (beginning to cry): Come, Joe, let’s go; let’s go, my lad. I’ve seen as much this day as ever my eyes want to see. Let’s go, my lad. (Gets up, beginning to tie on her bonnet.)

 

MINNIE (white and intense, to LUTHER): Should you like to throw my ring after them? It’s all I’ve got left. (She holds out her hand — he flings it from him.)

 

LUTHER: Yi, what do I care what I do! (Clenching his fists as if he would strike her.) — what do I! — what do I — !

 

MRS GASCOIGNE (putting on her shawl): A day’s work — a day’s work! Ninety pound! Nay — nay, oh, nay — nay, oh, nay — nay! Let’s go, Joe, my lad. Eh, our Luther, our Luther! Let’s go, Joe. Come.

 

JOE: Ah, I’ll come, Mother.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Luther!

 

LUTHER: What?

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s a day’s work, it is, wi’ thee. Eh dear! Come, let’s go, Joe. Let’s go whoam.

 

LUTHER: An’ I’ll go.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE: Dunna thee do nowt as ter’ll repent of, Luther — dunna thee. It’s thy mother axes thee. Come, Joe.

 

MRS GASCOIGNE goes out, followed by JOE. LUTHER stands with face averted from his wife; mutters something, reaches for his cap, goes out. MINNIE stands with her hand on the mantelpiece.

 

 

 

CURTAIN