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.