ACT THREE
The same as Acts One and Two. A week later. At rise of curtain, BOB sits at table-side with a soup bowl on his knees, playing on it with two spoons as he would a kettle drum; he whistles a bagpipe tune. JOCK enters from room: jacket off.
JOCK: Is it no’ time you were awa’ to the soup kitchen?
BOB: I’m waitin’ till the last the day, it’s aboot time noo I was gettin’ some o’ the thick stuff.
JOCK: Ay, wait till the last, and when you get doon, there’ll be nane left.
BOB: That’ll be MY funeral.
JOCK: Ay, but you’ll be guzzlin’ the dinner in here.
BOB: Some hope when YOU’RE there.
JOCK: I don’t want ony lip, see!
(BOB rattles on the bowl and whistles)
JOCK: Oh, for God’s sake stop that, it gets on my nerves.
BOB: I think I’ll join the pipe band.
(Has another rattle)
JOCK: You’ll break that flamin’ bowl.
BOB: No fear, sir. (Rattles still)
JOCK: (rising) Are you gaun to stop it?
(BOB stops)
BOB: It’s high time we had the dictatorship o’ the proletariat here.
JOCK: Did you hear ony word o’ Tam Anderson when you were doon the street?
BOB: There’s word comin’ ower the telephone whenever the trial’s finished.
JOCK: (half to himself) I wonder hoo he’ll get on?
JOCK: They’re no’ tryin’ him in the High Court before a jury o’ auld farmers and grocers and butchers to let him aff wi’ a fine. I wouldna be surprised if he gets six months.
BOB: Away and don’t haver! Six months! You’re a reactionary. What would he get six months for?
JOCK: If you had seen the summons you wouldna say that; they’re just aboot chairgin’ him wi’ startin’ a rebellion.
BOB: But it was Wull Baxter that was the cause o’ it, no’ Tam Anderson.
JOCK: Ay, but Wull Baxter was helpin’ the maisters, he was dain’ richt as far as they were concerned.
BOB: But the maisters are no’ tryin’ him.
JOCK: Are they no? You ha’e a lot to learn aboot your revolutionary movement.
BOB: I ken mair than you ken; it’s a revolution that’s needed, and you dinna ken that.
JOCK: I ken that when the revolution comes you’ll be fillin’ your belly some place.
BOB: When the revolution comes, sir, I’ll be in the thick o’ the dictatorship o’ the …
JOCK: Oh! shut it!
(JEAN enters carrying a basin containing potatoes which she puts on the table and begins to pare)
JEAN: Is it no’ time you were awa’ to the soup kitchen, Bob?
BOB: I’m waiting on the thick stuff the day.
JEAN: Ay, and you’ll likely wait till it’s finished.
JOCK: I’ve just been tellin’ him that, but you may as weel speak to the Bass Rock noo as speak to him.
BOB: I dinna ken what you’re a’ worryin’ yoursel’s aboot. If I dinna get ony soup it’ll be me that’ll be hungry, no’ you.
JOCK: I dinna want ony backchat, see!
BOB: (rising) If there’s nae soup left for me there’ll be a revolution doon there.
JOCK: Revolution! and if onybody was burstin’ a paper bag at your back you’d dee wi’ the fricht.
BOB: Oh, you’re just a reactionary, when the revolution comes you’ll be usin’ propaganda for the bourgeois. (Going out door) Three cheers for the dictatorship o’ the…
(JOCK rises in a hurry, and BOB scoots)
JOCK: They damned Bolshies’ are settin’ the young yins off their heids.
JEAN: He’s only a laddie, man. You’re worse than him that pays ony attention.
JOCK: Dictatorship ο’ the proletariat! and, if you asked him what it meant, he couldna tell ye.
JEAN: Do you ken what it means?
JOCK: Ay.
JEAN: What?
JOCK: It means … it means … weel, it means if … it means a revolution that’s what it means.
JEAN: Ay, you ha’e a lot tae learn yet tae, I doot … Hoo d’ye think Tam Anderson’ll get on the day?
JOCK: Six months!
JEAN: Six months! He’ll no get off as easy as that.
JOCK: Then, if you ken, what are you askin’ for?
JEAN: Just for fun. They’re sayin’ doon the street that they’ll no’ be ower hard on him seein’ that the strike’s aboot finished. But there’s no’ much sympathy wi’ lawyers and judges, it’s hard facts wi’ them a’ the time, hard, cauld facts; staring you through and through wi’ their cauld, grey e’en seein’ a’ the bad points, but very few o’ the guid yins.
JOCK: It’s true Jean. Mebbe eichteen months for him, and the strike likely to be finished the day; it’s hard lines … Ay, it’s bad when you think aboot it, oot for seven lang months, hungered and starved just aboot off the face o’ the earth, and to go back defeated.
JEAN: Ach! you men dinna ken hoo to strike onywey; you throw doon your tools, come oot the pit, and stand at the street corner till you starve yoursel’s back to the pit again. And, when you DAE go back, instead o’ strikin’ oot for mair on your rate, you fill mair hutches, and would cut each ither’s throat to get them.
JOCK: I ken there’s a good wheen o’ thae kind.
JEAN: You’re yin o’ thae kind yoursel’. And you’re grousin’ aboot the langer ’oors you’ll need to work, but you’ll be awa’ to the pit an ’oor before the time, and be an ’oor later in comin’ hame frae it. Ach! you dinna ken the first thing aboot strikin’, for as often as you’ve been on strike.
JOCK: D’ye want us to blaw the pits in the air, or what?
JEAN: If you’d slip oot the road and play cricket, and leave it to the women you’d dae mair guid.
JOCK: You ha’e plenty o’ gab, if that would win a strike. I was at yin women’s meetin’, and I couldna hear a word for a week efter it, gab-gab-gab!
JEAN: We ha’e mair than gab, we ha’e courage, and that’s what you men dinna ha’e.
JOCK: I’ll bet you the next strike’ll no’ be sae quiet.
JEAN: (sarcastically) The next strike! and you’ll be breakin’ your neck rinnin’ up to the pit to get your jobs before the strike’s finished.
JOCK: What else can we dae?
JEAN: Huh! I tellt ye. Some men to win a strike.
JOCK: The men were richt enough, it was the leaders that let us doon.
JEAN: And wha put the leaders there? Hoo often dae ye attend the Union meetin’s? You tak’ nae interest in yer affairs till there’s a strike on, then you find oot that you want new leaders. You just get the leaders you deserve.
JOCK: There’s a lot no’ interested, richt enough: of coorse it’s a’ for the want o’ sense.
JEAN: It’s the want o’ sense that makes a man buy that paper you’re readin’, tae, after a’ it has said aboot ye since the strike started.
JOCK: Eh!
JEAN: That’s a coalmaisters’ paper you’re readin’.
JOCK: I ken that fine, you dinna need to tell me that.
JEAN: Then what dae you buy it for?
JOCK: Oh, just for the sake o’ the pictures.
JEAN: You’d be as weel to stop it, then, and buy ‘Comic Cuts’.10
JOCK: Where’s Jenny?
JEAN: She’s doon at the soup kitchen, gi’en them a hand.
JOCK: They tell me they’re on their last bag o’ tatties.
JEAN: Ay, and as mony tattie pits aboot the place. It doesna say much for you men.
JOCK: I think you want to see us in the jile.
JEAN: The jile! You’d rather lie doon on a tattie pit and dee wi’ an empty belly than risk the jile. I canna understand you men.
JOCK: Where did you get THAE tatties?
JEAN: When you were studyin’ the form o’ the horses.
JOCK: Wull Baxter was doon the street yesterday, I hear.
JEAN: Ay, he was in the toon, at the shippin’ office.
JOCK: Gaun off to Canada likely?
JEAN: Ay.
JOCK: Does Jenny ken?
JEAN: He sent a letter to her yesterday.
JOCK: Oh? did he! And what was in it?
JEAN: Wantin’ her to go to Canada wi’ him.
JOCK: Well, I’ll be damned! Did you ever hear sic’ neck? What did he say?
JEAN: He’s vexed for everything that’s happened. Says it was for Jenny’s sake he blacklegged — wanted to get as much as take them awa’ frae here.
JOCK: If you dinna watch her she’ll slip off wi’ him, that’s what you’ll see.
JEAN: I’m kind o’ vexed for him tae, Jock.
JOCK: I tell’t ye. See here, Jean, there’s to be nae damned nonsense aboot this. Wull Baxter’s gaun to Cananda HIMSEL’! What would the neebours say aboot a thing like this?
JEAN: To hell wi’ the neebours! they dinna concern me, Jock.
JOCK: It’s no’ happenin’, see!
JEAN: Wha said it was happenin’? I just said I was vexed for him.
JOCK: Ay, but you’re fishin’ to get roon’ the saft side o’ me. I see the game a‘richt.
JEAN: You’d think you were boss in here the wey you’re talkin’. The saft side o’ YOU. You havena had ony drink this mornin’, ha’e ye?
JOCK: There’s something in the wind when you’re beginnin’ to pity him noo. Vexed for him! and Tam Anderson likely to get the jile ower the heid o’ him.
JEAN: He made a mistake, that was a’. And that tinker o’ a mither o’ his made him go.
JOCK: Where’s his letter?
JEAN: She says she burnt it.
JOCK: Then she has mair sense than you.
JEAN: Ay, she tak’s it off her faither.
(JENNY enters, almost in tears)
JENNY: Ha’e you heard aboot Tam Anderson?
JOCK: No, hoo did he get on?
JENNY: Oh, faither, he’s got three years.
JOCK: Three years!
JEAN: Three years! That canna be true, Jenny.
JENNY: Ay, it’s true, mither, he’s awa’ to the jile for three years.
JOCK: Good God! That’s cruel. Three years! as quiet a laddie as ever stepped in twa shoon.
JEAN: This’ll send Kate mad. Puir sowl, she’s hain’ her fill o’ sorrow the noo. Does she ken, Jenny?
JENNY: No. Will you go doon and tell her, faither?
JOCK: Will I go doon, Jean?
JEAN: (at window) Here she’s comin’. You’d better go to the room, Jenny.
(JENNY goes to room)
JOCK: This is a bad job, Jean.
JEAN: Oh, this strike’s gaun to break a’ oor he’rts before it’s finished.
(KATE enters. She is very pale and worn-looking)
KATE: (holding out her hand) Here, Jean.
JEAN: What is it, Kate?
KATE: Some money.
JEAN: What is that for?
KATE: Just a wee bit help, Jean.
JEAN: I dinna want it, Kate, you ha’e mair need o’ it than me.
KATE: I got the insurance money the day, Jean. Tak’ it, noo, or I’ll be angry.
JEAN: I’ll tak’ it, Kate, but I’ll pay it back when the strike’s finished.
(She takes the money)
KATE: Ha’e you seen my faither this mornin’, Jock?
JOCK: No, me, Kate.
KATE: He went oot after breakfast time, and he’s no’ hame yet. He cam’ hame gey fu’ yesterday.
JOCK: So I suppose.
KATE: D’ye ken, Jean, I’m weary.
JEAN: I’m sorry for you, Kate, but you’ll no need to lose he’rt.
KATE: Hoo d’ye think Tam’ll get on the day, Jock?
JOCK: I dinna ken, Kate, I don’t think they’ll be too hard on him.
KATE: Will he get off, d’ye think?
JOCK: I doot he’ll no’ get off, Kate.
(He looks at JEAN, KATE sees him)
KATE: Is the word in?
JOCK: I dinna ken, Kate, I havena heard onything.
(He hangs his head)
KATE: You HA’E got word. Tell me, Jock. Tell me, Jean. Oh! for God’s sake tell me!
JOCK: (putting his hand on her shoulder) Kate … I ha’ena very guid news for ye … you’ll need to bear up. They ha’e him awa’ for … three years.
KATE: (in whisper) Three years! … three years! … Oh! Jock.
(She buries her head on his shoulder)
JEAN: (going to her) Kate, dearie.
(KATE cries bitterly)
JEAN: Puir lass, I’m sorry for ye.
KATE: Three years! Oh, Jean … Jean!
JEAN: Come awa’ doon wi’ me, Kate. Puir Tam!
(They go out, and JENNY enters)
JOCK: Three years, and we live in a civilised country. If this is civilisation put me in among the savages. You better go doon and keep her company a wee while, Jenny.
JENNY: (in a hysterical kind of way) Three years? and the miners are feart for revolution. Ha! ha! ha!
(She goes out. JOCK takes his pipe from his pocket, it is empty. He looks towards door, then hurries to the tea caddie on mantleshelf. He fills pipe with tea, and is seated, puffing merrily when JEAN enters)
JEAN: Puir lass, she’s in an awfu’ state.
JOCK: (puffing) She’s gettin’ HER share o’ the strike, Jean.
JEAN: God kens she is. And that faither o’ her’s awa’ boozin’,
I suppose. You’ll need to ha’e a word wi’ him; that kind o’ conduct’ll no’ dae at a time like this; he’ll break that lass’s he’rt.
JOCK: He has aye been the same, a washoot: the least excuse and off on the beer. He had the best wife in the country, tae, but dinna seem to ken it.
JEAN: He’ll ken noo, when she’s awa’.
JOCK: I’ll ha’e a talk wi’ him and see if I canna put some sense into his fat heid. (Puffs) What ha’e you for the dinner the day?
JEAN: Tatties and onions.
JOCK: Stovies?
JEAN: Ay (Coughs) What kind o’ baccy is that you’re smokin’?
JOCK: Eh! It’s … it’s some fag ends I got frae Bob.
JEAN: It’s surely that, that’s an awfu’ smell.
(BOB enters carryin’ his bowl, which he puts on table)
JEAN: Hullo! did you no’ get your soup?
BOB: I was ower late.
JOCK: I tell’t ye, didn’t I?
BOB: (to JEAN) Ha’e you ony dinner, mither?
JEAN: Stovies and onions.
BOB: Some feed!
JEAN: It’s better than nane.
BOB: No’ much … Is it true that the strike’s aboot finished?
JEAN: Ay, ham and eggs every Sunday mornin’ noo.
BOB: If we had eggs, we could ha’e ham and eggs the noo, if we had ham.
JOCK: Eh?
BOB: I’m sayin’, if we had eggs, we could ha’e ham and eggs.
JOCK: What the flames are you talkin’ aboot?
BOB: (snuffling) What kind o’ baccy is that you’re smokin’?
JOCK: What was wrang, there was nae soup?
BOB: Nae money left in the funds.
JEAN: Did you hear aboot Tam Anderson, Bob?
BOB: No, hoo did he get on?
BOB: Three years! I ken what’s needed, it’s a revolution that’s needed.
JOCK: Oh, for God’s sake gi’e that revolution a rest.
BOB: What kind o’ baccy is that you’re smokin’?
JEAN: (coughing) It’s fag ends.
BOB: (jumping) Where did you get them?
JOCK: Never you mind.
BOB: ha I havena had a smoke the day. By Gee! When the strike’s finished I’ll smoke till I’m sick.
JEAN: (putting on shawl) I’m gaun doon for something to eat. (Lifting basket) Lift off that pot, Jock, you’re bound to be tired o’ stovies. We’ll ha’e ham and eggs the day, supposin’ we should never ha’e them again.
(She goes out)
BOB: (shouting after her) Bring me a packet o’ Woodbines, mither. Ay, if we had eggs, we would ha’e ham and eggs the noo …
JOCK: (interrupting) Oh! shut up.
BOB: Where did you get the fag ends?
JOCK: I forgot to tell your mither I was needin’ baccy.
BOB: She’ll mebbe forget the ham and eggs, but she’ll no forget your baccy.
JOCK: You better rin efter her and tell her.
BOB: She’ll mind richt enough.
JOCK: It’s high time the wheels WERE gaun roond; wheen o’ ye’ll soon no’ be able to walk wi’ laziness.
BOB: I’m tired.
JOCK: What dain’?
BOB: Rinnin’ back and forrit to that soup kitchen on an empty belly. (Suddenly) I wonder if she’ll mind my Woodbines? (He jumps and rushes off. JOCK watches him go, and shakes his head. He sits repeating: If we had eggs, we could ha’e ham and eggs the noo, if we had ham, in a baffled way. He gives up. Then he lifts pot from fire and takes it to room. LIZZIE enters from school. She takes off her schoolbag, then looks into the cupboard of dresser. JOCK enters)
JOCK: What are you lookin’ in there for?
(LIZZIE is startled)
LIZZIE: I want a piece, daddy.
JOCK: You’ll need to wait till your mither comes hame.
LIZZIE: Where is she?
JOCK: Awa’ for ham and eggs.
LIZZIE: Ham and eggs!
JOCK: Ay, if we had eggs we could ha’e ham and eggs the noo… no, I’m damned if I can get that.
LIZZIE: Eh?
JOCK: Naething.
LIZZIE: I couldna tak’ my dinner at the schule the day, daddy.
JOCK: What was wrang wi’ ye?
LIZZIE: I got the strap frae the maister, and I was sick.
JOCK: What did you get the strap for?
LIZZIE: Because I dinna ha’e my hame sums richt … See, daddy.
(She holds out her little hand)
JOCK: Puir wee sowl, you had mair need o’ a guid diet the day than the strap. Ower fu’ fed, and get their money ower easy, that’s what’s wrang wi’ them. But I’ll see him the morn, Lizzie, and he can tak’ what he gets frae me, the dirty swine.
LIZZIE: I ken what’s needed, daddy, it’s a revolution that’s needed.
(BOB enters)
JOCK: Did you tell her aboot my tobacco?
BOB: No me, she kens to get your baccy richt enough.
JOCK: No, but you would tell her aboot your Woodbines?
BOB: That’s what I ran efter her for. That’s a fine state o’ affairs doon there noo!
JOCK: What’s wrang?
BOB: Oh, they’re flockin’ up to the pit in their hunners to get their jobs back.
JOCK: What are they dain’ that for?
BOB: There’s a notice up at the pit that every man has to be before the manager before he gets his job back.
JOCK: What’s the big idea?
BOB: Every man has to promise to chuck up the Union.
JOCK: Oh! and if we DINNA promise?
BOB: Well, you’ll no’ get your job back.
JOCK: So that’s the wey o’ it, they’ve got their foot on oor necks, and they’re gaun to put on the screw. Chuck up the Union! The men’ll never agree to that.
BOB: What else can they dae?
JOCK: They can go on the ‘dole’. We micht be better on the ‘dole’ onywey.
BOB: By gee! that’s a good idea, I never thoucht o’ that. Dinna go near the pit, faither, we ha’e nae buits or claes to start oor work wi’ onywey. (At mirror) My face is no’ half broon, faither.
JOCK: They’ll soon take the broon off your face: they’ll soon make a mushroom o’ ye. It’s a hell o’ a job, hunger and rags, water and bad air, and up at fower o’ clock on the cauld, snawy mornin’s, and under the heel o’ a set o’ tyrants for starvation wages. And what can we dae, just suffer it oot and say naething.
BOB: I ken what’s needed …
LIZZIE: It’s a revolution that’s needed, Bob.
JOCK: (to BOB) Did you see any signs o’ Tam Pettigrew when you were doon the street?
BOB: Ay, he was comin’ oot the pub. As drunk as a sodger.
JOCK: I’m gaun to gi’e that yin a thick ear, that’s what’s gaun to happen.
BOB: (at window) Here he’s comin’, faither. He’s comin’ here. Will I lock the door?
JOCK: No, let him come in, I’ll mebbe sober him up a bit.
BOB: That booze is just a curse, the pubs should be a’ shut.
(TAM PETTIGREW passes the window singing)
TAM: (off) Are ye in!
JOCK: Come in!
(TAM enters, and stands at door)
TAM: I’m up to gi’e ye a dram, Jock. I’m Tam Pettigrew, I gi’e a dram to wha I like and I take a dram … when I like … that’s me!
JOCK: Are you no’ ashamed o’ yoursel’, Tam?
TAM: Ashamed o’ mysel’! What the hell ha’e I to be ashamed o’? I take a dram when I like … and gi’e a dram to wha I like … that’s me … and always has been me … see!
(JOCK goes to help him to chair. TAM pushes him from him)
TAM: You surely think I’m drunk. I can manage to the chair myself. (Walks unsteadily to chair) I’m Tam Pettigrew … I take a dram when I like … and gi’e a dram to wha I like … that’s me!
(He sits down)
TAM: Gimme a glass, Jock, and I’ll gi’e ye a dram.
JOCK: (to BOB) Rin doon and tell Kate he’s here, she’ll likely be anxious aboot him.
TAM: What’s that? anxious aboot me? I know what I’m dain’, there’s naebody need to be … anxious aboot me … Bob! here’s something for fags.
BOB: (at door) You shairly think I’d take money frae you. If I was Kate …
JOCK: Rin awa’ doon.
(BOB goes out, LIZZIE following, looking at TAM, half afraid)
TAM: Anxious aboot me! aboot ME! Here, Jock, are you tryin’ to be funny? … if you are, it’s no’ gaun to work, see? I’m Tam Pettigrew, and there’s nae man tryin’ to tak’ his nap aff me, see!
JOCK: D’ye think you’re playin’ the game, Tam?
TAM: D’ye want a dram, or dae ye no’?
(JOCK loses his temper and snatches the bottle from TAM’s hand)
TAM: (rising) Here! … What’s the game?
(JOCK forces him to his seat)
JOCK: Sit doon, see? I ha’e something to say to you.
(TAM struggles, and JOCK has to raise the bottle to strike him)
JOCK: SIT DOON!
(TAM sits, afraid, and much sobered)
JOCK: A fine sicht you to cheer the he’rts o’ your bairns, a lot o’ he’ rtnin’ a drunk faither’ll gi’e them. See here, Tam, this conduct’ll no’ dae: you’ve got to pull yoursel’ thigither; be a man, it’s only cowards that droon their sorrows in the pub. Ha’e some respect for the wife you laid to rest.
(There is a pause)
TAM: Jock, my he’rt’s broken.
(He buries his head in his hands)
JOCK: Yours is no’ the only he’rt that’s broken, there’s a hoosefu’ doon by. And Kate’s needin’ a’ the help you can gi’e her, or there’s gaun to be anither death in the hoose.
TAM: I’ll never get the better o’ this Jock… Died o’ starvation … Them and their strike … they’ve killed her.
JOCK: Noo, noo, Tam, it’ll no’ dae to lose he’rt that way, it canna be helped noo, and you’ll need to put a stout he’rt to a stey brae.
TAM: It COULD ha’e been helped! Them and their bloody strike! The best woman that ever lived. Hoo can I get ower it?
JOCK: You’ll never get ower it if you’re gaun to boose. You ha’e you’re bairns to care for noo. YOU’VE got to take the mither’s place, and you’ll need to get ower it for their sakes. D’ye think the wife would rest in her grave if she kent o’ this cairry on the day?
TAM: Them and their strike … Oh! Jock …
(Enter KATE, followed by JENNY and BOB)
KATE: Come awa’ doon, faither.
TAM: (after a pause) Are you angry wi’ me, Kate?
KATE: No me. Come awa’ doon and we’ll ha’e a cup o’ tea.
TAM: Kate, lass, I’m no’ playin’ the game. Tell me you’re no’ angry wi’ me.
KATE: No, I’m no’ angry wi’ ye. Come awa doon, the weans are wearyin’ on ye.
TAM: Kate, I’m no’ playin’ the game.
(JOCK helps KATE to get TAM on his feet)
TAM: Jock, she likes her mither.
JOCK: Ay, ay, Tam. Awa’ doon wi’ her and get a cup o’ tea and you’ll sune be as richt as the mail.
TAM: YOU’RE no’ angry wi’ me, Jock?
JOCK: No’ me, Tam.
TAM: (going out with KATE) Them and their strike … them and their bloody strike! …
(JENNY follows)
JOCK: God guide ye, Kate, for you ha’e a big battle in front o’ ye.
BOB: The boose is just a flamin’ curse.
JOCK: It’s a pity for him tae, Bob.
BOB: It’s NAE pity for him, he’s a washoot. May I choke mysel’ stane deid the first time I put that stuff in my mooth.
JOCK: It’s easy speakin’, but we’re no’ a’ made o’ steel. You’re young yet, Bob and you ha’e a lot to come through before you can say what you can dae.
(JOCK sits at fire)
BOB: Kate’s far too saft wi’ him, it’s a slap on the kisser he needs.
JOCK: Awa’ and meet your mither, she’ll be on her road hame noo.
BOB: I ken whit should be done wi’ it a’.
(He lifts bottle from table, and, unseen by JOCK, goes out and smashes it against wall. JOCK jumps on hearing the crash. BOB enters, rather proud)
JOCK: What the flames was that?
BOB: That’s the stuff to gi’e them, poor it doon the street.
JOCK: (looking at table) Here! is that you broken that bottle o’ whisky?
BOB: Too true, it’s a pity there’s only yin.
JOCK: Well, I’ll be damned. (Loudly) Are you aware a bottle o’ whisky costs thirteen shillin’s, and here you’ve sent it sailin’ doon the street. Ye flamin’ imp!
BOB: (retreating) But I thoucht you said.
JOCK: What did I say! WHAT DID I SAY! Thirteen shillin’s worth rinnin’ doon the street.
BOB: Was you wantin’ to pour it doon your ain neck?
JOCK: Shut up, ye flamin’ agitator, before I lose my temper wi’ ye. Thirteen white shillin’s worth runnin‘. Oot o’ my sicht, see! before I mulligrize ye!
BOB: By gee! it’s great, richt enough: tellin’ a man aff because he was drunk, and shootin’ oot your neck noo because you canna get the same chance.
(JOCK makes a mad rush after BOB, who scoots)
JOCK: Never heard tell o’ such a dirty trick a’ my flamin’ days. Thirteen white shillin’s worth … ach! it’s enough to break a body’s he’rt.
(JENNY enters)
JENNY: Faither, you’ll need to go doon beside that man, he’s still ravin’ aboot the strike.
JOCK: (putting on coat) A damned guid thumpin’ is what HE’S needin’ (Going out) Thirteen white shillin’s worth rinnin’ doon the street.
(JENNY sits at fire side, and, after looking into the fire for a while, takes a letter from her bosom. The canary sings merrily in the quietness. LIZZIE enters and JENNY hides the letter again in her bosom)
LIZZIE: Jenny, Wull Baxter wants to see ye.
JENNY: Where is he?
LIZZIE: He’s standin’ roon’ the corner o’ the hoose.
JENNY: Tell him to come in.
(LIZZIE goes out. JENNY walks nervously round room. She is facing the fire when WULL enters. He halts at door)
WULL: (softly) Jenny.
(JENNY turns and straightens herself)
JENNY: What d’ye want here, Wull?
WULL: I’m gaun awa’ the morn, Jenny.
JENNY: Weel!
WULL: I canna go withoot sayin’ Guid-bye!
JENNY: There was nae need, Wull.
WULL: You’re gey hard, Jenny.
JENNY: No, Wull, I’m no’ hard, you played a gey hard game wi’ ME.
WULL: I thoucht I was daein’ richt, Jenny. I thoucht the men would make a start if somebody took the lead.
JENNY: And you stabbed them in the back; the neebours you ha’e lived wi’ a’ your days, the men you ha’e kept company wi’, the men you ha’e sported wi’… ye traitor!
(WULL is stung by the thrust, and JENNY relents)
JENNY: Oh, Wull, what made you dae it? We were happy … ower happy … and noo …
WULL: We can be happy yet, Jenny. Let us gang awa’ thigither … awa’ frae here … awa’ where nobody kens me … where we’ll get peace.
JENNY: It’s ower late, Wull, I canna forgi’e ye.
WULL: It was to let us get to Canada, Jenny. It was for your sake.
(JENNY looks into the fire, but makes no answer)
WULL: I made a mistake, Jenny, I see that noo, but it’s no’ ower late to forgi’e me, and let us start a new life … The auld days were happy days, Jenny. I could go about wi’ my heid in the air, and everybody had a smile for me. But noo … everybody has a scowl and a curse … God, but I ha’e come through hell.
(There is a pause)
WULL: It was the strike to blame, Jenny.
JENNY: (still looking into fire) Ay, the strike … the strike … shattered hopes and broken he’rts.
WULL: We can be happy yet, Jenny.
JENNY: It’s ower late, Wull.
WULL: The strike’ll soon be forgotten.
JENNY: Ay, but you failed me, failed us a’, THAT can never be forgotten.
WULL: If I was to send for you after a while, Jenny …
JENNY: It’s ower late, Wull … (Holding out her hand) Guid bye!
WULL: Think it ower for a while …
JENNY: Guid bye!
(He shakes hands with her, and then goes slowly away. JENNY looks into fire. WULL halts at door, watches her for a second or two, then goes out. The bird sings blythly. After a pause, BOB enters)
BOB: Here! was that Wull Baxter in here?
(JENNY makes no answer)
BOB: What was he dain’ in here, I’m askin’?
(Then he sees that she is upset)
BOB: What’s wrang wi’ ye, Jenny? Are ye vexed because he’s gaun awa’? I wouldna be vexed; he’s just a dirty, rotten blackleg.
JENNY: For God’s sake, Bob …
BOB: I wouldna vex mysel’ like that.
JENNY: Ay, you would vex yoursel’ tae, Bob; hunger and rags we can get ower but no’ the likes o’ this … Every dream and every hope shattered into a thousand bits. Oh! is there to be nae peace… ha’e we ay to be crushed, and crushed, and never get a chance to live! Ha’e we ay to be gropin’ in the darkness? nae sunshine ava! Oh, God, dae something to tak’ the load off oor shouthers or we’ll gang mad!
(She goes to room. BOB watches her go in wonderment. Then JEAN and JOCK and LIZZIE enter, JEAN carrying a laden basket)
JEAN: If we had eggs, we could ha’e ham and eggs the noo, if we had ham, eh, Bob?
BOB: Did you mind my Woodbines?
(JOCK cuffs his ear off easy chair. JEAN hands BOB his Woodbines)
LIZZIE: Is the strike finished, Daddy?
JOCK: (taking her on his knee) Finished, dearies, and we ha’e got knocked oot again.
JEAN: (putting groceries out on table) Ay, but we’re no’ gaun to lose he’rt, Jock; we’ll live to fight anither day; there’s life in the auld dog yet.
(Then the sound of voices can be heard singing in the distance, the tune is ‘The Red Flag’. A look of pride comes into JEAN’S eyes, and she listens. Then she speaks, as if inspired by some great hope)
JEAN: That’s the spirit, my he’ rties! sing! sing! tho’ they ha’e ye chained to the wheels and the darkness. Sing! tho’ they ha’e ye crushed in the mine. Keep up your he’rts, my laddies, you’ll win through yet, for there’s nae power on earth can crush the men that can sing on a day like this.