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 mothe
r 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 —
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 718