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 ni
ps hold of her finger, she maun suck it better, for nobody axed her to dip.
MRS PURDY: You think I’d better go to him? Eh, missis, it’s a nasty business. But right’s right.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Right is right, Mrs Purdy. And you go tell him a-front of her — that’s the best thing you can do. Then iverything’s straight.
MRS PURDY: But for her he might ha’ married our Bertha.
MRS GASCOIGNE: To be sure, to be sure.
MRS PURDY: What right had she to snatch when it pleased her?
MRS GASCOIGNE: That’s what I say. If th’ woman ca’s for th’ piper, th’ woman maun pay th’ tune.
MRS PURDY: Not but what —
JOE: It’s a nasty business.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Nasty or not, it’s hers now, not mine. He’s her husband. “My son’s my son till he takes him a wife,” an’ no longer. Now let her answer for it.
MRS PURDY: An’ you think I’d better go when they’re both in?
MRS GASCOIGNE: I should go to-night, atween six an’ seven, that’s what I should do.
JOE: I never should. If I was you, I’d settle it wi’out Minnie’s knowin’ — it’s bad enough.
MRS GASCOIGNE: What’s bad enough?
JOE: Why, that.
MRS GASCOIGNE: What?
JOE: Him an’ ‘er — it’s bad enough as it is.
MRS GASCOIGNE (with great bitterness): Then let it be a bit worse, let it be a bit worse. Let her have it, then; it’ll do her good. Who is she, to trample eggs that another hen would sit warm? No — Mrs Purdy, give it her. It’ll take her down a peg or two, and, my sirs, she wants it, my sirs, she needs it!
JOE (muttering): A fat lot o’ good it’ll do.
MRS GASCOIGNE: What has thee ter say, I should like to know? Fed an’ clothed an’ coddled, tha art, an’ not a thing tha lacks. But wait till I’m gone, my lad; tha’lt know what I’ve done for thee, then, tha will.
JOE: For a’ that, it’s no good ‘er knowin’.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Isna it? — isna it? If it’s not good for ‘er, it’s good for ‘im.
JOE: I dunna believe it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Who asked thee to believe it? Tha’s showed thysen a wise man this day, hasn’t ter? Wheer should ter be terday but for me? Wheer should ter iver ha’ bin? An’ then tha sits up for to talk. It ud look better o’ thee not to spit i’ th’ hand as holds thy bread an’ butter.
JOE: Neither do I.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Doesn’t ter! Tha has a bit too much chelp an’ chunter. It doesna go well, my lad. Tha wor blortin’ an’ bletherin’ down at th’ office a bit sin’, an’ a mighty fool tha made o’ thysen. How should thee like to go home wi’ thy tale o’ to-day, to Minnie, might I ax thee?
JOE: If she didna like it, she could lump it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It ‘ud be thee as ‘ud lump, my lad. But what does thee know about it? ‘Er’s rip th’ guts out on thee like a tiger, an’ stan’ grinnin’ at thee when tha shrivelled up ‘cause tha’d no inside left.
MRS PURDY: She looks it, I must admit — every bit of it.
JOE: For a’ that, it’s no good her knowing.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I say it is — an’ thee, tha shiftly little know-all, as blorts at one minute like a suckin’ calf an’ th’ next blethers like a hass, dunna thee come layin’ th’ law down to me, for I know better. No, Mrs Purdy, it’s no good comin’ to me. You’ve a right to some compensation, an’ that lass o’ yours has; but let them as cooked the goose eat it, that’s all. Let him arrange it hisself — an’ if he does nothink, put him i’ court, that’s all.
MRS PURDY: He’s not goin’ scot-free, you may back your life o’ that.
MRS GASCOIGNE: You go down to-night atween six an’ seven, an’ let ‘em have it straight. You know where they live?
MRS PURDY: I’ Simson Street?
MRS GASCOIGNE: About four houses up — next Holbrooks.
MRS PURDY (rising): Yes.
JOE: An’ it’ll do no good. Gie me th’ money, Mother; I’ll pay it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha wunna!
JOE: I’ve a right to th’ money — I’ve addled it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: A’ right — an’ I’ve saved it for thee. But tha has none on’t till tha knocks me down an’ ta’es it out o’ my pocket.
MRS PURDY: No — let them pay themselves. It’s not thy childt, is it?
JOE: It isna — but the money is.
MRS GASCOIGNE: We’ll see.
MRS PURDY: Well, I mun get back. Thank yer, missis.
MRS GASCOIGNE: And thank you! I’ll come down to-morrow — at dark hour.
MRS PURDY: Thank yer. — I hope yer arm’ll soon be better.
JOE: Thank yer.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ll come down to-morrow. You’ll go to-night — atween six an’ seven?
MRS PURDY: Yes — if it mun be done, it mun. He took his own way, she took hers, now I mun take mine. Well, good afternoon. I mun see about th’ mester’s dinner.
JOE: And you haven’t said nothink to nobody?
MRS PURDY: I haven’t — I shouldn’t be flig, should I?
JOE: No — I should keep it quiet as long’s you can.
MRS GASCOIGNE: There’s no need for a’ th’ world to know — but them as is concerned maun abide by it.
MRS PURDY: Well, good afternoon.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Good afternoon.
JOE: Good afternoon.
Exit MRS PURDY.
Well, that’s a winder!
MRS GASCOIGNE: Serve her right, for tip-callin’ wi’m all those years.
JOE: She niver ought to know.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I — I could fetch thee a wipe ower th’ face, I could!
He sulks. She is in a rage.
SCENE II
The kitchen of LUTHER GASCOIGNE’S new home.
It is pretty — in “cottage” style; rush-bottomed chairs, black oak-bureau, brass candlesticks, delft, etc. Green cushions in chairs. Towards five o’clock. Firelight. It is growing dark.
MINNIE GASCOIGNE is busy about the fire: a tall, good-looking young woman, in a shirt-blouse and dark skirt, and apron. She lifts lids of saucepans, etc., hovers impatiently, looks at clock, begins to trim lamp.
MINNIE: I wish he’d come. If I didn’t want him, he’d be here half-an-hour since. But just because I’ve got a pudding that wants eating on the tick . . . ! He — he’s never up to the cratch; he never is. As if the day wasn’t long enough!
Sound of footsteps. She seizes a saucepan, and is rushing towards the door. The latch has clacked. LUTHER appears in the doorway, in his pit-dirt — a collier of medium height, with fair moustache. He has a red scarf knotted round his throat, and a cap with a Union medal. The two almost collide.
LUTHER: My word, you’re on the hop!
MINNIE (disappearing into scullery): You nearly made me drop the saucepan. Why are you so late?
LUTHER: I’m non late, am I?
MINNIE: You’re twenty minutes later than yesterday.
LUTHER: Oh ah, I stopped finishing a stint, an’ com up wi’ a’most th’ last batch.
He takes a tin bottle and a dirty calico snap-bag out of his pocket, puts them on the bureau; goes into the scullery.
MINNIE’S VOICE: No!
She comes hurrying out with the saucepan. In a moment, LUTHER follows. He has taken off his coat and cap, his heavy trousers are belted round his hips, his arms are bare to above the elbow, because the pit-singlet of thick flannel is almost sleeveless.
LUTHER: Tha art throng!
MINNIE (at the fire, flushed): Yes, and everything’s ready, and will be spoiled.
LUTHER: Then we’d better eat it afore I wash me.
MINNIE: No — no — it’s not nice —
LUTHER: Just as ter’s a mind — but there’s scarce a collier in a thousand washes hissen afore he has his dinner. We niver did a-whoam.
MINNIE: But it doesn’t look nice.
LUTHER: Eh, wench, tha’lt soon get used ter th’ looks on me. A bit o’ dirt’s like
a veil on my face — I shine through th’ ‘andsomer. What hast got? (He peers over her range.)
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 719