MINNIE: He went out with you, and he never came in again. I went to bed, thinking perhaps he’d be sleeping on the sofa. And then I came down, and he wasn’t here.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I’ve seen nowt of him, for he never come up to our house. — Now I wonder what’s afoot wi’ th’ silly fools?
MINNIE: I thought he’d gone and left me.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s more like some o’ this strike work. When I heered that gun, I said: “Theer goes one o’ my lads!”
MINNIE: You don’t think they’re killed?
MRS GASCOIGNE: Heaven knows what they are. But I niver thought he’d ha’ served me this trick — left me by myself without telling me, and gone cutting off a’ th’ night through — an’ him wi’ a broken arm.
MINNIE: Where do you think they’ve gone?
MRS GASCOIGNE: The Lord above alone knows — but I’se warrant it’s one o’ these riotin’ tricks — stopping them blacklegs as wor goin’ down to see to th’ roads.
MINNIE: Do you think — ?
MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ll back anything. For I heered th’ winding engines plain as anything. Hark!
They listen.
MINNIE: I believe I can hear them.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Th’ ingines?
MINNIE: Yes.
MRS GASCOIGNE: They’re winding something down. Eh dear, what a dead world it seems, wi’ none o’ th’ pits chuffin’ an’ no steam wavin’ by day, an’ no lights shinin’ by night. You may back your life there was a gang of ‘em going to stop that lot of blacklegs. And there’d be soldiers for a certainty. If I didn’t hear a shot, I heered summat much like one.
MINNIE: But they’d never shoot, would they?
MRS GASCOIGNE: Haven’t they shot men up an’ down th’ country? Didn’t I know them lads was pining to go an’ be shot at? I did. Methinks when I heard that gun, “They’d niver rest till this had happened.”
MINNIE: But they’re not shot, Mother. You exaggerate.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I niver said they wor. But if anything happens to a man, my lass, you may back your life, nine cases out o’ ten, it’s a spit on th’ women.
MINNIE: Oh, what a thing to say! Why, there are accidents.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yes, an’ men verily gets accidents, to pay us out, I do believe. They get huffed up, they bend down their faces, and they say to theirselves: “Now I’ll get myself hurt, an’ she’ll be sorry,” else: “Now I’ll get myself killed, an’ she’ll ha’e nobody to sleep wi’ ‘er, an’ nobody to nag at.” Oh, my lass, I’ve had a husband an’ six sons. Children they are, these men, but, my word, they’re revengeful children. Children men is a’ the days o’ their lives. But they’re master of us women when their dander’s up, an’ they pay us back double an’ treble — they do — an’ you mun allers expect it.
MINNIE: But if they went to stop the blacklegs, they wouldn’t be doing it to spite us.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Wouldn’t they! Yi, but they would. My lads ‘ud do it to spite me, an’ our Luther ‘ud do it to spite thee. Yes — and it’s trew. For they’d run theirselves into danger and lick their lips for joy, thinking, if I’m killed, then she maun lay me out. Yi — I seed it in our mester. He got killed a’ pit. An’ when I laid him out, his face wor that grim, an’ his body that stiff, an’ it said as plain as plain: “Nowthen, you’ve done for me.” For it’s risky work, handlin’ men, my lass, an’ niver thee pray for sons — Not but what daughters is any good. Th’ world is made o’ men, for me, lass — there’s only the men for me. An’ tha’rt similar. An’ so, tha’lt reap trouble by the peck, an’ sorrow by the bushel. For when a woman builds her life on men, either husbands or sons, she builds on summat as sooner or later brings the house down crash on her head — yi, she does.
MINNIE: But it depends how and what she builds.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It depends, it depends. An’ tha thinks tha can steer clear o’ what I’ve done. An’ perhaps tha can. But steer clear the whole length o’ th’ road, tha canna, an’ tha’lt see. Nay, a childt is a troublesome pleasure to a woman, but a man’s a trouble pure and simple.
MINNIE: I’m sure it depends what you make of him.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Maybe — maybe. But I’ve allers tried to do my best, i’ spite o’ what tha said against me this afternoon.
MINNIE: I didn’t mean it — I was in a rage.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi, tha meant it plain enow. But I’ve tried an’ tried my best for my lads, I have — an’ this is what owd age brings me — wi’ ‘em.
MINNIE: Nay, Mother — nay. See how fond they are of you.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi — an’ they go now i’ their mischief, yes, tryin’ to get killed, to spite me. Yi!
MINNIE: Nay. Nay.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s true. An’ tha can ha’e Luther. Tha’lt get him, an’ tha can ha’e him.
MINNIE: Do you think I shall?
MRS GASCOIGNE: I can see. Tha’lt get him — but tha’lt get sorrow wi’ ‘em, an’ wi’ th’ sons tha has. See if tha doesna.
MINNIE: But I don’t care. Only don’t keep him from me. It leaves me so — with nothing — not even trouble.
MRS GASCOIGNE: He’ll come to thee — an’ he’ll think no more o’ me as is his mother than he will o’ that poker.
MINNIE: Oh, no — oh, no.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Yi — I know well — an’ then that other.
There is a silence — the two women listening.
MINNIE: If they’d been hurt, we should ha’ known by now.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Happen we should. If they come, they’ll come together. An’ they’ll come to this house first.
A silence. MINNIE starts.
Did ter hear owt?
MINNIE: Somebody got over the stile.
MRS GASCOIGNE (listening): Yi.
MINNIE (listening): It is somebody.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ t’street.
MINNIE (starting up): Yes.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Comin’? It’s Luther. (Goes to the door.) An’ it’s on’y Luther.
Both women stand, the mother nearer the door. The door opens — a slight sluther. Enter LUTHER, with blood on his face — rather shaky and dishevelled.
My boy! my boy!
LUTHER: Mother! (He goes blindly.) Where’s Minnie?
MINNIE (with a cry): Oh!
MRS GASCOIGNE: Wheer’s Joe? — wheer’s our Joe?
LUTHER (to MINNIE, queer, stunned, almost polite): It worn’t ‘cause I wor mad wi’ thee I didna come whoam.
MRS GASCOIGNE (clutching him sternly): Where’s Joe?
LUTHER: He’s gone up street — he thought tha might ha’ wakkened.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Wakkened enow.
MRS GASCOIGNE goes out.
MINNIE: Oh, what have you done?
LUTHER: We’d promised not to tell nobody — else I should. We stopped them blacklegs — leastways — but it worn’t because I — I — (He stops to think.) I wor mad wi’ thee, as I didna come whoam.
MINNIE: What have you done to your head?
LUTHER: It wor a stone or summat catched it. It’s gev me a headache. Tha mun — tha mun tie a rag round it — if ter will. (He sways as he takes his cap off.)
She catches him in her arms. He leans on her as if he were tipsy.
Minnie —
MINNIE: My love — my love!
LUTHER: Minnie — I want thee ter ma’e what tha can o’ me. (He sounds almost sleepy.)
MINNIE (crying): My love — my love!
LUTHER: I know what tha says is true.
MINNIE: No, my love — it isn’t — it isn’t.
LUTHER: But if ter’lt ma’e what ter can o’ me — an’ then if ter has a childt — tha’lt happen ha’e enow.
MINNIE: No — no — it’s you. It’s you I want. It’s you.
LUTHER: But tha’s allers had me.
MINNIE: No, never — and it hurt so.
LUTHER: I thowt tha despised me.
MINNIE: Ah — my love!
LUTHER: Dunna say I’m mean, to me — an�
�� got no go.
MINNIE: I only said it because you wouldn’t let me love you.
LUTHER: Tha didna love me.
MINNIE: Ha! — it was you.
LUTHER: Yi. (He looses himself and sits down heavily.) I’ll ta’e my boots off. (He bends forward.)
MINNIE: Let me do them. (He sits up again.)
LUTHER: It’s started bleedin’. I’ll do ‘em i’ ha’ef a minute.
MINNIE: No — trust me — trust yourself to me. Let me have you now for my own. (She begins to undo his boots.)
LUTHER: Dost want me?
MINNIE (she kisses his hands): Oh, my love! (She takes him in her arms.)
He suddenly begins to cry.
CURTAIN
THE WIDOWING OF MRS HOLROYD
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
CHARACTERS
MRS HOLROYD
HOLROYD
BLACKMORE
JACK HOLROYD
MINNIE HOLROYD
GRANDMOTHER
RIGLEY
CLARA
LAURA
MANAGER
TWO MINERS
The action of the play takes place in the Holroyds’ cottage
ACT I
SCENE I
The kitchen of a miner’s small cottage. On the left is the fireplace, with a deep, full red fire. At the back is a white-curtained window, and beside it the outer door of the room. On the right, two white wooden stairs intrude into the kitchen below the closed stair-foot door. On the left, another door.
The room is furnished with a chintz-backed sofa under the window, a glass-knobbed painted dresser on the right, and in the centre, toward the fire, a table with a red and blue check tablecloth. On one side of the hearth is a wooden rocking-chair, on the other an arm-chair of round staves. An unlighted copper-shaded lamp hangs from the raftered ceiling. It is dark twilight, with the room full of warm fireglow. A woman enters from the outer door. As she leaves the door open behind her, the colliery rail can be seen not far from the threshold, and, away back, the headstocks of a pit.
The woman is tall and voluptuously built. She carries a basket heaped full of washing, which she has just taken from the clotheslines outside. Setting down the basket heavily, she feels among the clothes. She lifts out a white heap of sheets and other linen, setting it on the table; then she takes a woollen shirt in her hand.
MRS HOLROYD (aloud, to herself): You know they’re not dry even now, though it’s been as fine as it has. (She spreads the shirt on the back of her rocking-chair, which she turns to the fire.)
VOICE (calling from outside): Well, have you got them dry?
MRS HOLROYD starts up, turns and flings her hand in the direction of the open door, where appears a man in blue overalls, swarfed and greased. He carries a dinner-basket.
MRS HOLROYD: You — you — I don’t know what to call you! The idea of shouting at me like that — like the Evil One out of the darkness!
BLACKMORE: I ought to have remembered your tender nerves. Shall I come in?
MRS HOLROYD: No — not for your impudence. But you’re late, aren’t you?
BLACKMORE: It’s only just gone six. We electricians, you know, we’re the gentlemen on a mine: ours is gentlemen’s work. But I’ll bet Charles Holroyd was home before four.
MRS HOLROYD (bitterly): Ay, and gone again before five.
BLACKMORE: But mine’s a lad’s job, and I do nothing! — Where’s he gone?
MRS HOLROYD (contemptuously): Dunno! He’d got a game on somewhere — toffed himself up to the nines, and skedaddled off as brisk as a turkey-cock. (She smirks in front of the mirror hanging on the chimney-piece, in imitation of a man brushing his hair and moustache and admiring himself.)
BLACKMORE: Though turkey-cocks aren’t brisk as a rule. Children playing?
MRS HOLROYD (recovering herself, coldly): Yes. And they ought to be in.
She continues placing the flannel garments before the fire, on the fender and on chair-backs, till the stove is hedged in with a steaming fence; then she takes a sheet in a bundle from the table, and goes up to BLACKMORE, who stands watching her.
Here, take hold, and help me fold it.
BLACKMORE: I shall swarf it up.
MRS HOLROYD (snatching back the sheet): Oh, you’re as tiresome as everybody else.
BLACKMORE (putting down his basket and moving to door on right): Well, I can soon wash my hands.
MRS HOLROYD (ceasing to flap and fold pillow-cases): That roller-towel’s ever so dirty. I’ll get you another. (She goes to a drawer in the dresser, and then back toward the scullery, from which comes the sound of water.)
BLACKMORE: Why, bless my life, I’m a lot dirtier than the towel. I don’t want another.
MRS HOLROYD (going into the scullery): Here you are.
BLACKMORE (softly, now she is near him): Why did you trouble now? Pride, you know, pride, nothing else.
MRS HOLROYD (also playful): It’s nothing but decency.
BLACKMORE (softly): Pride, pride, pride!
A child of eight suddenly appears in the doorway.
JACK: Oo, how dark!
MRS HOLROYD (hurrying agitated into the kitchen): Why, where have you been — what have you been doing now?
JACK (surprised): Why — I’ve only been out to play.
MRS HOLROYD (still sharply): And where’s Minnie?
A little girl of six appears by the door.
MINNIE: I’m here, mam, and what do you think — ?
MRS HOLROYD (softening, as she recovers equanimity): Well, and what should I think?
JACK: Oh, yes, mam — you know my father — ?
MRS HOLROYD (ironically): I should hope so.
MINNIE: We saw him dancing, mam, with a paper bonnet.
MRS HOLROYD: What — ?
JACK: There’s some women at New Inn, what’s come from Nottingham —
MINNIE: An’ he’s dancin’ with the pink one.
JACK: Shut up, our Minnie. An’ they’ve got paper bonnets on —
MINNIE: All colours, mam!
JACK (getting angry): Shut up, our Minnie! An’ my dad’s dancing with her.
MINNIE: With the pink-bonnet one, mam.
JACK: Up in the club-room over the bar.
MINNIE: An’ she’s a lot littler than him, mam.
JACK (piteously): Shut up, our Minnie — An’ you can see ‘em go past the window, ‘cause there isn’t no curtains up, an’ my father’s got the pink bonnet one —
MINNIE: An’ there’s a piano, mam —
JACK: An’ lots of folks outside watchin’, lookin’ at my dad! He can dance, can’t he, mam?
MRS HOLROYD (she has been lighting the lamp, and holds the lamp-glass): And who else is there?
MINNIE: Some more men — an’ all the women with paper bonnets on.
JACK: There’s about ten, I should think, an’ they say they came in a brake from Nottingham.
MRS HOLROYD, trying to replace the lamp-glass over the flame, lets it drop on the floor with a smash.
JACK: There, now — now we’ll have to have a candle.
BLACKMORE (appearing in the scullery doorway with the towel): What’s that — the lamp-glass?
JACK: I never knowed Mr Blackmore was here.
BLACKMORE (to MRS HOLROYD): Have you got another?
MRS HOLROYD: No. (There is silence for a moment.) We can manage with a candle for to-night.
BLACKMORE (stepping forward and blowing out the smoky flame): I’ll see if I can’t get you one from the pit. I shan’t be a minute.
MRS HOLROYD: Don’t — don’t bother — I don’t want you to.
He, however, unscrews the burner and goes.
MINNIE: Did Mr Blackmore come for tea, mam?
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 725