MRS HOLROYD (sternly, to the children): Go to bed!
JACK: What’s a matter, mother?
MRS HOLROYD: Never you mind, go to bed!
CLARA (appealingly): Be quick, missis.
MRS HOLROYD, glancing round, sees LAURA going purple, and runs past the children upstairs. The boy and girl sit on the lowest stair. Their father goes out of the house, shamefaced. MRS HOLROYD runs downstairs with a little brandy in a large bottle.
CLARA: Thanks, awfully. (To LAURA) Come on, try an’ drink a drop, there’s a dear.
They administer brandy to LAURA. The children sit watching, open-eyed. The girl stands up to look.
MINNIE (whispering): I believe it’s blue bonnet.
JACK (whispering): It isn’t — she’s in a fit.
MINNIE (whispering): Well, look under th’ table — JACK peers under — there’s ‘er bonnet. (JACK creeps forward.) Come back, our Jack.
JACK (returns with the bonnet): It’s all made of paper.
MINNIE: Let’s have a look — it’s stuck together, not sewed.
She tries it on. HOLROYD enters — he looks at the child.
MRS HOLROYD (sharply, glancing round): Take that off!
MINNIE hurriedly takes the bonnet from her head. Her father snatches it from her and puts it on the fire.
CLARA: There, you’re coming round now, love.
MRS HOLROYD turns away. She sees HOLROYD’S eyes on the brandy-bottle, and immediately removes it, corking it up.
MRS HOLROYD (to CLARA): You will not need this any more?
CLARA: No, thanks. I’m very much obliged.
MRS HOLROYD (does not unbend, but speaks coldly to the children):
Come, this is no place for you — come back to bed.
MINNIE: No, mam, I don’t want to.
MRS HOLROYD (contralto): Come along!
MINNIE: I’m frightened, mam.
MRS HOLROYD: Frightened, what of?
MINNIE: Oo, there was a row.
MRS HOLROYD (taking MINNIE in her arms): Did they frighten you, my pet? (She kisses her.)
JACK (in a high whisper): Mother, it’s pink bonnet and blue bonnet, what was dancing.
MINNIE (whimpering): I don’t want to go to bed, mam, I’m frightened.
CLARA (who has pulled off her pink bonnet and revealed a jug-handle coiffure): We’re going now, duckie — you’re not frightened of us, are you?
MRS HOLROYD takes the girl away before she can answer. JACK lingers behind.
HOLROYD: Now then, get off after your mother.
JACK (taking no notice of his father): I say, what’s a dog’s-nose?
CLARA ups with her handkerchief and LAURA responds with a faint giggle.
HOLROYD: Go thy ways upstairs.
CLARA: It’s only a small whiskey with a spoonful of beer in it, my duck.
JACK: Oh!
CLARA: Come here, my duck, come on.
JACK curious, advances.
CLARA: You’ll tell your mother we didn’t mean no harm, won’t you?
JACK (touching her earrings): What are they made of?
CLARA: They’re only earrings. Don’t you like them?
JACK: Um! (He stands surveying her curiously. Then he touches a bracelet made of many little mosaic brooches.) This is pretty, isn’t it?
CLARA (pleased): Do you like it?
She takes it off. Suddenly MRS HOLROYD is heard calling, ‘Jack, Jack!’ CLARA starts.
HOLROYD: Now then, get off!
CLARA (as JACK is reluctantly going): Kiss me good night, duckie, an’ give this to your sister, shall you?
She hands JACK the mosaic bracelet. He takes it doubtfully. She kisses him. HOLROYD watches in silence.
LAURA (suddenly, pathetically): Aren’t you going to give me a kiss, an’ all?
JACK yields her his cheek, then goes.
CLARA (to HOLROYD): Aren’t they nice children?
HOLROYD: Ay.
CLARA (briskly): Oh, dear, you’re very short, all of a sudden. Don’t answer if it hurts you.
LAURA: My, isn’t he different?
HOLROYD (laughing forcedly): I’m no different.
CLARA: Yes, you are. You shouldn’t ‘ave brought us if you was going to turn funny over it.
HOLROYD: I’m not funny.
CLARA: No, you’re not. (She begins to laugh. LAURA joins in in spite of herself.) You’re about as solemn as a roast potato. (She flings up her hands, claps them down on her knees, and sways up and down as she laughs, LAURA joining in, hand on breast.) Are you ready to be mashed? (She goes off again — then suddenly wipes the laughter off her mouth and is solemn.) But look ‘ere, this’ll never do. Now I’m going to be quiet. (She prims herself.)
HOLROYD: Tha’d ‘appen better.
CLARA: Oh, indeed! You think I’ve got to pull a mug to look decent? You’d have to pull a big un, at that rate.
She bubbles off, uncontrollably — shaking herself in exasperation meanwhile. LAURA joins in. HOLROYD leans over close to her.
HOLROYD: Tha’s got plenty o’ fizz in thee, seemly.
CLARA (putting her hand on his face and pushing it aside, but leaving her hand over his cheek and mouth like a caress): Don’t, you’ve been drinking. (She begins to laugh.)
HOLROYD: Should we be goin’ then?
CLARA: Where do you want to take us?
HOLROYD: Oh — you please yourself o’ that! Come on wi’ me.
CLARA (sitting up prim): Oh, indeed!
HOLROYD (catching hold of her): Come on, let’s be movin’ — (he glances apprehensively at the stairs).
CLARA: What’s your hurry?
HOLROYD (persuasively): Yi, come on wi’ thee.
CLARA: I don’t think. (She goes off, uncontrollably.)
HOLROYD (sitting on the table, just above her): What’s use o’ sittin’ ‘ere?
CLARA: I’m very comfy: I thank thee.
HOLROYD: Tha’rt a baffling little ‘ussy.
CLARA (running her hand along his thigh): Aren’t you havin’ nothing, my dear? (Offers him her glass.)
HOLROYD (getting down from the table and putting his hand forcibly on her shoulder): No. Come on, let’s shift.
CLARA (struggling): Hands off!
She fetches him a sharp slap across the face. MRS HOLROYD is heard coming downstairs. CLARA, released, sits down, smoothing herself. HOLROYD looks evil. He goes out to the door.
CLARA (to MRS HOLROYD, penitently): I don’t know what you think of us, I’m sure.
MRS HOLROYD: I think nothing at all.
CLARA (bubbling): So you fix your thoughts elsewhere, do you? (Suddenly changing to seriousness.) No, but I have been awful to-night.
MRS HOLROYD (contralto, emphatic): I don’t want to know anything about you. I shall be glad when you’ll go.
CLARA: Turning-out time, Laura.
LAURA (turtling): I’m sorry, I’m sure.
CLARA: Never mind. But as true as I’m here, missis, I should never ha’ come if I’d thought. But I had a drop — it all started with your husband sayin’ he wasn’t a married man.
LAURA (laughing and wiping her eyes): I’ve never knowed her to go off like it — it’s after the time she’s had.
CLARA: You know, my husband was a brute to me — an’ I was in bed three month after he died. He was a brute, he was. This is the first time I’ve been out; it’s a’most the first laugh I’ve had for a year.
LAURA: It’s true, what she says. We thought she’d go out of ‘er mind. She never spoke a word for a fortnight.
CLARA: Though he’s only been dead for two months, he was a brute to me. I was as nice a young girl as you could wish when I married him and went to the Fleece Inn — I was.
LAURA: Killed hisself drinking. An’ she’s that excitable, she is. We s’ll ‘ave an awful time with ‘er to-morrow, I know.
MRS HOLROYD (coldly): I don’t know why I should hear all this.
CLARA: I know I must ‘ave seemed awful. An’ them children — aren’t they nice little things, La
ura?
LAURA: They are that.
HOLROYD (entering from the door): Hanna you about done theer?
CLARA: My word, if this is the way you treat a lady when she comes to see you. (She rises.)
HOLROYD: I’ll see you down th’ line.
CLARA: You’re not coming a stride with us.
LAURA: We’ve got no hat, neither of us.
CLARA: We’ve got our own hair on our heads, at any rate. (Drawing herself up suddenly in front of MRS HOLROYD.) An’ I’ve been educated at a boarding school as good as anybody. I can behave myself either in the drawing-room or in the kitchen as is fitting and proper. But if you’d buried a husband like mine, you wouldn’t feel you’d much left to be proud of — an’ you might go off occasionally.
MRS HOLROYD: I don’t want to hear you.
CLARA (bobbing a curtsy): Sorry I spoke.
She goes out stiffly, followed by LAURA.
HOLROYD (going forward): You mun mind th’ points down th’ line.
CLARA’S VOICE: I thank thee, Charlie — mind thy own points.
He hesitates at the door — returns and sits down. There is silence in the room. HOLROYD sits with his chin in his hand. MRS HOLROYD listens. The footsteps and voices of the two women die out. Then she closes the door. HOLROYD begins to unlace his boots.
HOLROYD (ashamed yet defiant, withal anxious to apologize): Wheer’s my slippers?
MRS HOLROYD sits on the sofa with face averted and does not answer.
HOLROYD: Dost hear? (He pulls off his boots, noisily, and begins to hunt under the sofa.) I canna find the things. (No answer.) Humph! — then I’ll do be ‘out ‘em. (He stumps about in his stockinged feet; going into the scullery, he brings out the loaf of bread; he returns into the scullery.) Wheer’s th’ cheese? (No answer — suddenly)God blast it! (He hobbles into the kitchen.) I’ve trod on that broken basin, an’ cut my foot open. (MRS HOLROYD refuses to take any notice. He sits down and looks at his sole — pulls off his stocking and looks again.) It’s lamed me for life. (MRS HOLROYD glances at the wound.)Are ‘na ter goin’ ter get me öwt for it?
MRS HOLROYD: Psh!
HOLROYD: Oh, a’ right then. (He hops to the dresser, opens a drawer, and pulls out a white rag; he is about to tear it.)
MRS HOLROYD (snatching it from him): Don’t tear that!
HOLROYD (shouting): Then what the deuce am I to do? (MRS HOLROYD sits stonily.) Oh, a’ right then! (He hops back to his chair, sits down, and begins to pull on his stocking.) A’ right then — a’ right then. (In a fever of rage he begins pulling on his boots.) I’ll go where I can find a bit o’ rag.
MRS HOLROYD: Yes, that’s what you want! All you want is an excuse to be off again — ”a bit of rag”!
HOLROYD (shouting): An’ what man’d want to stop in wi’ a woman sittin’ as fow as a jackass, an’ canna get a word from ‘er edgeways.
MRS HOLROYD: Don’t expect me to speak to you after to-night’s show. How dare you bring them to my house, how dare you?
HOLROYD: They’ve non hurt your house, have they?
MRS HOLROYD: I wonder you dare to cross the doorstep.
HOLROYD: I s’ll do what the deuce I like. They’re as good as you are.
MRS HOLROYD (stands speechless, staring at him; then low): Don’t you come near me again —
HOLROYD (suddenly shouting, to get his courage up): She’s as good as you are, every bit of it.
MRS HOLROYD (blazing): Whatever I was and whatever I may be, don’t you ever come near me again.
HOLROYD: What! I’ll show thee. What’s the hurt to you if a woman comes to the house? They’re women as good as yourself, every whit of it.
MRS HOLROYD: Say no more. Go with them then, and don’t come back.
HOLROYD: What! Yi, I will go, an’ you s’ll see. What! You think you’re something, since your uncle left you that money, an’ Blackymore puttin’ you up to it. I can see your little game. I’m not as daft as you imagine. I’m no fool, I tell you.
MRS HOLROYD: No, you’re not. You’re a drunken beast, that’s all you are.
HOLROYD: What, what — I’m what? I’ll show you who’s gaffer, though. (He threatens her.)
MRS HOLROYD (between her teeth): No, it’s not going on. If you won’t go, I will.
HOLROYD: Go then, for you’ve always been too big for your shoes, in my house —
MRS HOLROYD: Yes — I ought never to have looked at you. Only you showed a fair face then.
HOLROYD: What! What! We’ll see who’s master i’ this house. I tell you, I’m goin’ to put a stop to it. (He brings his fist down on the table with a bang.) It’s going to stop. (He bangs the table again.) I’ve put up with it long enough. Do you think I’m a dog in the house, an’ not a man, do you —
MRS HOLROYD: A dog would be better.
HOLROYD: Oh! Oh! Then we’ll see. We’ll see who’s the dog and who isna. We’re goin’ to see. (He bangs the table.)
MRS HOLROYD: Stop thumping that table! You’ve wakened those children once, you and your trollops.
HOLROYD: I shall do what the deuce I like!
MRS HOLROYD: No more, you won’t, no more. I’ve stood this long enough. Now I’m going. As for you — you’ve got a red face where she slapped you. Now go to her.
HOLROYD: What? What?
MRS HOLROYD: For I’m sick of the sights and sounds of you.
HOLROYD (bitterly): By God, an’ I’ve known it a long time.
MRS HOLROYD: You have, and it’s true.
HOLROYD: An’ I know who it is th’rt hankerin’ after.
MRS HOLROYD: I only want to be rid of you.
HOLROYD: I know it mighty well. But I know him!
MRS HOLROYD sinking down on the sofa, suddenly begins to sob half-hysterically. HOLROYD watches her. As suddenly, she dries her eyes.
MRS HOLROYD: Do you think I care about what you say? (Suddenly.)Oh, I’ve had enough. I’ve tried, I’ve tried for years, for the children’s sakes. Now I’ve had enough of your shame and disgrace.
HOLROYD: Oh, indeed!
MRS HOLROYD (her voice is dull and inflexible): I’ve had enough. Go out again after those trollops — leave me alone. I’ve had enough. (HOLROYD stands looking at her.) Go, I mean it, go out again. And if you never come back again, I’m glad. I’ve had enough. (She keeps her face averted, will not look at him, her attitude expressing thorough weariness.)
HOLROYD: All right then!
He hobbles, in unlaced boots, to the door. Then he turns to look at her. She turns herself still farther away, so that her back is towards him. He goes.
CURTAIN
ACT II
The scene is the same, two hours later. The cottage is in darkness, save for the firelight. On the table is spread a newspaper. A cup and saucer, a plate, a piece of bacon in the frying tin are on the newspaper ready for the miner’s breakfast. MRS HOLROYD has gone to bed. There is a noise of heavy stumbling down the three steps outside.
BLACKMORE’S VOICE: Steady, now, steady. It’s all in darkness. Missis! — Has she gone to bed?
He tries the latch — shakes the door.
HOLROYD’S VOICE (He is drunk.): Her’s locked me out. Let me smash that bloody door in. Come out — come out — ussza! (He strikes a heavy blow on the door. There is a scuffle.)
BLACKMORE’S VOICE: Hold on a bit — what’re you doing?
HOLROYD’S VOICE: I’m smashing that blasted door in.
MRS HOLROYD (appearing and suddenly drawing the bolts, flinging the door open): What do you think you’re doing?
HOLROYD (lurching into the room, snarling): What? What? Tha thought tha’d play thy monkey tricks on me, did ter? (Shouting.) But I’m going to show thee. (He lurches at her threateningly; she recoils.)
BLACKMORE (seizing him by the arm): Here, here — ! Come and sit down and be quiet.
HOLROYD (snarling at him): What? — What? An’ what’s thäigh got ter do wi’ it. (Shouting.) What’s thäigh got ter do wi’ it?
BLACKMORE: Nothing
— nothing; but it’s getting late, and you want your supper.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 727