MANAGER (a little stout, white-bearded man): Mind now, mind. Ay, missis, what a job, indeed, it is! (Sharply.) Where mun they put him?

  MRS HOLROYD (turning her face aside from the corpse): Lay him on the rug.

  MANAGER: Steady now, do it steady.

  SECOND BEARER (rising and pressing back his shoulders): By Guy, but ‘e ‘ings heavy.

  MANAGER: Yi, Joe, I’ll back my life o’ that.

  GRANDMOTHER: Eh, Mr Chambers, what’s this affliction on my old age. You kept your sons out o’ the pit, but all mine’s in. And to think of the trouble I’ve had — to think o’ the trouble that’s come out of Brinsley pit to me.

  MANAGER: It has that, it ‘as that, missis. You seem to have had more’n your share; I’ll admit it, you have.

  MRS HOLROYD (who has been staring at the men): It is too much!

  BLACKMORE frowns; RIGLEY glowers at her.

  MANAGER: You never knowed such a thing in your life. Here’s a man, holin’ a stint, just finishin’, (He puts himself as if in the holer’s position, gesticulating freely.) an’ a lot o’ stuff falls behind him, clean as a whistle, shuts him up safe as a worm in a nut and niver touches him — niver knowed such a thing in your life.

  MRS HOLROYD: Ugh!

  MANAGER: It niver hurt him — niver touched him.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes, but — but how long would he be (She makes a sweeping gesture; the MANAGER looks at her and will not help her out.) — how long would it take — ah — to — to kill him?

  MANAGER: Nay, I canna tell ye. ‘E didna seem to ha’ strived much to get out — did he, Joe?

  SECOND BEARER: No, not as far as Ah’n seen.

  FIRST BEARER: You look at ‘is ‘ands, you’ll see then. ‘E’d non ha’e room to swing the pick.

  The MANAGER goes on his knees.

  MRS HOLROYD (shuddering): Oh, don’t!

  MANAGER: Ay, th’ nails is broken a bit —

  MRS HOLROYD (clenching her fists): Don’t!

  MANAGER: ‘E’d be sure ter ma’e a bit of a fight. But th’ gas ‘ud soon get hold on ‘im. Ay, it’s an awful thing to think of, it is indeed.

  MRS HOLROYD (her voice breaking): I can’t bear it!

  MANAGER: Eh, dear, we none on us know what’s comin’ next.

  MRS HOLROYD (getting hysterical): Oh, it’s too awful, it’s too awful!

  BLACKMORE: You’ll disturb the children.

  GRANDMOTHER: And you don’t want them down here.

  MANAGER: ‘E’d no business to ha’ been left, you know.

  RIGLEY: An’ what man, dost think, wor goin’ to sit him down on his hams an’ wait for a chap as wouldna say “thank yer” for his cump’ny? ‘E’d bin ready to fall out wi’ a flicker o’ the candle, so who dost think wor goin’ ter stop when we knowed ‘e on’y kep on so’s to get shut on us.

  MANAGER: Tha’rt quite right, Bill, quite right. But theer you are.

  RIGLEY: Ah’ if we’d stopped, what good would it ha’ done —

  MANAGER: No, ‘appen not, ‘appen not.

  RIGLEY: For, not known —

  MANAGER: I’m sayin’ nowt agen thee, neither one road nor t’other. (There is general silence — then, to MRS HOLROYD.) I should think th’ inquest’ll be at th’ New Inn to-morrow, missis. I’ll let you know.

  MRS HOLROYD: Will there have to be an inquest?

  MANAGER: Yes — there’ll have to be an inquest. Shall you want anybody in, to stop with you to-night?

  MRS HOLROYD: No.

  MANAGER: Well, then, we’d best be goin’. I’ll send my missis down first thing in the morning. It’s a bad job, a bad job, it is. You’ll be a’ right then?

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes.

  MANAGER: Well, good night then — good night all.

  ALL: Good night. Good night.

  The MANAGER, followed by the two bearers, goes out, closing the door.

  RIGLEY: It’s like this, missis. I never should ha’ gone, if he hadn’t wanted us to.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes, I know.

  RIGLEY: ‘E wanted to come up by ‘s sen.

  MRS HOLROYD (wearily): I know how it was, Mr Rigley.

  RIGLEY: Yes —

  BLACKMORE: Nobody could foresee.

  RIGLEY (shaking his head): No. If there’s owt, missis, as you want —

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes — I think there isn’t anything.

  RIGLEY (after a moment): Well — good night — we’ve worked i’ the same stall ower four years now —

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes.

  RIGLEY: Well, good night, missis.

  MRS HOLROYD and BLACKMORE: Good night.

  The GRANDMOTHER all this time has been rocking herself to and fro, moaning and murmuring beside the dead man. When RIGLEY has gone MRS HOLROYD stands staring distractedly before her. She has not yet looked at her husband.

  GRANDMOTHER: Have you got the things ready, Lizzie?

  MRS HOLROYD: What things?

  GRANDMOTHER: To lay the child out.

  MRS HOLROYD (she shudders): No — what?

  GRANDMOTHER: Haven’t you put him by a pair o’ white stockings, nor a white shirt?

  MRS HOLROYD: He’s got a white cricketing shirt — but not white stockings.

  GRANDMOTHER: Then he’ll have to have his father’s. Let me look at the shirt, Lizzie. (MRS HOLROYD takes one from the dresser drawer.) This’ll never do — a cold, canvas thing wi’ a turndown collar. I s’ll ‘ave to fetch his father’s. (Suddenly.) You don’t want no other woman to touch him, to wash him and lay him out, do you?

  MRS HOLROYD (weeping): No.

  GRANDMOTHER: Then I’ll fetch him his father’s gear. We mustn’t let him set, he’ll be that heavy, bless him. (She takes her shawl.) I shan’t be more than a few minutes, an’ the young fellow can stop here till I come back.

  BLACKMORE: Can’t I go for you, Mrs Holroyd?

  GRANDMOTHER: No. You couldn’t find the things. We’ll wash him as soon as I get back, Lizzie.

  MRS HOLROYD: Alright.

  She watches her mother-in-law go out. Then she starts, goes in the scullery for a bowl, in which she pours warm water. She takes a flannel and soap and towel. She stands, afraid to go any further.

  BLACKMORE: Well!

  MRS HOLROYD: This is a judgment on us.

  BLACKMORE: Why?

  MRS HOLROYD: On me, it is —

  BLACKMORE: How?

  MRS HOLROYD: It is.

  BLACKMORE shakes his head.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yesterday you talked of murdering him.

  BLACKMORE: Well!

  MRS HOLROYD: Now we’ve done it.

  BLACKMORE: How?

  MRS HOLROYD: He’d have come up with the others, if he hadn’t felt — felt me murdering him.

  BLACKMORE: But we can’t help it.

  MRS HOLROYD: It’s my fault.

  BLACKMORE: Don’t be like that!

  MRS HOLROYD (looking at him — then indicating her husband): I daren’t see him.

  BLACKMORE: No?

  MRS HOLROYD: I’ve killed him, that is all.

  BLACKMORE: No, you haven’t.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes, I have.

  BLACKMORE: We couldn’t help it.

  MRS HOLROYD: If he hadn’t felt, if he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have stayed, he’d have come up with the rest.

  BLACKMORE: Well, and even if it was so, we can’t help it now.

  MRS HOLROYD: But we’ve killed him.

  BLACKMORE: Ah, I’m tired —

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes.

  BLACKMORE (after a pause): Shall I stay?

  MRS HOLROYD: I — I daren’t be alone with him.

  BLACKMORE (sitting down): No.

  MRS HOLROYD: I don’t love him. Now he’s dead. I don’t love him. He lies like he did yesterday.

  BLACKMORE: I suppose, being dead — I don’t know —

  MRS HOLROYD: I think you’d better go.

  BLACKMORE (rising): Tell me.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes.

  BLACKMORE: You want me to go.

  MRS HOLROYD: No — but do go. (They look at each other.)

  BLACKMORE: I shall come to-morrow.

  BLACKMORE goes out.

  MRS HOLROYD stands very stiff, as if afraid of the dead man. Then she stoops down and begins to sponge his face, talking to him.

  MRS HOLROYD: My dear, my dear — oh, my dear! I can’t bear it, my dear — you shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have done it. Oh — I can’t bear it, for you. Why couldn’t I do anything for you? The children’s father — my dear — I wasn’t good to you. But you shouldn’t have done this to me. Oh, dear, oh, dear! Did it hurt you? — oh, my dear, it hurt you — oh, I can’t bear it. No, things aren’t fair — we went wrong, my dear. I never loved you enough — I never did. What a shame for you! It was a shame. But you didn’t — you didn’t try. I would have loved you — I tried hard. What a shame for you! It was so cruel for you. You couldn’t help it — my dear, my dear. You couldn’t help it. And I can’t do anything for you, and it hurt you so! (She weeps bitterly, so her tears fall on the dead man’s face; suddenly she kisses him.) My dear, my dear, what can I do for you, what can I? (She weeps as she wipes his face gently.)

  Enter GRANDMOTHER.

  GRANDMOTHER (putting a bundle on the table, and taking off her shawl): You’re not all by yourself?

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes.

  GRANDMOTHER: It’s a wonder you’re not frightened. You’ve not washed his face.

  MRS HOLROYD: Why should I be afraid of him — now, mother?

  GRANDMOTHER (weeping): Ay, poor lamb, I can’t think as ever you could have had reason to be frightened of him, Lizzie.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes — once —

  GRANDMOTHER: Oh, but he went wrong. An’ he was a taking lad, as iver was. (She cries pitifully.) And when I waked his father up and told him, he sat up in bed staring over his whiskers, and said should he come up? But when I’d managed to find the shirt and things, he was still in bed. You don’t know what it is to live with a man that has no feeling. But you’ve washed him, Lizzie?

  MRS HOLROYD: I was finishing his head.

  GRANDMOTHER: Let me do it, child.

  MRS HOLROYD: I’ll finish that.

  GRANDMOTHER: Poor lamb — poor dear lamb! Yet I wouldn’t wish him back, Lizzie. He must ha’ died peaceful, Lizzie. He seems to be smiling. He always had such a rare smile on him — not that he’s smiled much of late —

  MRS HOLROYD: I loved him for that.

  GRANDMOTHER: Ay, my poor child — my poor child.

  MRS HOLROYD: He looks nice, mother.

  GRANDMOTHER: I hope he made his peace with the Lord.

  MRS HOLROYD: Yes.

  GRANDMOTHER: If he hadn’t time to make his peace with the Lord, I’ve no hopes of him. Dear o’ me, dear o’ me. Is there another bit of flannel anywhere?

  MRS HOLROYD rises and brings a piece. The GRANDMOTHER begins to wash the breast of the dead man.

  GRANDMOTHER: Well, I hope you’ll be true to his children at least, Lizzie. (MRS HOLROYD weeps — the old woman continues her washing.) Eh — and he’s fair as a lily. Did you ever see a man with a whiter skin — and flesh as fine as the driven snow. He’s beautiful, he is, the lamb. Many’s the time I’ve looked at him, and I’ve felt proud of him, I have. And now he lies here. And such arms on ‘im! Look at the vaccination marks, Lizzie. When I took him to be vaccinated, he had a little pink bonnet with a feather. (Weeps.) Don’t cry, my girl, don’t. Sit up an’ wash him a’ that side, or we s’ll never have him done. Oh, Lizzie!

  MRS HOLROYD (sitting up, startled): What — what?

  GRANDMOTHER: Look at his poor hand!

  She holds up the right hand. The nails are bloody.

  MRS HOLROYD: Oh, no! Oh, no! No!

  Both women weep.

  GRANDMOTHER (after a while): We maun get on, Lizzie.

  MRS HOLROYD (sitting up): I can’t touch his hands.

  GRANDMOTHER: But I’m his mother — there’s nothing I couldn’t do for him.

  MRS HOLROYD: I don’t care — I don’t care.

  GRANDMOTHER: Prithee, prithee, Lizzie, I don’t want thee goin’ off, Lizzie.

  MRS HOLROYD (moaning): Oh, what shall I do!

  GRANDMOTHER: Why, go thee an’ get his feet washed. He’s setting stiff, and how shall we get him laid out?

  MRS HOLROYD, sobbing, goes, kneels at the miner’s feet, and begins pulling off the great boots.

  GRANDMOTHER: There’s hardly a mark on him. Eh, what a man he is! I’ve had some fine sons, Lizzie, I’ve had some big men of sons.

  MRS HOLROYD: He was always a lot whiter than me. And he used to chaff me.

  GRANDMOTHER: But his poor hands! I used to thank God for my children, but they’re rods o’ trouble, Lizzie, they are. Unfasten his belt, child. We mun get his things off soon, or else we s’ll have such a job.

  MRS HOLROYD, having dragged off the boots, rises. She is weeping.

  CURTAIN

  A COLLIER’S FRIDAY NIGHT

  A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

  CONTENTS

  CHARACTERS

  ACT I

  ACT II

  ACT III

  CHARACTERS

  MRS LAMBERT

  LAMBERT

  NELLIE LAMBERT

  ERNEST LAMBERT

  MAGGIE PEARSON

  GERTIE COOMBER

  BEATRICE WYLD

  BARKER

  CARLIN

  The action of the play takes place in the kitchen of the Lamberts’ house.

  ACT I

  The kitchen or living-room of a working-man’s house. At the back the fireplace, with a large fire burning. On the left, on the oven side of the stove, a WOMAN of some fifty-five years sits in a wooden rocking-chair, reading. Behind her and above her, in the recess made by the fireplace, four shelves of books, the shelf-covers being of green serge, with woollen ball fringe, and the books being ill-assorted school books, with an edition of Lessing, florid in green and gilt, but tarnished. On the left, a window looking on a garden where the rain is dripping through the first twilight. Under the window, a sofa, the bed covered with red chintz. By the side of the window, on the wall near the ceiling, a quiver clothes-horse is outspread with the cotton articles which have been ironed, hanging to air. Under the outspread clothes is the door which communicates with the scullery and with the yard. On the right side of the fireplace, in the recess equivalent to that where the bookshelves stand, a long narrow window, and below it, a low, brown, fixed cupboard, whose top forms a little sideboard, on which stand a large black enamel box of oil-colours, and a similar japanned box of water-colours, with Reeve’s silver trade-mark. There is also on the cupboard top a tall glass jar containing ragged pink chrysanthemums. On the right is a bookcase upon a chest of drawers. This piece of furniture is of stained polished wood in imitation of mahogany. The upper case is full of books, seen through the two flimsy glass doors: a large set of the World’s Famous Literature in dark green at the top — then on the next shelf prize-books in calf and gold, and imitation soft leather poetry-books, and a Nuttall’s dictionary and Cassell’s French, German and Latin dictionaries. On each side of the bookcase are prints from water-colours, large, pleasing and well framed in oak. Between the little brown cupboard and the bookcase, an arm-chair, small, round, with many little staves; a comfortable chair such as is seen in many working-class kitchens; it has a red chintz cushion. There is another Windsor chair on the other side of the bookcase. Over the mantelpiece, which is high, with brass candlesticks and two “Coronation” tumblers in enamel, hangs a picture of Venice, from one of Stead’s Christmas Numbers — nevertheless, satisfactory enough.

  The WOMAN in the rocking-chair is dressed in black, and wears a black sateen apron. She wears spectacles, and is reading The New Age. Now and again she looks over her paper at a piece of bread which stands on a hanging bar before the fire, propped up by a fork, toasting. There is a little pile of toast on a plate on the boiler hob beside a large saucepan; the kettle and a brown teapot are occupying the oven-top near the WOMAN. The table is laid for tea, with four large breakfast-cups in dark-blue willow-pattern, and plates similar. It is an oval mahogany table, large enough to seat eight comfortably. The WOMAN sees the piece of bread smoking, and takes it from the fire. She butters it and places it on the plate on the hob, after which she looks out of the window, then, taking her paper, sits down again in her place.

 

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