Part 2

That’s a fact. A mind the day when the pit wis on fire. A wis only a wee lassie then, bit ma mither had nae mair sense nor tae let me oot tae the pit—heid tae see the bodies brung up. A’ll never forget that sicht. A dream aboot it tae this day.

ELLEN

Sit doon, Polly. A bit o’ comp’ny comes handy at a time like this.

POLLY (sitting)

Thenk ye.

ELLEN

Aye. It’s a thing ye cannae forget. Seems as if it wis only the ither day A heard the bell ringin’ an’ saw ma man brung up. He wis that charred A only kent him by the earrin’s he wore because his eyes wis weak. They tell’t me efter that a rabbit had crossed his road on the wey tae the pit, but he always wis obstinate, wis ma Joe an’ he widnae tak’ warnin’ and noo the cage has slipped wi’ ma son in her and A’ll hae nae menfolk noo.

[The door from the bedroom has been opening slowly, and Mary listens. The others do not see her.

POLLY

Ye never ken. Mebbe he’ll no’ be kill’t.

ELLEN

A dream’t the same dream last nicht as when his faither went.

POLLY

In the midst o’ life we are in death. There’s no’ a truer word nor that.

ELLEN

No’ when ye live aff coal. There’s wimmen keepin’ hoose in the places the coal goes that pay fur their coal wi’ brass. We pay a sicht heavier fur it here. We pay wi’ the lives o’ men.

POLLY

But it’s a comfort tae think he’ll no’ be burnt. A cannae staun’ a corp that’s burnt.

ELLEN

Aye, better broken than burnt.

POLLY

An’ ye’ll huv money in the funeral Society.

ELLEN

Oh, aye. A can gie him a decent burial.

POLLY

That’s ay a comfort. Ye don’t seem tae care sae much some wey, when ye ken he’s hud a decent burial. He’s bin a guid son tae ye, tae.

ELLEN

Oh aye, he’s a good lad. He’s mebbe had his shillin’ on a horse noo and then an’ whiles gone rattin’ on a Sunday mornin’, but that’s only tae say he’s a man an’ no’ an angel in breeks.

POLLY

It’s mair than A can say about ma lot. Lazy, drunken, good-for-nothings they are, faither an’ sons tae. Come tae mention’t, it’s a funny thing. Providence works in its ain way. If mine hadnae been on the spree last nicht, they’d as like as no huv been in the cage alang wi your boy.

MARY (comes forward into the room)

A’ll awa’ tae the pit noo, auntie.

ELLEN

Tak’ yer hurry, lass.

MARY

A cannae wait, A must ken.

ELLEN

Sit doon.

MARY

A cannae sit doon an’ listen tae you twa talkin’ that way. First ye’ve got ‘im kill’t an’ then ye bury ‘im, an’ next ye’ll be argying whit’s tae go on his grave-stane an’ aw the time ye don’t sae much as ken if he’s hurt.

POLLY

Sit still, lassie. Ye’d better wait.

MARY.

Oh, A don’t know whit ye’re made o’-you twa. Ye sit there quiet an’ calm as if there wis naethin’ the maitter.

ELLEN

We’re auld enough tae ken we cannae dae nae guid. Hae ye made the bed?

Aye,

ELLEN

Weel, there’s a bottle o’ brandy in the room-press. We micht need it.

Aye. It’s harder when ye’re young tae haud yersel’ in. It disnae come natural tae her, no’ bein’ born tae pits like us. Her mither mairret a weaver chap in Dundee an’ brought her up tae mills. It tak’s mair than a year or twa tae git intae the wey o’ pits when ye’re born strange tae them.

POLLY

Aye. We’re used tae the thocht o’ losin’ oor men suddent.

ELLEN

But she’ll no gae tae the pit-heid if A can stop her. We’ll hae tae keep her mind aff it. Can ye mind o’ onything else we micht want?

POLLY

Naw naethin’.

ELLEN

We micht need linen fur tyin’ up

MARY

A’ll get it.

[Mary goes to the bedroom again.

POLLY

She’s gettin’ restless.

ELLEN

Aye.

POLLY

Naw, ye’ll no’. The doctors were there afore A come away, and ambulance men tae wi’ aw they’ll need. But we’ll huv tae keep her here whether she likes it or no’.

ELLEN

Aye. (She looks towards the street-door. Polly catches her meaning.) Wull ye? A don’t move sae easy as A used.

POLLY

The door?

ELLEN

Aye.

POLLY

Aye. That’s richt. (She goes to the street-door.) Better let her think we’re ill usin’ her than let her oot tae see them sichts.

[She turns the key and gives it to Ellen as she resumes her seat.

ELLEN

Thenk ye, Polly. (She pockets the key) Help me tae mak’ talk noo and keep her mind aff it.

MARY (enters with a bottle)

There’s the brandy.

ELLEN

That’s richt. (A slight pause; the older women try to make conversation. First Polly bobs forward as if about to speak, but leans back without saying anything; Ellen does the same. Mary moves to the door as Ellen, glancing round for a subject, lets her eye fall on the brandy bottle and fires off her remark in time to arrest Mary’s progress towards the door.) A thocht there wis mair nor that in the bottle, aw the same.

POLLY

It’s a handy thing tae huv aboot the hoose.

ELLEN

Aye. Rare stuff fur the jaw-ache.

POLLY

It is that. Goes weel wi’ a cup o’ tea, tae, on a cauld mornin’.

MARY

Is there onything else?

ELLEN

Eh? Naw, A don’t think there is, Mary. Let me think. Naw. That’s aw A can mind.

MARY

A’ll awa’, thin.

ELLEN

Naw, ye’ll no’.

MARY

Why no’?

ELLEN

Because ye’ll no’. Ye’ll stay whaur ye are.

MARY

Let me go. A must go. A cannae stay here.

POLLY

Dae whit yer auntie tells ye, lassie. Young folks is that smert nooadays, there’s nae use tellin’ them onythin’.

MARY

Oh, ye don’t understand. A must go. A must. (She goes to the door; tries to open it.) Door’s locked. This door’s locked. Whaur’s the key? Whit huv ye dune wi’ the key?

ELLEN

Look here, lass, A tell’t ye ye widnae go, an’ A’ve made sure o’t. Come noo. Come an’ sit quiet, ravin’ aboot as if ye were mad. Ye’ll huv the haunel aff the door.

MARY

Let me go tae him.

ELLEN

No.

MARY

A must go. A must. A love him. A love him.

ELLEN

D’ye think A don’t love him, lassie? Aye and a sicht better than a bit wean like you could love him. A’m his mither.

MARY

Oh, huv mercy. Ye don’t know. A sent ‘im oot. He wisnae for gaun till A’d said the word. A widnae tell ‘im. A made him wait till the nicht. A sent him tae his death.

ELLEN

The lassie’s ravin’.

MARY

Let me go.

ELLEN

No.

MARY

Ye won’t?

POLLY

Haud yer wheish, lass. It’s fur yer ain guid.

MARY

Why huv ye locked thon door? Ye’re cheatin’ me. Ye’re cruel. A can dae nae guid here. Let me go tae ‘im. A must go. A wull. [The two women have now faced each other; there is a violent knocking at the door.

MARY

Whit’s that? Oh, ma God, whit’s that?

[Ellen takes the key from her pocket moves slowly to the door, unlocks it, and throws it open. Jock stands on the threshold, very pale, with his coat buttoned at the bottom, and only his right arm thrust into the sleeve.

ELLEN

Ma boy!

[She tries to embrace him.

JOCK

Steady, mither. Watch ma airm.

ELLEN

Is it broken?

JOCK

Aye, the doctor’ll be roon’ tae set it shune. They’ve anough tae dae first, though. There’s plenty worse nor me.

ELLEN

Thank God!

JOCK

Naw, mither. It’s aw by. There’s naethin’ tae greet fur, and no’ sae much in a broken airm tae thank God fur, neither.

MARY

Oh, Jock!

JOCK

Is that aw ye’ve got tae say tae me? The shift’s ower, ma lass. Mebbe it’s ower afore it startet, but that disnae maitter. A’ve come fur ma answer, Mary.

MARY

Ye’re an old fraud. Ye kent aw the time. Oh, Jock, Jock, A thocht ye wis kill’t.

JOCK

Ye thocht wrang. A’m no the deein’ kin’. So ye’ll huv me?

MARY

Aye.

JOCK

A’ll awa roon’ an’ see the meenister aboot pittin’ up the banns when ma airm’s set. A’ll be huvin’ some time on ma hauns. A think gettin’ mairrit ‘ll fill in the time beautiful.

CURTAIN

Glasgow: Printed at the University Press by Robert MacLehose and Co. Ltd. The Repertory Theatre was founded between January and April, 1909, as a direct effort of Scotsmen in general, and Glasgow men in particular, to throw off London’s despotic rule in things dramatic.

In its first season it produced nine plays (three altogether new), including John Galsworthy’s play, “Strife,” which had just been produced in London.

The second season commenced on September 5th. In it thirteen plays were produced, including the first production in English of a play by the Russian dramatist, Anton Tchekhov, “The Seagull,” and six entirely new plays.

In the Spring season, 1910, “Justice,” produced simultaneously in London, created an unique record in the history of the British stage, while astonishing success attended the production of John Masefield’s masterpiece, “The Tragedy of Nan.” In all, seven entirely new plays were produced.

The Summer season of lighter fare added six more plays to the record, including two new ones. In the fifth season ten plays were produced, four entirely new.

In the sixth season, Spring, 1911, fifteen plays were produced, seven entirely new. In all seventy-three plays have been produced, of which about fifty-five would never have been seen but for the energies of this Theatre.