



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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          THE PRICE OF COAL

          By Harold Brighouse

          Gowans & Gray, Ltd., London

          1911



          FOREWORD: BY THE DIRECTOR OF THE
          SCOTTISH REPERTORY THEATRE

          “The Price of Coal” came from a
          Manchester author; it was in Lancashire
          dialect, but was freely translated into
          that of Lanarkshire, before its first
          production on Monday, November 15th,
          1909. The whole week was foggy, dense,
          yellow and stinking, but the audience
          (whose scantiness, thanks to the fog,
          was unregarded by the players),
          enthusiastic outside the Theatre, as
          they were within, bruited its
          excellence, and the many and urgent
          requests for its speedy revival were
          complied with.

          It has been performed by the Repertory
          Company at Carlisle, Edinburgh and
          Perth, while a number of performances
          have been successfully given by
          amateurs.

          A. W.

          Glasgow, March, 1911.

          [EXTRACT FROM THE REPERTORY THEATRE
          PROGRAMME November 1909]

          THE PRICE OF COAL

          A play in one act By Harold Brighouse

          Mary Brown, Jack Brown, Ellen Brown,
          Polly Walker,

          Miss Agnes Bartholomew. Mr. R. B.
          Drysdale.

          Miss Elspeth Dudgeon. Miss Lola Duncan.

          The Scene is laid in a Lanarkshire
          Colliery Village.



          Modern industrialism has evolved its
          special types, and the Lanarkshire
          collier is small and wiry. He swings a
          pickaxe for hours on end crouched in an
          impossibly small space in heated
          atmosphere, and physique on the grand
          scale is unsuited to such conditions. He
          takes tremendous risks as part of his
          daily routine. His recreations are, to a
          fastidious taste, coarse. He works hard
          under ground and plays hard above
          ground. Constrained attitude is so much
          his second nature that he sits in
          perfect comfort on his haunches, in the
          pictured pose of the mild Hindoo, his
          back to a wall, discussing, amongst
          expectoration—a long row of him—,
          football, dogs, his last spree and his
          next, the police reports, women.

          Altogether a most unpleasant person,
          this undersized, foul-mouthed, sporting
          hewer of coal-until you come to know him
          better, to discover his simplicity of
          soul, his directness, his matter-of-fact
          self-sacrifice, the unconscious heroism
          of his life: and to lose sight of his
          superficial frailties in your admiration
          for his finer qualities.

          The womenkind of the colliers are marked
          by the life of the pits no less than the
          men. They are rough, capable housewives,
          dressing with more care for durability
          than effect, tolerant of their menfolks’
          weaknesses, and, above all, stamped with
          the pit-side stoicism apt to be mistaken
          for callousness. The sudden death of
          their breadwinner is an everyday hazard,
          accepted without complaint and without
          concealment as part of their life. Like
          their husbands, they exist from hand to
          mouth on the brink of eternity. Thrift,
          when any day’s work may be your last,
          seems a misplaced virtue. Lean fare
          approaches as pay day recedes, and
          illness, meagrely provided for by
          membership of a “sick” society, is tided
          over in the main by the unfailing
          generosity of neighbours whose own table
          suffers by the charity.

          SCENE

          The scene represents the living room of
          a collier’s cottage in Lanarkshire. The
          room has three doors, one to the right
          and one to the left, which lead to the
          sleeping rooms, and one in the centre
          which opens on to the village street. A
          fireplace with a cooking stove set in it
          is at the right. A holland blind is
          drawn down at the window, but it does
          not completely shut out the night, which
          is now dissolving into a grey, cold
          dawn, for the cheap German alarm clock
          that ticks loudly on the mantleshelf
          marks the hour five-thirty. When the
          curtain rises the room is in darkness
          save for the glint of bluish-grey light
          that shows at the window. Then Mary
          Brown enters from the door on the right,
          she strikes a match and lights a lamp,
          when you see she is a girl of about
          twenty; she does not look her best, her
          hair has been hurriedly screwed up, her
          print blouse, murky with toil, has not
          yet been fastened, she wears a draggle-
          tailed skirt of sombre colour and list
          slippers are on her feet.

          A small spirit-lamp is on the hob and a
          little tin kettle near by; she lights
          the lamp, puts the kettle on it, then
          crosses to the door on the left and
          knocks.





          MARY

          Are ye up, Jock?

          JOCK

          (within)

          Aw richt, A’ll be there in a meenit.

          Mary takes a plain and fairly clean
          apron from a hook by the dresser and
          puts it on briskly; she then takes a cup
          and saucer from the rack, putting them
          on the dresser, from the cupboard of
          which she takes a cocoa-tin and puts a
          spoonful of cocoa in the cup. Then she
          takes bread and meat from the cupboard
          and makes a couple of huge sandwiches.
          These she puts on a tin plate, and
          covering them with another tin plate,
          she ties the whole in a large red
          handkerchief with the ends looped for
          carrying. A tin can with a screw top is
          placed near by. Then, from the door at
          the left, enters Jock Brown, Mary’s
          cousin.

          He is dressed in his working or “black”
           clothes, which may have been coloured
          once but are now blackened with coal
          dust. He wears no collar, but a muffler,
          which, because it is doffed in the pit,
          still preserves something of its
          original hue, which was a bright red.

          JOCK

          A wis hardly expectin’ tae see you this
          mornin’, Mary.

          MARY

          (apparently unmoved, proceeds with her
          operations at the stove)

          An’ why no’, bless ye. Mebbe ye’d
          raither A dragged yer mither oot o’ her
          bed an’ her bad wi’ her rheumatics, tae.

          JOCK

          A could a’ dune fur masel’ for wan
          mornin’.

          MARY

          Ye’d a’ made a bonnie mess o’ the job.

          JOCK

          Aw, A’m no’ a wean.

          MARY

          A can jist see ye daein’t, an’ gettin’
          doon tae the pit ahint time, tae. We
          huvnae quarrell’t, huv we?

          JOCK

          Naw: no’ that A ken.

          MARY

          Then whit wey should A no’ get up and
          dae fur ye jist the same as A’ve dune
          near’s lang’s A can mind?

          JOCK

          A donno.

          MARY

          Naw, nor naebody else either.

          JOCK

          (disconcerted and apologetic)Weel, ye
          see, A thocht mebbe that efter whit we
          were sayin’ last nicht ye widnae want
          tae see me this mornin’.

          MARY

          Naw, there wis naethin’ in that tae pit
          us aff the usual.

          JOCK

          (with eagerness)Then, wull ye tell me——

          MARY

          (cutting him short and putting the cocoa
          on the table) There’s yer cocoa. Ye’ll
          better drink it when it’s hot.

          JOCK

          (tasting)Aye. It’s hot anough onyway.

          MARY

          It’s a cauld mornin’ tae be gaun oot.
          Ye’ll be nane the waur o’ somethin’ hot
          this weather.

          JOCK

          Aye. A dare say it’s cauld anough, bit
          the weather can wait. A’ve got somethin’
          else tae talk tae ye aboot besides the
          weather.

          MARY

          Mebbe ye huv, ma boy, but ye’ll huv tae
          wait till the richt time comes.

          JOCK

          Mary, lassie, will A huv tae wait till
          the nicht fur ma answer?

          MARY

          Play fair noo, Jock. Ye gien me a day
          frae last nicht tae think aboot it.

          JOCK

          A ken A did. That’s richt anough. Only
          it’s no’ sae easy tae wait as A thocht
          it wis when it comes tae daein’t.

          MARY

          Mebbe no’. But ye’ll jist huv tae pit up
          wi’t. It wis you that said wait. A never
          mentioned it.

          JOCK

          Ye shouldnae be sae hard on a chap,
          Mary. A’m wantin’ ye that bad. A’m on
          needles and peens till A ken whit road
          the cat’ll jump. Ye never ken, Mary,
          what’ll happen doon a pit. Jist think. A
          micht never come up again and ye’d be
          sick and sorry if A wis blown tae
          kingdom come an’ no’ huv the consolation
          o’ kennin’ that ye meant tae huv me.

          MARY

          It’s nae use, ma boy. Ye’ll no’ frichten
          me that wey. A’m no’ pit born like you,
          but A’ve stayed aside pits a bit ower
          lang fur that. An’ ye ken weel anough
          it’s no’ richt tae talk aboot they
          things. A tell’t ye A’d gie ye yer
          answer the nicht an’ ye’ll huv tae wait
          till the nicht fur it. A’m no’ gaun back
          on ma word.

          JOCK

          Bit if ye ken whit ye’re gaun tae say
          whit wey wull ye no’ say it noo and pit
          me oot o’ misery?

          MARY

          Aye, an’ huv ye gaun aboot tellin’
          everybody that aw ye hud tae dae wis
          whistle an’ A rushed intae yer airms.
          Naw, ma boy, A’m a single wumman yit and
          A’m no promised tae nae man. A’ll tak’
          ma ain time tae tell ye whether A’m gaun
          tae chinge ma name or no’. (Breaking off
          and looking at the clock.) It’s time ye
          were flittin’. Ye’ll be late if ye don’t
          hurry up.

          JOCK

          A don’t care if A am.

          MARY

          Aw, but ye dae. Don’t be a silly. Ye ken
          ye’ve never missed bein’ in the first
          cage doon since ye startet workin’ an’ A
          ‘ll no’ hae folk saying ye startet
          missin’ it ower me. Hae ye finished yer
          cocoa?

          JOCK

          Aye. Ye’re terrible hard on a chap,
          Mary.

          MARY

          Awa’ wi ye. If ye hud a’ been as keen on
          mairryin’ me as ye think ye are, ye wud
          mebbe huv plucked up courage tae ask me
          shuner.

          JOCK

          A only waitet till ma mind wis med up
          fur sure. A wisnae long o’ askin’ ye
          whin it wis.

          MARY

          Then ye’ll jist hae tae wait till mine
          is med up. Whit’s sauce fur the goose is
          sauce fur the gander, ye ken.

          JOCK

          Ye couldnae gie me sae much’s a hint?
          Only a lick an’ a promise like?

          MARY

          Naw, A’m no’ makin’ no promises till A’m
          ready. Ye’re only wastin’ yer time, man,
          an riskin’ bein’ late tae.

          JOCK

          Aw, weel, if A huv tae wait, A’ll jist
          huv tae. MARY

          It’ll be stoppin’ time afore ye know it.

          JOCK

          (he goes towards the door, lifting his
          cap from a peg on the way)

          Oh aye. It’s easy talkin’. Ye’re only
          keepin’ me in suspense, ye teasin’
          buddy. Its mebbe fun to you, but there’s
          no’ much fun tae me wi’ you cairryin’ on
          like that.

          MARY

          Ye’ll be late for yer work. That’ll be
          the end o’t.

          JOCK

          Aw richt. (He puts his cap on.) A’m
          gaun. Whaur’s ma piece?

          MARY

          Here ye are.

          [She hands him the handkerchief of food
          and the can, which he slings over his
          shoulder by a short strap.

          JOCK

          Huv ye tied it up weel?

          MARY

          Aye. Why?

          JOCK

          Rats wur busy at it yesterday whin A
          cam’ to pit my pick doon an look fur ma
          dinner. Bit ye cannae help rats in a pit
          an mebbe they’re as hungry as A am.

          MARY

          Weel, its tied as ticht as A can mak’
          it. Noo look sherp or ye’ll be late.
          Ye’re forgettin’ yer lamp. Dear kens
          whit a fix ye’d be in if A wisnae up tae
          look efter ye.

          JOCK

          It’s wi’ thinkin’ o’ you, lass.

          [He takes up his lamp.

          MARY

          Time anough fur that when yer work’s
          dune.

          JOCK

          (as he opens the door slowly, morn has
          broken fully, and a hard grey light
          enters the room)

          A’ll be hame pretty quick so ye’ll
          better be ready.

          MARY

          A’ll be ready richt anough.

          JOCK

          A’ richt. Then we’ll leave it at that.

          MARY

          Aye.

          [Jock goes out, closing the door quietly
          after him. Mary, left alone, begins to
          tidy up and prepare the house for the
          use of the day. Soon the door at the
          right opens, and Ellen Brown, Jock’s
          mother, enters. She is an old woman, but
          not so old as she looks; her spare
          figure bears all the marks of a life
          that is one continuous struggle against
          a hard fate. She is dressed plainly in
          black, with an apron; her head is
          covered with a shawl. Mary, who is at
          the window rolling up the broken blind,
          starts and turns to her in surprise.

          MARY

          Why, auntie, ye’re up airly.

          ELLEN

          Aye. Is the lad awa’ yit?

          MARY

          He’s jist awa’. Is onythin’ wrang?

          ELLEN

          Naw, lass, naw. A wid a’ liket to a’
          seen him afore he went.

          MARY

          Will A rin efter im? He’s jist this
          meenit awa’. ELLEN

          An’ mak’ ‘im late? Naw, we musnae dae
          that. It wis only a fancy. A thocht A
          micht catch ‘im, but A widnae chance
          makin’ ‘im late. He tak’s a pride in
          bein’ at the pithead regular for the
          first cage gaun doon; he’d be rare an’
          mad wi’ me if A brung him back fur
          naethin’.

          MARY

          Why did ye no’ shout on us frae yer
          room?

          ELLEN

          A didnae think o’ that.

          MARY

          (puzzled by her appearance, decides to
          be consoling) Weel, A’m sorry ye left
          yer bed fur naethin’, before the room’s
          aired tae.

          ELLEN

          Ach, that’s naethin’, lass.

          MARY

          Weel, sit doon while A mak’ a fire an
          get the breakfast ready. Room’ll soon be
          warm.

          ELLEN

          Aye, lass.

          [She moves listlessly to the rocking-
          chair, in which she sits passively,
          while Mary takes some sticks and paper
          from the oven and kneels, making a fire.

          MARY

          It’s a wee sherp this mornin’ too. (She
          looks up to see Ellen furtively dabbing
          her eyes with a clean handkerchief .)
          Auntie, whit’s up wi’ ye? Wull ye no
          tell me whit’s the maitter?

          ELLEN

          Naethin’, lass, naethin’.

          MARY

          (as she rises and stands by the chair)

          Bit there must be somethin’. Whit wey
          did ye get up sae airly? Ye were soon’
          anough asleep when A left ye.

          ELLEN

          Sleepin’? Aye, A wis sleepin’ richt
          anough, an’ would to God A hidnae been.

          MARY

          Whit dae ye mean?

          ELLEN

          Only an auld wife’s fancy, lass.

          MARY

          Naw, ye must tell me whit it is.

          ELLEN

          It wis a dream that made me rise, lass.

          MARY

          A dream?

          ELLEN

          Aye. A dream’t A wis gaun in a field an’
          the grass wis green, greener than life,
          an’ there wis coos in it and sheep-no’
          dirty, blackened beasts like whit’s
          here, bit whit ye wid fancy they wid be
          some place whaur there isnae always
          smoke. An’ A walked in the field an’ the
          sun wis shinin’ an’ it cam’ dark suddent
          an’ A couldnae see the coos nae mair.
          There wis thunder an’ it frichtened me
          an’ whin A cam’ tae look up again, it
          wis rainin’ bluid on ma heid, naethin’
          bit bluid, an’ the field ran rid wi’ it.
          Bluid everywhaur, naethin’ bit bluid.

          MARY

          An’ it frichtened ye? Aye, the
          nichtmare’s no pleasant fur ony yin. Ye
          ett pretty hearty last nicht. Weel,
          never mind. It’s a’ past noo. Ye’ll feel
          better efter a cup o’ tea. A’ll shune
          huv breakfast on the table noo.

          ELLEN

          A’ve dream’t yon dream afore, an’ the
          last time A dream’t it wis the nicht
          afore the big fire in the pit whin
          Jock’s faither got ‘imself kill’t. A’ve
          niver dream’t it since that nicht an’
          noo it’s come again an’ ma boy’s gaun
          oot tae his work an’ me too late to stop
          ‘im.

          MARY

          (moves towards the door)

          Mebbe it’s no’ too late.

          ELLEN

          Come back, lass. Look at the clock. The
          first cage ‘ull be gaun doon lang afore
          ye could get there and oor Jock’ll be
          in’t. He’s aye in the first cage, is oor
          Jock. Best timekeeper on the pit.

          MARY

          Oh, why did ye no’ tell me at first?
          He’ll be kill’t; he’ll be kill’t.

          ELLEN

          It’s nae use worryin’ like that. Jock’s
          in God’s hand, lass, same as he is every
          day whether A dream or no’. An’ mebbe
          there’s naethin’ to worry ower. They do
          say that there’s naethin’ in dreams. A
          doot it’s gaun against the Almighty tae
          tak’ notice o’ a dream. If He hud meaned
          it fur a warnin’ He’d likely have sent
          it shuner so as A could a’ kept Jock
          frae gaun oot. Aye, he’s in God’s
          keepin’. We can dae naethin’. Get the
          kettle filled.

          MARY

          Yes, Auntie.

          ELLEN

          A’ll see tae the table.

          MARY

          Aw richt.

          ELLEN

          (as she takes a coarse white cloth from
          a drawer, spreads it and proceeds to lay
          breakfast.)

          Ye’ll hardly mind an accident here will
          ye, Mary?

          MARY

          Naw.

          ELLEN

          Naw, A thocht no’. (She has now come to
          the fireplace, where she sits in an arm-
          chair.) It’s mony a year sin’ we hud yin
          tae speak o’. A don’t mind o’ hearin’
          the alarm bell ringin’ mair than yince,
          or mebbe twict since yer uncle wis
          kill’t. That wis somethin’ like a do.
          There wis mair than twinty kill’t that
          time an’ mebbe forty or mair that wis
          hurt. A’ve heard folks say there his
          been bigger accidents in America, but A
          don’t tak’ ower much notice o’ they
          newspaper tales masel’. Eh, it micht a’
          been yesterday.

          MARY

          Tell me aboot it, Auntie. Ye’ve never
          tell’t me hoo it happen’t.

          ELLEN

          Eh? Bless the lass, whit’s the use o’
          that! Seems to me we’re baith o’ us a
          bit cracket the day. We’ve got accident
          on the brain.

          MARY

          They ay ring the bell don’t they,
          Auntie, when onythin’ gaes wrang?

          ELLEN

          No! fur an odd man an’ ‘is laddie nipped
          in a roof fall, jist if it’s a big
          thing. Look here, lass, if ye cannae
          talk o’ naethin’ bit accidents, ye’d
          better shut up. (She rises from her
          chair.) Whit wi’ ma dream an’ your
          worryin’ A don’t know where A am.

          MARY

          A wis jist askin’. Ye never can ken wi’
          a coal-pit whin its gaun tae git nesty
          an’ a man cannae ay mind whaur he is
          whin he’s doon.

          ELLEN

          They’re watched shairper gaun doon
          nooadays an the men ken better nor tae
          take risks theirsel’s, the way they
          use’t tae in the auld days.

          MARY

          Aye, but a man that forgets yinst ‘ll
          forget yinst too often.

          ELLEN

          A’ve tell’t ye tae quit bletherin’.
          Folks ‘ud think ye hudnae lived aside
          pits mair nor a week tae hear ye talk
          daft like that. There’s ay danger and
          naebody but a born fool wid say there
          wis’nt, but it’ll no’ mend it tae go
          thinkin’ aboot it. There’s coal there
          an’ it’s got tae be got and that’s the
          first an’ last o’t. Hae ye pit tea in
          the pot?

          MARY

          Naw.

          ELLEN

          Ye’d better dae it then.

          [Mary puts tea in the tea-pot from a
          canister on the mantelshelf As she does
          so, a heavy bell rings clangorously.

          MARY

          Whit’s that?

          ELLEN

          (quietly and slowly bending her head as
          if to a physical blow)

          God’s wull be dune.

          MARY

          Is it——?

          ELLEN

          Aye. (Then, as Mary makes for the door.)
          Whaur are ye gaun, lass?

          MARY

          A’m gaun tae the pit tae see whit’s up.

          ELLEN

          Naw. Ye’re no’. A’ll want ye here.

          MARY

          Why no’?

          ELLEN

          There’ll be plenty fills o’ wimmen there
          seein’ whit’s up and keepin’ the men
          frae their wark, withoot you gaun an’
          helpin’ them tae dae it.

          MARY

          But we——

          ELLEN

          Look here ma lass, if oor Jock’s hurt,
          oor job’s tae get ‘im weel again.
          Rushin’ oot tae the pit-heid ‘ll dae ‘im
          nae guid. It’s only wimmen that huvnae
          got husbands and sons doon in the pit
          that gaes staunin’ roon faintin’ and
          whit nut an’ makin’ a nuisance o’
          theirsel’s. The ithers stays at hame an’
          gets things ready.

          MARY

          We dinnae ken whit tae get ready fur.

          ELLEN

          We ken anough.

          MARY

          Jock ‘ll mebbe no’ be hurt.

          ELLEN

          Then we’ll hae wastet oor wark.

          MARY

          Whit’ll A dae i

          ELLEN

          A donno that there’s sae much when aw’s
          dune. We’ll mebbe need hot watter.

          MARY

          Fur——

          ELLEN

          Hoo dae A ken whit fur? Yon kettleful
          ‘ll dae an’ oor tea will huv tae wait.

          MARY

          Bit whit can we dae? Gie me somethin’
          tae dae fur mercy’s sake. A’ll go mad if
          A don’t dae somethin’. A cannae sit
          still and wait, and wait, and wait.

          ELLEN

          Ye’d best be makin’ his bed.

          MARY

          Yes, auntie.

          ELLEN

          Whit are ye greetin’ fur, lass? We ken
          naethin’ yit, an’ if we did, greetin’
          ‘ll no’ mend it. It’ll dae Jock nae
          guid, nae maitter hoo he is, to see ye
          slobberin’ whin he comes in. (Mary dries
          her eyes and begins to clear the table.)
          Whit are ye daein’ that fur?

          MARY

          A don’t know. A thocht——

          ELLEN

          A body mun eat. Let things be. A tell’t
          ye tae gang tae the room and mak’ his
          bed.

          MARY

          Aw richt, auntie.

          [Mary goes to the bedroom, closing the
          door behind her. Ellen looks to see it
          is shut, and moves rapidly and
          purposefully to the door to the street.
          It is now daylight. The confused murmur
          of a distant crowd is heard. She stands
          on the threshold and looks out.
          Presently she speaks to some one
          approaching but not yet visible.

          ELLEN

          Whit is’t, Polly?

          A middle-aged woman in a drab skirt and
          blouse with a shawl thrown over her head
          appears breathless at the door; it is a
          neighbour, Polly Walker.

          POLLY

          Ropes slipped and the cage fell doon the
          shaft.

          Is your’s oot at his wark.

          ELLEN

          First cage doon?

          POLLY

          Aye.

          ELLEN

          Mine’s is in’t.

          POLLY

          We’ll shune ken the warst. They wis
          riggin’ tackle whin A come away. They’ll
          huv them up in nae time.

          ELLEN

          A’ll be ready. Whaur’s yours?

          POLLY (who has come into the room)

          Mine’s aw richt-safe in their beds-
          sleepin’ aff last nicht’s drink, thank
          the Lord.

          ELLEN

          They must bring him here, Polly, nae
          maitter whit he’s like.

          POLLY

          Aye. A body likes tae dae fur her ain.
          Whaur’s the lass? Awa’ tae the piti.

          ELLEN

          Makin’ his bed in case its needet.

          POLLY

          That’s richt. Don’t let her oot.

          ELLEN

          No’ if A can help it. She wantet tae go,
          but A widnae huv it. Ye’ll see things at
          a pit-heid efter an accident that’s no
          fit fur a young yin. Waste her life fur
          her to be there whin they’re brung up.

          POLLY

          Aye. A’m no’ gaun back. A’ve seen
          anough, never nae mair if A can help it.

          ELLEN

          Come in, wull ye?

          POLLY

          Aye. A’d best shut the door, tac, an’
          keep oot the row or she’ll be wantin’
          tae go.

          [She closes the door and takes a chair
          at the table.

          ELLEN

          Aye. They cannae sit quiet when they’re
          young.

          POLLY

          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.











End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Price of Coal, by Harold Brighouse

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