You better guess't was deep
As hell, that second day, come sundown.—Here,
(He hands back the hoe to her.)
flat down the Wheatfield yonder.
(POLLY does so.)
God a'mighty! That Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter than any pancake what you ever cooked, Polly; and't wa'n't no maple syrup neither was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black, all over it, that nightfall.
POLLY
Here's the road
to Emmetsburg.
LINK No,'t 'ain't: this here's the pike to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', after an all-night march, jest in the nick to save our second day. The Emmetsburg road's thar.—Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?
POLLY
At sunset, July second, sixty-three.
LINK
(nodding, reminiscent)
The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun: she set a dozen times that afternoon, red-yeller as a punkin jack-o'-lantern, rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke till she clean busted, like the other bombs, behind the hills.
POLLY
My! Wa'n't you never scart
and wished you'd stayed t' home?
LINK Scart? Wall, I wonder! Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars. I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,— a dressy mister, span-new from the city— layin' the law down: "All this stars and stripes," says he, "and red and white and blue is rubbish, mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!" "I wan't' know!" says I. "In sixty-three, I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown I met him stumblin'—with two dead men's muskets for crutches—towards a bucket, full of ink—- water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, he tuk the rest to wash his bullet-holes.—- Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, with red and white and blue, tore'most t' tatters, a-danglin' from it. 'Be you color sergeant?' says I. 'Not me,' says Link; 'the sergeant's dead; but when he fell, he handed me this bit o' rubbish—red and white and blue.' And Link he laughed. 'What be you laughin' for?' says I. 'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!'" says Link.
POLLY
What did the span-new mister say to that?
LINK I didn't stop to listen. Them as never heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't guess what they be.
(Sitting up and blinking hard)
But this ain't keepin' school!
POLLY (quietly)
I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.
LINK
The second day, 'fore sunset.
(He takes the hoe and points with it.)
Yon's the Wheatfield. Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels. Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge behind 'em. Hancock—he's our general— he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose the Ridge, and lose the Ridge—lose God-and-all!— Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, Abe Lincoln, and the White House in one bite!— So the Union, Polly—me and you and Roger, your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam—is all thar—growin' in that Wheatfield.
POLLY
(smiling proudly)
And they're growin'
still!
LINK Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers: gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat-tops, and now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke, and stingin' smother, and—up thar through the dark— that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!
(In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a brass band begins. Again LINK'S face twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene.)
POLLY
Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow
the created world to act that awful?
LINK
Now,
I wonder!—Cast your eye along this hoe:
(He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron.)
Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?—That's the boy I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link," they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's.— Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day, keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.
(Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe)
If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you. But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein' them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs, and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs, list'nin' to bugles—bugles—bugles, callin'.
(LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music
draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly.)
POLLY
Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind'em.
LINK
(relaxing under her touch)
No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct— onct we was boys, onct we was boys—with legs. But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle. Onct, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin' outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin' outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds a-blowin' Glory Hallelujahs, like brass music, from his mouth.—But never mind! 'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now. Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin' gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.
(With smouldering fire)
But jest the same—
(His face convulses and he cries out, terribly—straining in his chair to rise.)
—for holy God, that band!
Why don't they stop that band!
POLLY
(going)
I'll run and tell them.
Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.
(Glancing back anxiously, POLLY disappears outside. The approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body." LINK sits motionless, gripping his chair.)
LINK Set quiet! Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand, and Link—he kin set quiet.—God a'mighty, how kin he set, and them a-marchin' thar with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin' home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down: thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: don't say ye disremember them! And thar's the colors. Look, he's picked 'em up—the sergeant's blood splotched 'em some—but thar they be, still flyin'! Link done that: Link—the spry boy, what they call Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, have ye?
(Again he cries out, beseechingly)
My God, why do You keep on marchin'
and leave him settin' here?
(To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing
the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound,
LINK'S face becomes transformed with emotion, his
body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten.)
No!—I—won't—set!
(Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands.)
Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line. Them voices—Lord, I guess you've brought along Your Sunday choir of young angel folks to help the boys out.
(Following the music with swaying arms)
Glory!—Never mind me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm goin' t' jine in, or bust!
(Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps—his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him—he totters toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are singing it.)
"—a-mould'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave.
John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave,
But his soul goes—"
(Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries
aloud, astounded)
Lord, Lord, my legs!
Whar did Ye git my legs?
(Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the
little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously.)
I'm comin', boys!
Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.
(With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the
woodpile.)
Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge!
Jine in, jine in!
(Swinging the flag)
Hooray!—Hooray!—Hooray!
(Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music.
With his final cheer, LINK stumbles down from the mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:)
"—ry hallelujah,
Glory, glory hallelujah,
His truth is marchin" on!"
Harold Brighouse
[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the author and of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.]
SAKAH ORMEHOD, An old woman
EMMA BRIERLEY, A young woman
THE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curate
SAM HORROCKS, A young man
THE SCENE represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashire village. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For example, there are several square patches where the distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal the left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he wish to do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and SARAH ORMEROD, an old woman, enters, carrying clumsily in her arms a couple of pink flannelette nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-ring is her only ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short skirt shows a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl covers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the nightdresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at the outside door and she looks up.
SARAH. Who's theer?
EMMA (without). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley.
SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass.
(Enter EMMA BRIERLEY. She is a young weaver, and, having just left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some indeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawl over her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. A colored cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and the short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She wears clogs, and the clothes—except the shawl—are covered with ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist.)
SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o' coomin' to see an ould woman like me.
EMMA (by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow tha was feeling like.
SARAH (crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it.
EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A can do for thee?
SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.
EMMA (taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a peg in the door). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when A coom in? Packin' yon box?
SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff.
EMMA (crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees). Let me help yo'.
SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee.
EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry safe that road.
SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult for me.
(Sits on chair.)
EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter.
(Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges its contents.)
SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weave by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows.
EMMA (looking round). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's stopped.
It's Saturday afternoon.
SARAH. So 't is. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do.
EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about me.
Tha's got trouble enough of thy own.
(Resuming at the box)
SARAH. Aye, th' art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us likes to think o' goin' to workus when we're ould.
EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' to see thee.
SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 'e'll do summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them folks can do.
EMMA (kneeling up). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod. That's what my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says. It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands goin' paralytic.
(She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking.)
SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort.
EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's soom as can be careful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It's not a virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says.
(Resumes packing.)
SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an' died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral an' 'is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e warn't buried proper.
EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Aye.
EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a better, an' A goes to all as A can. (Rises.) A dotes on buryin's. Are these the next?
(Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the nightdresses and resumes packing.)
SARAH. Aye
(Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah's next speech.)
SARAH (pause). A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, an' A've took pride in 'avin' my bits o' sticks as good as another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpool reg'lar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier, too, in 'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o' money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght.
EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, but A knaw 'ow 't is. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an' when us plays, us plays as 'ard too (pause), an' small blame to us either. It's our own we're spendin'.
SARAH. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can mind me many an' many's the time when th' warnin' bell went on th' factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's mornin' as A've craved for another ha'f hour in my bed, but Tom 'e got me oop an' we was never after six passin' through factory gates all th' years we were wed. There's not many as can say they were never late. "Work or clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould bell were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma. "Work or clem" is God's truth. (EMMA'S head in box.) An' now th' time's coom when A can't work no more. But Parson's a good man, 'e'll mak' it all reeght. (EMMA'S head appears.) Eh, it were good o' thee to coom in, lass. A bit o' coompany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm twice as cheerful as A were.
EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. (Rises from the box.) Is theer owt else?
SARAH. A were thinkin' A'd like to tak' my black silk as A've worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think it's reeght thing for workus.
EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, nobbut what chairs an table 'ull payfor, and A doan't like thowt o' leaving owt as A'm greatly fond of.
EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is it? A'll put un in. Theer's lots o'room on top. A'll see un's noan crushed.
SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. (EMMA crosses back to door, gets clothes.) A got un out to show Parson. A thowt A'd ask un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. My best bonnet's with it, an' all.
(EMMA goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it on the table, and packs it.)
EMMA. A'll put un in.
SARAH. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass.
EMMA. That's nowt; neighbors mun be neighborly.
(Gets bonnet from table and packs it.)
SARAH (after a pause, looking round). Place doan't look much, an' that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and theer ain't much left to part wi' now.
EMMA. Never mind; it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takken thee oop.
SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A am hopin' so. A never could abide th' thowt o' th' workus—me as 'as bin an 'ard-workin' woman. A couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' strange folk round me, an' when th' Matron said, "Do that," A'd 'ave to do it, an' when she said, "Go theer," A'd 'ave to a' gone wheer she tould me—me as 'as allays 'eld my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased masel'. Eh, it's a terrible thowt, the workus.
EMMA (rising). Now tha's sure that's all?
SARAH (after a pause, considers). Eh, if A havna forgot my neeghtcaps. (Rises, moves centre and stops.) A suppose they'll let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think as A'd get my rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps.
EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght.
SARAH (as she goes). A'll go an' get un. (Exit right, returning presently with the white nightcaps.) That's all now.
(Gives them to EMMA who meets her at centre.)
EMMA (putting them in). Yo' never 'ad no childer, did yo', Mrs.
Ormerod?
SARAH. No, Emma, no—maybe that's as broad as's long. (Sits above fire.) Yo' never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 'em turn again yo' when they're growed, or they get wed themselves an' forget all as yo' 've done for 'em, like a many A could name, and they're allays a worrit to yo' when they're young.
EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Are yo', now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, A knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' coompany with?
EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. 'Indle, 'Indle? What, not son to Robert 'Indle, 'im as used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to foreign parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave?
EMMA. Aye, that's 'im.
SARAH. Well, A dunno aught about th' lad. 'Is faither were a fine man. A minds 'im well. But A'll tell thee this, Emma, an' A'll tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 'isself, is young Joe 'Indle.
EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as 't were only t'other day as tha was runnin' about in short frocks, an' now tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a good lass, A've gotten an ould teapot in yonder (indicating her bedroom) as my moother give me when A was wed. A weren't for packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A were going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus.
EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet.
SARAH. Never mind that. (Slowly rises.) A'm going to give it thee, lass, for a weddin' gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare me a thowt.
EMMA. Oh, no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it.
SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me?
EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not.
SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. Happen A'd best tidy masel' up too against Parson cooms.
EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod?
SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 'ands isn't that bad; A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do all as A need do.
EMMA. Well, A'll do box up.
(Crosses to table right and gets cord.)
SARAH. Aye.
EMMA. All reeght.
(Exit SARAH. A man's face appears outside at the window. He surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks at the door.)
Who's theer?
SAM (without). It's me, Sam Horrocks. (EMMA crosses left and opens door.) May A coom in?
EMMA. What dost want?
SAM (on the doorstep). A want a word wi' thee, Emma Brierley. A followed thee oop from factory and A've bin waitin' out theer till A'm tired o' waitin'.
EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk wi' thee at door.
(EMMA lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, resumes work on her knees at the box. SAM HORROCKS is a hulking young man of a rather vacant expression. He is dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and his clothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechanically takes a ball of oily black cotton-waste from his right pocket when in conversational difficulties and wipes his hands upon it. He has a red muffler round his neck without collar, and his shock affair hair is surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps one tenth of it.)
SAM (after watching EMMA's back for a moment). Wheer's Mrs.
Ormerod?
EMMA (without looking up). What's that to do wi' thee?
SAM (apologetically). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be short wi' a chap.
EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er, if tha wants to knaw.
SAM. Oh!
EMMA (looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause).
Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks?
SAM. Naw.
EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' t'other side o' door.
SAM. (Takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after trying his right and finding the ball of waste in it.) Yes, Emma.
(EMMA resumes work with her back towards him and waits for him to speak. But he is not ready yet.)
EMMA. Well, what dost want?
SAM. Nought.—Eh, but tha art a gradely wench.
EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee?
SAM. Nought.
EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't pass compliments behind folks' backs.
SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm.
EMMA. Well?
SAM. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year?
EMMA. Aye.
SAM. A very fine day.
EMMA. Aye.
SAM (desperately). It's a damned fine day.
EMMA. Aye.
SAM (after a moment). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma?
EMMA. Aye.
SAM. Wert ever in it?
EMMA. Not sin' tha moother died.
SAM. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. She were a fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-ridden.
EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not saying much neither.
SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were when she were alive?
EMMA. Aye.
SAM. A 've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt on bed from Co-op. Red un, it is, wi' blue stripes down 'er.
EMMA. Aye.
SAM. Well, Emma?
EMMA (over her shoulder). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse an' thy quilt to do wi' me?
SAM. Oh, nought.—Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, neither.
EMMA. (Rises and faces him. SAM is behind corner table and backs a little before her.) What's tha gettin' at, Sam Horrocks? Tha's got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha?
SAM. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though.
EMMA. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied idiot, Sam Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine-house in daytime an' sulkin' at 'ome neeghttime.
SAM. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave a way wi' 'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin t' same to me sin' she went. Daytime, tha knaws, A'm all reeght. Tha sees, them engines, them an' me's pals. They talks to me an' A understands their ways. A doan't some'ow seem to understand th' ways o' folks like as A does th' ways o' them engines.
EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T' other lads goes rattin' or dog-feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not likely to understand folks. Tha's not sociable.
SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed at when A tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down at th' pub wi' th' rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin' to soop ale; A can't carry th' drink like t' others. A knaws A've ways o' ma own.
EMMA. Tha has that.
SAM. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o' mine, it do want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is all reeght for days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha wouldn't believe.
EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' me, choosehow.
SAM. Naw? A'd—A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, Emma.
EMMA (approaching threateningly). Sam Horrocks, if tha doan't tell me proper what tha means A 'll give tha such a slap in th' mouth.
SAM (backing before her). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. Just like ma moother.
EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into thy silly yead.
SAM (suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table).
Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th'engine-house.
EMMA. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' so close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never speakin' a word to nobody, tha'd knaw A were keepin' coompany wi' Joe Hindle.
SAM (scrambling up). Is that a fact, Emma?
EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Banns 'ull be oop come Sunday fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just like the great blind idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long enough sin'.
SAM. A wer'n't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd 'ave me,
Emma.
EMMA (a little more softly). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam.
SAM. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe A'd best be goin'.
EMMA (lifts box to left). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs.
Ormerod in a minute.
SAM (with pride). A knaw all about that, anyhow.
EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can do much for 'er.
SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo' 'll not want me'ere. A 'll be movin' on. (Getting his cap out) No offense, Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd knawn as 'e were after thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough.
EMMA. No. Theer's no offense, Sam. Tha's a good lad if tha art a fool, an' mebbe tha's not to blame for that. Good-bye.
SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An'—An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' thee 'appy. A'd dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake 'is 'and.
(MRS. ORMEROD heard off right.)
EMMA. A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. Tha'd best be gettin'.
SAM. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma.
EMMA. Good-bye, Sam.
(Exit SAM left centre. MRS. ORMEROD comes from the inside door. She has a small blue teapot in her hand.)
SARAH. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard someun talkin', only my yearin' isn't what it used to be, an' A warn't sure.
EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im as isn't reeght in 'is yead?
EMMA. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im.
SARAH (incensed). In my 'ouse? Theer's imperence for thee, an' tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave set about 'im wi' a stick, Emma.
EMMA. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel like to 'ave to tell 'im.
SARAH. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass 'll tak' 'im.
EMMA. A suppose so.
SARAH (coming down, putting the teapot in EMMA'S hands). Well, theer's teapot.
EMMA (meets SARAH right centre, examining teapot). It's beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' care on't, lass, won't thee?
EMMA. A will an' all.
SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than it would be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. A goa cold all ower at thowt of it.
(A knock at the door.)
EMMA. That'll be Parson.
SARAH (crosses left, smoothing her hair). Goa an' look through window first, an' see who 't is.
EMMA (puts teapot on table; looking through window). It is not th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps.
SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. It won't do to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's not th' ould Parson.
(EMMA leaves the window and goes to right of table. The knock is repeated.)
SARAH (raising her voice). Coom in so who tha art. Door's on latch.
(Enter the REV. FRANK ALLEYNE. He is a young curate, a Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and taste totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is, unfortunately, no exception.)
ALLEYNE. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Good day to thee.
ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you in his stead.
SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee doon.
(EMMA comes below table left. Dusts a chair, which doesn't need it, with her apron. ALLEYNE raises a deprecatory hand. SARAH'S familiarity, as it seems to him, offends him. He looks sourly at EMMA and markedly ignores her.)
ALLEYNE. Thank you; no, I won't sit; I cannot stay long.
SARAH. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me.
(EMMA stays by right of table.)
ALLEYNE. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod?
SARAH. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands, and they're takin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, and that's summat to be thankul for.
ALLEYNE. Oh, yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The—er—message I am to deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led you to hope for. His efforts on your behalf have—er—- unfortunately failed. He finds himself obliged to give up all hope of aiding you to a livelihood. In fact—er—I understand that the arrangements made for your removal to the workhouse this afternoon must be carried out. It seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a comfortable home awaiting you, Mrs.—er—Ormerod.
SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no tellin' 'ow you'll favor a thing till you've tried it.
ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of Providence. The consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I pray with you?
SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, an' A doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A coom cryin' to 'im now A'm 'urt.
ALLEYNE. He will understand. Can I do nothing for you?
SARAH. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same.
ALLEYNE. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission to bring a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. (Feeling in his coattails and bringing out a Testament.) Allow me to present you with this Testament, and may it help you to bear your Cross with resignation. (He hands her the Testament. SARAH does not raise her hands, and it drops on her lap. ALLEYNE takes it again and puts it on the table.) Ah, yes, of course—your poor hands—I understand.
SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, an' my eyes aren't what they were, but A'll mak' most of it.
ALLEYNE. You will never read that in vain. And now, dear sister,
I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All will be well.
Good day.
SARAH. Good day to thee.
(Exit ALLEYNE.)
EMMA. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma. 'E should 'a' coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks like 'e were feart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads. We doan't want no grand Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E doan't understand us no more than we understand 'im. 'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin a church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop to church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' me in my time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a tuppenny Testament. That's all th' good yo' get out o' they folks.
EMMA. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to let me see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony different wi' chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo', but yo' mustn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch cooms. (Clock outside strikes three.) Sakes alive, theer's clock goin' three. My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold.
SARAH. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's bin clemmin' all this time?
EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory.
SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat.
EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha 's no reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'.
EMMA (putting her shawl on). All reeght. A'm off.
(Picks up teapot.)
SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll be 'arder to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building wi' th' drear windows.
EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a bit o' coompany. A 'll ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop o' tea bye-an'-bye.
(A knock at the door.)
SARAH. Who's theer?
SAM (without). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod.
EMMA. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again.
SARAH. Sam Horrocks! What can th'lad be after now? (Calling) Hast tha wiped thy boots on scraper?
SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. Coom in then. (EMMA in left corner. Enter SAM.) Tak' thy cap off.
SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.
SARAH. What dost want?
SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by thysel'.
A'll coom again (bolting nervously for the door).
SARAH. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere?
SAM. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private.
(EMMA moves to open door.)
SARAH. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner.
EMMA (speaking through door). A'll ask my moother to step hi later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for th' teapot.
SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (Exit EMMA with teapot.)
Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee?
SAM (dropping the cotton-waste he is fumbling with and picking it up). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year.
SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad?
SAM. Naw, not exactly.
SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on thee. Art tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit o' waste an' tell me what 'tis tha wants?
SAM (desperately). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'.
SARAH. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o' my 'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy ears. If tha's got business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp or A 'll be showin' thee the shape o' my door.
SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A am. A've not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould moother died.
SARAH. A've 'eerd folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 'er tongue.
SAM (admiringly). She were that. Rare talker she were. She'd lie theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon corner, an' call me all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn't tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (Still reminiscent.) Wonnerful sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden so long. She were only a little un an' cripple an' all, but by gum, she could sling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. Talk! She'd talk a donkey's yead off, she would.
SARAH (on her mettle). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' all if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants after in my 'ouse, tha great mazed idiot.
SAM. Eh, but she were a rare un.
SARAH. The lad's daft aboot his moother.
SAM (detachedly, looking at window; pause). Wunnerful breeght the sky is, to-day.
SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to thee if—if A'd the use o' my 'ands.
SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say.
SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' A doan't mean no disrepect to 'er neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, poor woman.
SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she were wunnerful.
SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd call thee if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o' thee neeght an' day.
SAM (eagerly). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would.
SARAH. Would what?
SAM. Would coom an' live along wi' me.
SARAH. Tha great fool, what does mean? Art askin' me to wed thee?
SAM. A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm sorry A spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope as tha might coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got used to 'earin' 'er cuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er an' A've nought to do in th' evenings now. It's terrible lonesome in th' neeghttime. An' when notion coom to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual.
SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what tha's sayin', or is tha foolin' me?
SAM. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin' sort. Th' lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to them, A knaws it. A've a slate loose; A shan't never get wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance wi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too late. A allays were slow. A left askin' too long an' A 've missed 'er. A gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young wench. They mak's me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curate towld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi' thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big chance, because my plaice ain't much cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine fixin's nor big chairs an' things like as tha used to 'ave. Eh, but A would 'ave loved to do for thee as A used to do for ma moother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool an' th' rest, by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. Tha'd fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt thee.
SARAH. To adopt me?
SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way to let me. A didn't mean no offence (turning to the door).
SARAH. 'Ere, lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might tak' me for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done?
SAM. Why, kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms whoam to thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll pardon th' liberty o' mentioning it.
SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's color?
SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er.
SARAH. A'm not a light weight, tha knows.
SAM. A'd carry thee easy—"Strong in th' arm and weak in th' yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it fits.
SARAH. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt tha try, lad?
SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll coom? Tha's not coddin' a feller, art tha?
SARAH. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son.
(He kisses her and lifts her in his arms.)
SAM. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy box.
SABAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack o' flour.
SAM. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real mootherly, it were.
(Exit through door, carrying her.)
[CURTAIN at clink of latch]
J.M. Synge
[Footnote 1: Included by permission of Messrs. John W. Luce and
Company.]
MAURYA, an old woman
BARTLEY, her son
CATHLEEN, her daughter
NORA, a younger daughter
MEN AND WOMEN
NORA (in a low voice). Where is she?
CATHLEEN. She's lying down, God help her, and maybe sleeping, if she's able.
(NORA comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl.)
CATHLEEN (spinning the wheel rapidly). What is it you have?
NOBA. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt and a plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal.
(CATHLEEN stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans out to listen.)
NORA. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are; some time herself will be down looking by the sea.
CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How would he go the length of that way to the far north?
NORA. The young priest says he's known the like of it. "If it's Michael's they are," says he, "you can tell herself he's got a clean burial by the grace of God, and if they're not his, let no one say a word about them, for she'll be getting her death," says he, "with crying and lamenting."
(The door which NORA half closed is blown open by a gust of wind.)
CATHLEEN (looking out anxiously). Did you ask him would he stop
Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair?
NORA. "I won't stop him," says he, "but let you not be afraid.
Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and the
Almighty God won't leave her destitute," says he, "with no son
living."
CATHLEEN. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora?
NORA. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roaring in the west, and it's worse it'll be getting when the tide's turned to the wind.
(She goes over to the table with the bundle.)
Shall I open it now?
CATHLEEN. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in before we'd done. (Coming to the table) It's a long time we'll be, and the two of us crying.
NORA (goes to the inner door and listens). She's moving about on the bed. She'll be coming in a minute.
CATHLEEN. Give me the ladder, and I'll put them up in the turf-loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and maybe when the tide turns she'll be going down to see would he be floating from the east.
(They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney; CATHLEEN goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in the turf-loft. MAURYA comes from the inner room.)
MAURYA (looking up at CATHLEEN and speaking querulously). Isn't it turf enough you have for this day and evening?
CATHLEEN. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short space (throwing down the turf) and Bartley will want it when the tide turns if he goes to Connemara.
(NORA picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven.)
MAURYA (sitting down on a stool at the fire). He won't go this day with the wind rising from the south and west. He won't go this day, for the young priest will stop him surely.
NORA. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon Simon and
Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he would go.
MAURYA. Where is he itself?
NORA. He went down to see would there be another boat sailing in the week, and I'm thinking it won't be long till he's here now, for the tide's turning at the green head, and the hooker's tacking from the east.
CATHLEEN. I hear someone passing the big stones.
NORA (looking out). He's coming now, and he in a hurry.
BARTLEY (comes in and looks round the room; speaking sadly and quietly). Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was bought in Connemara?
CATHLEEN (coming down). Give it to him, Nora; it's on a nail by the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for the pig with the black feet was eating it.
NORA (giving him a rope). Is that it, Bartley?
MAURYA. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging by the boards. (BARTLEY takes the rope.) It will be wanting in this place, I'm telling you, if Michael is washed up to-morrow morning, or the next morning, or any morning in the week, for it's a deep grave we'll make him by the grace of God.
BARTLEY (beginning to work with the rope). I've no halter the way I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now quickly. This is the one boat going for two weeks or beyond it, and the fair will be a good fair for horses, I heard them saying below.
MAURYA. It's a hard thing they'll be saying below if the body is washed up and there's no man in it to make the coffin, and I after giving a big price for the finest white boards you'd find in Connemara.
(She looks round at the boards.)
BARTLEY. How would it be washed up, and we after looking each day for nine days, and a strong wind blowing a while back from the west and south?
MAURYA. If it wasn't found itself, that wind is raising the sea, and there was a star up against the moon, and it rising in the night. If it was a hundred horses, or a thousand horses you had itself, what is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?
BARTLEY (working at the halter, to CATHLEEN). Let you go down each day, and see the sheep aren't jumping in on the rye, and if the jobber comes you can sell the pig with the black feet if there is a good price going.
MAURYA. How would the like of her get a good price for a pig?
BARTLEY (to CATHLEEN). If the west wind holds with the last bit of the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for another cock for the kelp. It's hard set we'll be from this day with no one in it but one man to work.
MAURYA. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're drownd'd with the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and I an old woman looking for the grave?
(BARTLEY lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts on a newer one of the same flannel.)
BARTLEY (to NORA). Is she coming to the pier?
NORA (looking out). She's passing the green head and letting fall her sails.
BARTLEY (getting his purse and tobacco). I'll have half an hour to go down, and you'll see me coming again in two days, or in three days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad.
MAURYA (turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over her head). Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a word from an old woman, and she holding him from the sea?
CATHLEEN. It's the life of a young man to be going on the sea, and who would listen to an old woman with one thing and she saying it over?
BARTLEY (taking the halter). I must go now quickly. I'll ride down on the red mare, and the gray pony'll run behind me. The blessing of God on you.
(He goes out.)
MAURYA (crying out as he is in the door). He's gone now, God spare us, and we'll not see him again. He's gone now, and when the black night is falling I'll have no son left me in the world.
CATHLEEN. Why wouldn't you give him your blessing and he looking round in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is on everyone in this house without your sending him out with an unlucky word behind him, and a hard word in his ear?
(MAURYA takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlessly without looking round.)
NORA (turning towards her). You're taking away the turf from the cake.
CATHLEEN (crying out). The Son of God forgive us, Nora, we're after forgetting his bit of bread.
(She comes over to the fire.)
NORA. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, and he after eating nothing since the sun went up.
CATHLEEN (turning the cake out of the oven). It's destroyed he'll be, surely. There's no sense left on any person in a house where an old woman will be talking for ever.
(MAURYA sways herself on her stool.)
CATHLEEN (cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in a cloth, to MAURYA). Let you go down now to the spring well and give him this and he passing. You'll see him then and the dark word will be broken, and you can say, "God speed you," the way he'll be easy in his mind.
MAURYA (taking the bread). Will I be in it as soon as himself?
CATHLEEN. If you go now quickly.
MAURYA (standing up unsteadily). It's hard set I am to walk.
CATHLEEN (looking at her anxiously). Give her the stick, Nora, or maybe she'll slip on the big stones.
NORA. What stick?
CATHLEEN. The stick Michael brought from Connemara.
MAURYA (taking a stick NORA gives her). In the big world the old people do be leaving things after them for their sons and children, but in this place it is the young men do be leaving things behind for them that do be old.
(She goes out slowly. NORA goes over to the ladder.)
CATHLEEN. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. She's that sorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the thing she'd do.
NORA. Is she gone round by the bush?
CATHLEEN (looking out). She's gone now. Throw it down quickly, for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again.
NORA (getting the bundle from the loft). The young priest said he'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and speak to him below if it's Michael's they are surely.
CATHLEEN (taking the bundle). Did he say what way they were found?
NORA (coming down). "There were two men," says he, "and they rowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, and the oar of one of them caught the body, and they passing the black cliffs of the north."
CATHLEEN (trying to open the bundle). Give me a knife, Nora; the string's perished with the salt water, and there's a black knot on it you wouldn't loosen in a week.
NORA (giving her a knife). I've heard tell it was a long way to
Donegal.
CATHLEEN (cutting the string). It is surely. There was a man in here a while ago—the man sold us that knife—and he said if you set off walking from the rocks beyond, it would be seven days you'd be in Donegal.
NORA. And what time would a man take, and he floating?
(CATHLEEN opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking.
They look at them eagerly.)
CATHLEEN (in a low voice). The Lord spare us, Nora! Isn't it a queer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely?
NORA. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the one flannel on the other. (She looks through some clothes hanging in the corner) It's not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be?
CATHLEEN. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, for his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. (Pointing to the corner) There's a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give me that and it will do.
(NORA brings it to her and they compare the flannel.)
CATHLEEN. It's the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself, aren't there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn't it many another man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself?
NORA (who has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches, crying out) It's Michael, Cathleen, it's Michael; God spare his soul and what will herself say when she hears this story, and Bartley on the sea?
CATHLEEN (taking the stocking). It's a plain stocking.
NORA. It's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and I put up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them.
CATHLEEN (counts the stitches). It's that number is in it. (Crying out) Ah, Nora, isn't it a bitter thing to think of him floating that way to the far north, and no one to keen him but the black hags that do be flying on the sea?
NORA (swinging herself round, and throwing out her arms on the clothes). And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is nothing left of a man who was a great rower and fisher, but a bit of an old shirt and a plain stocking?
CATHLEEN (after an instant). Tell me is herself coming, Nora? I hear a little sound on the path.
NORA (looking out). She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to the door.
CATHLEEN. Put these things away before she'll come in. Maybe it's easier she'll be after giving her blessing to Bartley, and we won't let on we've heard anything the time he's on the sea.