by Unknown
MRS. DOWEY (delivering the knock-out blow). Kenneth’s begin ‘Dearest mother.’ (No one can think of the right reply.)
MRS TWYMLEY (doing her best). A short man, I should say, judging by yourself.
(She ought to have left it alone.)
MRS DOWEY. Six feet two — and a half.
(The gloom deepens.)
MRS MICKLEHAM (against her better judgment). A kilty, did you tell me?
MRS. DOWEY. Most certainly. He’s in the FAMOUS Black Watch.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN (producing her handkerchief). The Surrey Rifles is the famousest.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. Haggerty. His choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy’s.
MRS. TWYMLEY (magnanimously). Give me the R.H.A. and you can keep all the rest.
MRS DOWEY. I’m sure I have nothing to say against the Surreys and the R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just breeches regiments, I understand.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. We can’t all be kilties.
MRS. DOWEY (crushingly). That’s very true.
MRS. twymley (it is foolish of her, but she can’t help saying it). Has your Kenneth great hairy legs?
MRS DOWEY. Tremendous.
(The wicked woman: but let us also say ‘Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.’ For at this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less important part of a clergyman appears upon the stair.)
MRS. mickleham. It’s the reverent gent!
MRS DOWEY (little knowing what he is bringing her). I see he has had his boots heeled.
(It may be said of mr willings that his happy smile always walks in front of him. This smile makes music of his life; it means that once again he has been chosen, in his opinion, as the central figure in romance. No one can well have led a more drab existence, but he will never know it; he will always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, as the chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally written that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets them at every street corner. For instance, he assists an old lady off a bus, and asks her if he can be of any further help. She tells him that she wants to know the way to Maddox the butcher’s. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it always comes first, followed by its explanation, ‘ I was there yesterday!’ This is the merest sample of the adventures that keep MR. willings up to the mark. Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost terrible. He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero without remembering that he knows some one of the same name. The Soldiers’ Rest he is connected with was once a china emporium, and (mark my words) he had bought his tea service at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it. Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama. In the course of his extraordinary comings and goings he meets with Great Personages, of course, and is the confidential recipient of secret news. Before imparting the news he does not, as you might expect, first smile expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an awful solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When divulging the names of the personages, he first looks around to make sure that no suspicious character is about, and then, lowering his voice, tells you, ‘ I had that from Mr. Farthing himself — he is the secretary of the Bethnal Green Branch, — h’sh! ‘ There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the reverent, and there is also some furtive pulling down of sleeves, but he stands surveying the ladies through his triumphant smile. This amazing man knows that he is about to score again.)
MR. WILLINGS (waving aside the chairs). I thank YOU. But not at all. Friends, I have news.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. NewS?
the haggerty woman. From the Front?
MRS. TWYMLEY. My Alfred, sir?
(They are all grown suddenly anxious — all except the hostess, who knows that there can never be any news from the Front for her.)
MR WILLINGS. I tell you at once that all is well. The news is for Mrs. Dowey.
(She stares.)
MRS DOWEY. News for me?
MR. WILLINGS. Your son, Mrs. Dowey — he has got five days’ leave. (She shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it only trembles a little on its stem.) Now, now, good news doesn’t kill.
MRS. TWYMLEY. We ‘re glad, Mrs. Dowey.
MRS. DOWEY. You’re sure?
MR. WILLINGS. Quite sure. He has arrived.
MRS. DOWEY. He is in London?
MR. WILLINGS. He is. I have spoken to him.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. You lucky woman.
(They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience has told them how differently these things take people.)
MR. WILLINGS (marvelling more and more as he unfolds his tale). Ladies, it is quite a romance. I was in the — (he looks around cautiously, but he knows that they are all to be trusted) — in the Church Army quarters in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one or two of our missing men. Suddenly my eyes — I can’t account for it — but suddenly my eyes alighted on a Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with his kit at his feet.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. A big man?
MR. WILLINGS. A great brawny fellow, (THE HAGGERTY WOMAN groans.) ‘My friend,’ I said at once, ‘welcome back to Blighty.’ I make a point of calling it Blighty. ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘if there is anything I can do for you?’ He shook his head. ‘What regiment?’ I asked. (Here he very properly lowers his voice to a whisper.) ‘Black Watch, 5th Battalion,’ he said. ‘Name?’ I asked. ‘Dowey,’ he said.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I declare! I do declare!
MR. WILLINGS (showing how the thing was done, with the help of a chair). I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be thus.
‘Kenneth Dowey,’ I said, ‘I know your mother.’ MRS. DOWEY (wetting her lips). What did he say to that?
MR. WILLINGS. He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think I was balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I told him how much you had talked to me about him.
MRS. DOWEY. Bring him here!
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I wonder he needed to be brought.
MR. WILLINGS. He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the great city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and then he gave a curious laugh.
MRS. TWYMLEY. Laugh?
MR. WILLINGS (whose wild life has brought him into contact with the strangest people). The Scotch, Mrs. Twymley, express their emotions differently from us. With them tears signify a rollicking mood, while merriment denotes that they are plunged in gloom. When I had finished he said at once, ‘Let us go and see the old lady.’ MRS DOWEY (backing, which is the first movement she has made since he began his tale). Is he — coming?
MR WILLINGS (gloriously). He has come. He is up there. I told him I thought I had better break the joyful news to you.
(Three women rush to the window, MRS DOWEY looks at her pantry door, but perhaps she remembers that it does not lock on the inside. She stands rigid, though her face has gone very grey.)
MRS DOWEY. Kindly get them to go away.
MR WILLINGS. Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely requires you. (He is not the man to ask of woman a sacrifice that he is not prepared to make himself.) I also am going instantly.
(They all survey MRS DOWEY, and understand — or think they understand.)
MRS TWYMLEY (pail and mop in hand). I would thank none for their company if my Alfred was at the door.
MRS MICKLEHAM (similarly burdened). The same from me. Shall I send him down, Mrs. Dowey? (The old lady does not hear her. She is listening, terrified, for a step on the stair.) Look at the poor, joyous thing, sir. She has his letters in her hand.
(The three women go. MR. willings puts a kind hand on MRS DOWEY’s shoulder. He thinks he so thoroughly understands the situation.)
MR WILLINGS. A good son, Mrs. Dowey, to have written to you so often.
(Our old criminal quakes, hut she grips the letters more tightly, private dowey descends.)
Dowey, my friend, there she is, waiting for you, with your letters in her hand.
DOWEY (grimly). That’s great.
>
(mr willings ascends the stair without one backward glance, like the good gentleman he is; and the doweys are left together, with nearly the whole room between them. He is a great rough chunk of Scotland, howked out of her not so much neatly as liberally; and in his Black Watch uniform, all caked with mud, his kit and nearly all his worldly possessions on his back, he is an apparition scarcely less fearsome (but so much less ragged) than those ancestors of his who trotted with Prince Charlie to Derby. He stands silent, scowling at the old lady, daring her to raise her head; and she would like very much to do it, for she longs to have a first glimpse of her son. When he does speak, it is to jeer at her.)
Do you recognise your loving son, missis? (‘Oh, the fine Scotch tang of him,’ she thinks.)
MRS DOWEY (trembling). I’m pleased I wrote so often.
(‘Oh, but he’s raised,’ she thinks.)
(He strides toward her, and seizes the letters roughly.)
DOWEY. Let’s see them.
(There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and examines the letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The envelopes are in order, all addressed in pencil to mrs.
dowey, with the proud words ‘Opened by Censor’ on them. But the letter paper inside contains not a word of writing.)
DOWEY. Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on the envelope?
(She nods, and he gives the matter further consideration.)
The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you picked the envelopes out of wastepaper baskets, or such like, and then changed the addresses?
(She nods again; still she dare not look up, but she is admiring his legs. When, however, he would cast the letters into the fire, she flames up with sudden spirit. She clutches them.)
MRS. DOWEY. Don’t you burn them LETTERS, mister.
DOWEY. They ‘re not real letters.
MRS. DOWEY. They’re all I have.
DOWEY (returning to irony). I thought you had a son?
MRS. DOWEY. I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself Missis to give me a standing.
DOWEY. Well, it’s past my seeing through.
(He turns to look for some explanation from the walls. She gets a peep at him at last. Oh, what a grandly set-up man! Oh, the stride of him. Oh, the noble rage of him. Oh, Samson had been like this before that woman took him in hand.)
DOWEY (whirling round on her). What made you do it?
MRS. DOWEY. It was everybody’s war, mister, except mine.
(She beats her arms.) I wanted it to be my war too.
DOWEY. You’ll need to be plainer. And yet I’m d — d if I care to hear you, you lying old trickster.
(The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are endurable; but he has moved towards the door.)
MRS DOWEY. You’re not going already, mister?
DOWEY. Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.
MRS DOWEY (holding out her arms longingly). You haven’t gave it to me yet.
DOWEY. You have a cheek!
MRS DOWEY (giving further proof of it). You wouldn’t drink some tea?
DOWEY. Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing away at you.
(It is such a roaring negative that it blows her into a chair. But she is up again in a moment, is this spirited old lady.)
MRS DOWEY. You could drink the tea while you was blazing away. There’s winkles.
DOWEY. Is there?
(He turns interestedly toward the table, but his proud Scots character checks him, which is just as well, for what she should have said was that there had been winkles.)
Not me. You’re just a common rogue. (He seats himself far from the table.) Now, then, out with it. Sit down!
(She sits meekly; there is nothing she would not do for him.) As you char, I suppose you are on your feet all day.
MRS. DOWEY. I’m more on my KNEES.
DOWEY. That’s where you should be to me.
MRS. DOWEY. Oh, mister, I’m willing.
DOWEY. Stop it. Go on, you accomplished liar.
MRS. DOWEY. It’s true that my name is Dowey.
DOWEY. It’s enough to make me change mine.
MRS. DOWEY. I’ve been charring and charring and charring as far back as I mind. I’ve been in London this twenty years.
DOWEY. We’ll skip your early days. I have an appointment.
MRS. DOWEY. And then when I was old the war broke out.
DOWEY. HOW could it affect you?
MRS. DOWEY. Oh, mister, that’s the thing. It didn’t affect me. It affected everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me. Even the posters, on the walls, of the woman saying, ‘Go, my boy,’ leered at me. I sometimes cried by myself in the dark. You won’t have a cup of tea?
DOWEY. No.
MRS. DOWEY. Sudden-like the idea came TO me TO pretend I had a SON.
DOWEY. You depraved old limmer! But what in the name of Old Nick made you choose me out of the whole British Army?
MRS. DOWEY (giggling). Maybe, mister, it was because I liked you best.
DOWEY. Now, now, woman.
MRS. DOWEY. I read one day in the papers, ‘In which he was assisted by Private K. Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch.’ DOWEY (flattered). Did you, now! Well, I expect that’s the only time I was ever in the papers.
MRS. DOWEY (trying it on again). I didn’t choose you for that alone. I read a history of the Black Watch first, to make sure it was the best regiment in the world.
DOWEY. Anybody could have told you that.
(He is moving about now in better humour, and, meeting the loaf in his stride, he cuts a slice from it. He is hardly aware of this, but MRS. dowey knows.) I like the Scotch voice of you, woman. It drummles on like a hill burn.
MRS. DOWEY. Prosen Water runs BY where I was BORN. Maybe it teached me to speak, mister.
DOWEY. Canny, woman, canny.
MRS. DOWEY. I read about the Black Watch’s ghostly piper that plays proudly when the men of the Black Watch do well, and prouder when they fall.
DOWEY. There’s some foolish story of that kind.
(He has another careless slice off the loaf.)
But you couldn’t have been living here at that time, or they would have guessed. I suppose you flitted?
MRS. DOWEY. Yes, it cost me eleven AND sixpence.
DOWEY. How DID you guess the K in my name stood for Kenneth?
MRS. dowey. Does it?
DOWEY. Umpha!
MRS. DOWEY. An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.
DOWEY. Well, that’s the only angel in the whole black business.
(He chuckles.)
You little thought I would turn up! (Wheeling suddenly on her) Or did you?
MRS. DOWEY. I was beginning to weary for a sight of you, Kenneth.
DOWEY. What word was that?
MRS. DOWEY. Mister.
(He helps himself to butter, and she holds out the jam pot to him, but he haughtily rejects it. Do you think she gives in now? Not a bit of it.)
DOWEY (sarcastic again). I hope you ‘re pleased with me now you see me.
MRS. DOWEY. I’M very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?
DOWEY. Glasgow.
MRS DOWEY. Both living?
DOWEY. Ay.
MRS. DOWEY. Is your mother terrible proud of you? The Old Lady Shows Her Medals 979 DOWEY. Naturally.
MRS. DOWEY. YOU’LL be going to them?
DOWEY. After I’ve had a skite in London first.
MRS. DOWEY (sniffing). So she is in London!
DOWEY. Who?
MRS. DOWEY. Your young lady.
DOWEY. Are you jealyous?
MRS DOWEY. Not me.
DOWEY. You needna be. She’s a young thing.
MRS. DOWEY. YOU surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?
DOWEY. You may be sure. (He tries the jam.) She’s a titled person. She is equally popular as maid, wife and munitionworker.
(MRS DOWEY remembers Lady Dolly Kanister
, so familiar to readers of fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression indeed comes into her face.)
MRS. DOWEY. Tell me more about her, man.
