by Unknown
DOWEY. She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a worsted waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed card.
(The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses control of her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that.)
MRS DOWEY. You’ll try one of my cakes, mister?
DOWEY. Not me.
MRS. DOWEY. They ‘re of my OWN making.
DOWEY. No, I thank you.
(But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back again. She pushes a cake before him, at sight of which he gapes.)
MRS. DOWEY. What’s the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister!
DOWEY. That’s exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.
(MRS. DOWEY is now a very glorious old character indeed.)
MRS. DOWEY. Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch colours pleased you.
DOWEY. Wha — at! Was it you?
MRS DOWEY. I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always reading hers in the papers.
(The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time.)
DOWEY. Woman, is there no getting rid of you!
MRS. DOWEY. Are you angry?
(He sits down with a groan.)
DOWEY. Oh, hell! Give me some tea.
(She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her wanting to cry out to every other bit, ‘Oh, glory, glory, glory!’ For a moment she hovers behind his chair.
‘Kenneth!’ she murmurs. ‘What?’ he asks, no longer aware that she is taking a liberty. ‘Nothing,’ she says, ‘just Kenneth,’ and is off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his tea is poured out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of self-preservation returns to him between two bites.)
DOWEY. Don’t you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have got me.
MRS DOWEY. NO, no.
(On that understanding he unbends.)
DOWEY. I have a theatre tonight, followed by a randydandy.
MRS. DOWEY. Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!
DOWEY. It is, woman, oh, it is. (Guardedly) And it’s also a last meeting.
MRS DOWEY. Yes, yes.
DOWEY. So here’S TO YOU — YOU old mop and pail. Ave atque vale.
MRS. DOWEY. What’s that?
DOWEY. That means Hail and Farewell.
MRS. DOWEY. Are you a scholar?
DOWEY. Being Scotch, there’s almost nothing I don’t know.
MRS. DOWEY. What was you to trade?
DOWEY. Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.
MRS. DOWEY. You ‘re a proper man to LOOK at.
DOWEY. I’m generally admired.
MRS. DOWEY. She’s an enviable woman.
DOWEY. Who?
MRS. DOWEY. Your mother.
DOWEY. Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama. (Bitterly) This party never even knew who his proud parents were MRS. DOWEY. Is that — (gleaming) — is that true?
DOWEY. It’s gospel.
MRS. DOWEY. Heaven be praised!
DOWEY. Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don’t think you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.
MRS. DOWEY. I dare say it’s true we’ll never meet again, Kenneth, but — but if we do, I wonder where it will be?
DOWEY. Not in this world.
MRS. DOWEY. There’s no telling. (Leering ingratiatingly)
It might be at Berlin.
DOWEY. Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I’ll find you there waiting for me!
MRS. DOWEY. With a cup of tea for you in my hand.
DOWEY. Yes, and (heartily) very good tea too.
(He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour.)
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!
DOWEY. All the ladies likes to go to Paris.
MRS. DOWEY. Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!
DOWEY. You ‘re all alike, old covey. We have a song about it. (He sings:)
‘Mrs. Gill is very ill, Nothing can improve her But to see the Tuileries And waddle through the Louvre.’ (No song ever had a greater success, MRS DOWEY is doubled up with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, she cries:)
MRS DOWEY. You must learn me that (and off she goes in song also:)
‘Mrs. Dowey’s very ill, Nothing can improve her.’ DOWEY.
‘But dressed up in a Paris gown To waddle through the Louvre.’ (They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her.)
Mrs dowey (ecstatically). Hairy legs!
(A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what she is.)
DOWEY. Mind your manners! (Rising) Well, thank you for my tea. I must be stepping.
(Poor MRS DOWEY, he is putting on his kit.)
MRS DOWEY. Where are you living?
(He sighs.)
DOWEY. That’s the question. But there’s a place called The Hut, where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They’ll take me in. Beggars (bitterly) can’t be choosers.
MRS. DOWEY. Beggars?
DOWEY. I’ve never been here before. If you knew (a shadow comes over him) what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to be back in the trenches.
(‘If you knew’ he has said, but indeed the old lady knows.)
MRS DOWEY. That’s my quandorum too, Kenneth.
(He nods sympathetically.)
DOWEY. I’M sorry for you, you poor old body. (Shouldering his kit.) But I see no way out for either of us.
MRS. DOWEY (cooing). Do you not?
DOWEY. Are you at it again!
(She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up and down on her toes.)
MRS DOWEY. Kenneth, I’ve heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.
DOWEY. You never heard anything truer.
MRS. DOWEY. Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, AND lift the dresser-top, and tell me what you see.
(He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed.)
DOWEY. It’s a kind of a bath!
MRS DOWEY. You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.
DOWEY. Me?
MRS. DOWEY. There’s a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.
(He snorts.)
DOWEY. Oh, is there!
(She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun.)
MRS DOWEY. Kenneth, look!
(With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language. Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills.)
DOWEY. Gosh! That’s the dodge we need in the trenches.
MRS. DOWEY. That’s your bed, Kenneth.
DOWEY. Mine? (He grins at her.) You queer old divert. What can make you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?
MRS. DOWEY. Fie! he! he! he!
DOWEY. I tell you, I’m the commonest kind of man.
MRS. DOWEY. I’m just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.
DOWEY. I’ve been a kick-about all MY life, and I’M NO great shakes at the war.
MRS. DOWEY. Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?
DOWEY. Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because they wanted my shirt.
MRS. DOWEY. Your shirt?
DOWEY. Well, they said it was their shirt.
MRS. DOWEY. Have you took prisoners?
DOWEY. I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.
MRS. DOWEY. How could one man take half a dozen?
DOWEY. Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, you ‘re just my ideal.
DOWEY. You ‘re easily pleased.
(He turns again to the bed.)
Let’s see how the thing works.
(He kneads the mattress with his fist, and the result is so satisfactory that he puts down his kit.)
Old lady, if you really want me, I’ll bide.
MRS. DOWEY. Oh! oh! oh! oh!
(Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of warning.)
DOWEY. But, mind you, I don’t accept you as a relation. For your personal glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; but the best I can say for you is that you ‘re on your probation. I’m a cautious character, and we must see how you’LL turn out.
MRS. DOWEY. Yes, Kenneth.
DOWEY. And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at six-thirty. A cove I met on a bus is going with me.
(She is a little alarmed.)
MRS. DOWEY. You ‘re sure you’ll come back?
DOWEY. Yes, yes. (Handsomely) I leave my kit in pledge.
MRS. DOWEY. YOU won’t liquor up too freely, Kenneth i DOWEY. You’re the first (chuckling) to care whether I do or not. (Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as this.) I promise. Tod, I’m beginning to look forward to being wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, ‘Get up, you lazy swine.’ I’ve kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the right to say that.
(He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes him.)
MRS. DOWEY. What is it, Kenneth?
DOWEY. The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.
(MRS. DOWEY feels a thumping at her breast.)
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, tell ME this instant what YOU mean. Don’t keep me on the jumps.
(He turns her round.)
DOWEY. No, it couldn’t be done.
MRS. DOWEY. Was it me you were thinking of?
DOWEY. Just for the moment (regretfully), but you have no style.
(She catches hold of him by the sleeve.)
MRS. DOWEY. Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! It’s laced up the back in the very latest.
DOWEY. Hum (doubtfully); but let’s see it.
(It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.)
DOWEY. Looks none SO bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It’s not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it’s chiffon.
MRS. DOWEY. I swear I have, Kenneth. And! HAVE A bangle, and A MUFF, and gloves.
DOWEY. Ay, ay. (He considers.) Do you think you could give your face less of a homely look?
MRS. DOWEY. I’M sure I could.
DOWEY. Then you can have A try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will depend on the effect.
(He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a lookingglass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling. One evening a few days later mrs twymley and mrs.
mickleham are in MRS. dowey’s house, awaiting that lady’s return from some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been discussing the war, for the first words we catch are:)
MRS MICKLEHAM. I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to junkerdom.
MRS. TWYMLEY. Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one to another, what do you think will happen after the war? Are we to go back to being as we were?
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war has wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance that is really astonishing.
MRS. TWYMLEY. Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the like of you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible departments of a great and haughty empire.
(They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in comes the haggerty woman, and spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at home.)
MRS MICKLEHAM (with deep distaste). Here’s that submarine again.
(the haggerty woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement.)
the haggerty woman. It’s a terrible war.
MRS TWYMLEY. Is that so?
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. I wonder what will happen when it ends?
MRS MICKLEHAM. I have no idea.
(The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, she is in her best.)
the haggerty woman. Are they not back yet?
(Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question.)
MRS. MICKLEHAM. NO (icily). We have been waiting this half hour. They are at the theatre again.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. YOU tell me! I just popped in with an insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.
MRS. TWYMLEY. The same errand brought us.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. My present is cigarettes.
(They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the secret leaps from them.)
MRS MICKLEHAM. So is mine.
MRS TWYMLEY. Mine too.
(Triumph of the haggerty woman. But it is shortlived.)
MRS MICKLEHAM. MINE HAS gold TIPS.
MRS TWYMLEY. SO HAS MINE.
(the haggerty woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to know that her cigarettes are not goldtipped. She tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake.)
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.
(No wonder they titter.)
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that’s your name), but the word is Exquiseetos.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. Much obliged. (She weeps.)
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I think I heard a taxi.
MRS. TWYMLEY. It will be her third this week.
(They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten.)
the haggerty woman. What is she in?
MRS. MICKLEHAM. A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus sleeves.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. Has she sold her gabardine coat?
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night though it is. She’s wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.
MRS. TWYMLEY. H’sh! (peeping). Strike me dead, if she’s not coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!
(Indeed it is thus that MRS DOWEY enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to kenneth to imprest the visitors. She is quite capable of it. Now we see what kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don’t know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that.)
MRS. DOWEY (affecting surprise). Kenneth, we have visitors!
