_John Bullyum, J.P._ (Member of the Town Council of Mudslush).
_Mrs. Bullyum_ (his wife).
_Janet_ (their daughter).
_David_ (their son).
SCENE.--_The living-room of a smallish house in the dullest street of a
provincial suburb._ [_N.B.--This merely means that practically any
scenery will do, provided the wall-paper is sufficiently hideous.
Furnish with the scourings of the property-room--a great convenience
for Sunday evening productions._] _The room contains rather less than
the usual allowance of doors and windows, thus demonstrating a fine
contempt for stage traditions. An electric-light, disguised within a
mid-Victorian gas-globe, occupies a conspicuous position on one wall.
You will see why presently. When the curtain rises_ Janet, _an awkward
girl of any age over thirty_ (_and made up to look it_) _is seated
before the fire knitting. Her mother, also knitting, faces her. The
appearance of the elder woman contains a very careful suggestion of the
nearest this kind of play ever gets to low-comedy._
_Janet_ (_glancing at clock on mantelpiece_). It's close on nine. David is
late again.
_Mrs. B._ He's aye late these nights. 'Tis the lectures at the Institute
that keeps him.
[_N.B.--Naturally both women speak with a pronounced accent, South
Lancashire if possible. Failing that, anything sufficiently unlike
ordinary English will serve._
_Janet_. He's that anxious to get on, is David.
_Mrs. B._ Ay, he's fair set on being a town councillor one day, like thy
feyther.
_Janet_ (_quietly_). That 'ud be fine.
_Mrs. B._ You'd a rare long meeting at the women's guild to-night.
_Janet_ (_without emotion_). Ay. They've elected me to go to Manchester on
the deputation.
_Mrs. B._ You'll like that.
_Janet_ (_suppressing a secret pride so that it is wholly imperceptible by
the audience_). It'll be well enough. I'm to go first-class. (_A pause._)
Young Mr. Inkslinger is going too.
_Mrs. B._ (_with interest_). Can they spare him from the boot-shop?
_Janet_. He's left them. He's writing a play.
_Mrs. B._ (_concerned_). Dear, dear! And he used to be such a steady young
fellow.
[_All that matters in their conversation is now finished, but as the
play has got to be filled up they continue to talk for some ten minutes
longer. At the end of that time_--
_Janet_ (_glancing at clock again_). It's half-past nine, and neither of
they men back yet.
[_Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted,
the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind.
This is called realism._
_Mrs. B._ Listen! Yer feyther's comin' now.
[_A door in the far distance is heard to bang. At the same instant_
John Bullyum _enters quickly. He is the typical British parent of
repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a
lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a
gamekeeper and an undertaker._
_Bullyum_ (_He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks
scornfully_). Well, here's a fine thing happened.
_Mrs. B._ What is it, feyther?
_Bully_, (_showing letter_). That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the
impudence to write me asking for our Janet. But I've told him off to
rights. He's nobbut a boot-builder.
_Janet_ (_in a level voice_). Ye're wrong there, feyther. Bob Inkslinger's
a dramatist now.
_Bully_, (_thunderstruck_). What?
_Janet_ (_as before_). He's had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.
_Bully_. Great Powers, a repertory dramatist! And I've insulted him!--me, a
town councillor. (_He has grown white to the lips; this is not easy, but
can be managed._) There'll be a play about me--about us, this house--
everything. But (_passionately_) I'll thwart him yet. Janet, my girl, do
thee write at once and say that I withdraw my opposition to the engagement.
_Janet_ (_dully_). But I don't want the man.
_Bully_, (_hectoring_). Am I your feyther or am I not? I tell you you shall
marry him. And what's more, he shan't find us what he looks for. No, no
(_with rising agitation_), he thinks that because I'm a town councillor I'm
to be made game of, does he? Well, I'll learn him different! (_Glaring
round_) This room--it's got to be changed. And you (_to_ Janet) put on a
short frock, something lively and up-to-date--d' ye hear? At once!
_Mrs. B._ (_as_ Janet _only stares without moving_). Well, I never.
_Bully_. And let's have some books about the place--BERNARD SHAW--
_Janet_ (_icily_). He's a back number now, feyther.
_Bully_. Well, whoever's the latest. Then you must go to plays and dances,
lots of dances. (_Struck with an idea_) Where's David?
[_As he speaks_ David _enters, a tall ungainly youth with spectacles
and a projecting brow._
_David_. Here I yam, feyther.
_Bully_. It's close on ten. (_Hopefully_) Have ye been at a night-club?
_David_. I were kept late at evenin' class.
_Bully_. Brr! (_In an ecstasy of fury_) See ye belong to a night-club
before the week's out. (_He does his glare again._) I'll establish
frivolity and a spirit of modernism in this household, if I have to take
the stick to every member of it.
_Janet_ (_springing up suddenly_). Feyther! (_A pause; she collects herself
for her big effort._) Feyther, I'm one o' they dour silent girls to whom
expression comes hardly, but (_with veiled menace_) when it does come it
means fifteen minutes' unrelieved monologue. So tak' heed. We're not
wanting these changes, and to be up-to-date, and all that. I'm happy as I
am, and so's David. He has his hope of the council, and the bribes and them
things. And I've my guild and my friends, with their odd clothes and
variable accents. That's the life I want, and I won't change it. I won't--
[_Quite suddenly she breaks from them and rushes out of the room,
slamming the door after her. The others remain silent, apparently from
emotion, but really to see if there will be any applause. When this is
settled in the negative old_ Bullyum _speaks again._
_Bully_, (_slowly and as if with an immense effort_). Why couldn't she
wait?... She might have known we wouldn't decide anything--that we never do
decide anything--because it would be too much like a rounded climax. Well
(_rousing himself_), let's put out the gas. [_He moves heavily towards the
conspicuous bracket._
_David_ (_protesting)_. But, feyther, 'tisn't near time for bed yet.
_Bully_, (_grimly_). Maybe; but 'tis more than time play was finished. And
this is how.
[_He turns the tap. A few moments later the light is switched off with
a faintly audible click, and upon a stage in total darkness the curtain
falls._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Officer_ (_anxious to pass his recruit who is not shooting
well_). "DO YOU SMOKE MUCH?"
_Recruit._ "ABOUT A PACKET OF WOODBINES A DAY, SIR."
_Officer._ "DO YOU INHALE?" _Recruit._ "NOT MORE THAN A PINT A DAY,
SIR."]
* * * * *