JEMIMA BLOGGS
(A Play of Life as it is, in the Manchester manner of Mr. St. John Ervine.)
ACT I
Scene: A dingy parlour in a London Suburb. Two men in ill-fitting garments are sitting glumly, in comfortless chairs with shabby and rather soiled covers, on either side of a dismal mockery of a fire. The room is lit with incandescent gas, which shows a sickly yellow through a raw haze, offensively compounded of “London Particular” and the penetrating yellow fumes of cheap coal. The men are Joseph Bloggs (52), one of life’s many failures, and Henry Hooker (49), another of them. Their tired white faces are resting on their hands, and they are staring into the smoking grate. At last Hooker breaks the intolerable silence.
Hooker (gloomily): The fire’s smoking.
Bloggs: Yes. (He pokes it. The fire smoulders angrily. They cough. There is a pause. Hooker looks out of the window.)
Hooker (darkly): It’s raining.
Bloggs (with a deep sigh): Yes.... Has the fog lifted?
Hooker: No. It’s getting thicker.
Bloggs (with resignation): Ah, well. (Jemima (42) comes in, tiredly. She is the wife of Bloggs, a thin, prematurely grey-haired woman, haggard with cares. The fire welcomes her with a spiteful volley of lyddite.)
Jemima (wearily): You’re here, are you?
Bloggs: Yes.... The fire’s smoking.
Jemima (with a sigh): I’ll make it up. (She makes a listless attack on it with the poker. The fire goes out.) The coals are so bad. (She painfully rekindles it.)
Hooker: Yes.
Jemima (addressing Bloggs): That kid’s very bad again. She’s coughing something awful.
Bloggs: Better have the doctor.
Jemima: Perhaps Mr. Hooker would tell him on his way home?
Hooker: Yes.
Jemima: The gas company’s going to cut off the gas to-morrow, unless—Joseph, couldn’t we pay something on account?
Bloggs: I’ll see what I can do.
Hooker: Life’s very hard.
Jemima: Yes. (She begins to lay the table with enamel cups and saucers.) You’ll stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?
Hooker (drearily): Yes. I suppose so. (They wait in silent misery for the kettle to boil.)
The Curtain Falls.
Hooker: Life’s very hard.
ACT II.
Scene: The same room, slightly more dingy. Jemima Bloggs, her husband, and a Doctor are standing under the gas bracket. Hooker, as usual, is crouching over the starveling fire.
The Doctor (curtly): She can’t live. It’s only a matter of days, perhaps hours. I must go.
Bloggs: Can nothing be done?
The Doctor: Can you send her to the Riviera?
Bloggs: No. Would that cure her?
The Doctor: It might.... I’m sorry. Good-day. (He goes.)
Jemima (in a shaking voice): I’ll get your tea, Joseph. (She begins taking down the cups and laying the table.)
Bloggs (as if in a trance): The Riviera might save her. (He takes his hat.)
Jemima: Won’t you wait for tea before you go?
Bloggs: I don’t want any tea. (He slouches miserably out.)
Hooker: The fog’s very thick.
Jemima: Yes.
Hooker: It’s still raining. (He takes his hat and coat.)
Jemima: Won’t you stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?
Hooker: I don’t feel equal to tea. (He goes out unsteadily. Jemima sits wretchedly by the smouldering hearth. The child cries out in its delirium. The fog steals into the room obscuring everything.)
The Curtain Falls.
ACT III.
Scene: The same room—if possible dingier than ever. Jemima is sitting hunched up by the fire, which is enveloping her in a yellow cloud. Bloggs is pushed into the room by a hard-faced man.
The Hard-Faced Man (grimly): I’ve brought you back your husband, ma’am. You may as well know he’s discharged from my employment.
Jemima (tonelessly): Oh?
The H.F.M.: And lucky he’s not prosecuted.
Jemima (as before): Oh?
The H.F.M.: Embezzlement’s a serious thing.
Jemima: Yes.... Starvation’s serious too.
The H.F.M.: That’s your affair.... I don’t want thanks. I don’t intend to prosecute, because it’s a nuisance. That’s all.
Jemima: Yes.
Bloggs (inadvertently stepping out of the picture): I tell you I did it to save my little girl. She’s dying. I must have money to save her—to send her abroad. Oh, Amy, Amy, my child. (He tries in vain to sob.)
The H.F.M. (chillingly): No sentiment, please! This is not the Lyceum.... Now, I’m going. I hope I never see either of you again. I don’t care two straws whether the girl dies or not. And I won’t wish you luck, because I don’t specially want you to have it, and anyway you wouldn’t get it. (But they are paying no attention, and he goes.)
Jemima (listlessly): Doctor’s been again.
Bloggs (the same): Oh yes?
Jemima: Says she’s getting better.
Bloggs: Is she? (He sits by the fire in his hat and coat. The inevitable Hooker slouches in, similarly clad, and takes his place on the other side. A melancholy silence reigns.)
Hooker (at last): It’s raining again.
Jemima (bringing in the milk-jug): The thunder’s turned the milk sour.
Bloggs (dismally): I thought it would.
Hooker (shivering, and hugging himself in his coat): There’s a thick fog, and it’s very damp.
Bloggs (gloomily): There always is.
Hooker: Yes. (The fire contributes to the general depression by a shower of soot, and a sudden belch of acrid yellow fumes.)
Bloggs: Jemima, the fire’s smoking.
Jemima (wearily): I’ll make it up in a minute. (She worries it with various implements. More soot falls and the smoke increases. She stirs it aimlessly with the poker. It flickers and goes out for the last time. They, and the audience, are too depressed to care. They sit staring blankly at the grate as the cold and fog gradually invade the room.)
The Curtain Falls very slowly.