ANOTHER CONFERENCE OF WOMEN WORKERS.
(Not held at Nottingham.)
Scene—The garish but unsavoury "Saloon Bar" of a "South-side Pub." A group of "Daughters of Toil" sipping and gossiping.
Laundress (throwing down newspaper). Wot's this 'ere National Union of Women Workers there's so much cackle about?
Step Girl (sullenly). Dunno, I'm sure. We're not in it, anyhow.
Workman's Wife. Ho no! We ain't women workers, I suppose, we ain't!
Laundress. Then I should like ter know where they find 'em. (Sips "white satin" and sniffs.)
Shop Girl (to Sempstress). 'Ere Miss Mivvins, you're no hand of a scholard, and know all erbout everythink. Wot is this Nottingham Goose Fair, anyhow?
Sempstress. Well, it is not a goose fair, exactly Emma—not in the sense of the old song, at any rate. Seems to me it's a meeting of ladies of title, who don't know what work is, to talk about women of no title who have to do it. (Sighs.) But I suppose they mean well, poor dears.
Young Machinist (pallid and cramped). Well, Miss Mivvins, no doubt as they do. But oh dear me, what good are they going to do the likes of us? My knees crackle, my back aches, and my head swims. Thanks, yes, I don't mind if I do. (Drinks.) Ah! that warms and straightens one out a bit! But if, as you say, these ladies don't know what work is, one of 'em should do my little bit at the warehouse for a week.
Laundress. Ah! or mine, at the wash-tub.
Workman's Wife. Or mine at the wash-tub and all over the shop as well, as I 'olds is the 'ardest of all, seeing as how it ain't never done.
Sempstress (mildly). Ah, yes; but you have your husband and children for company, whereas I——Oh, the long, dreary loneliness of it!
Tailoress. Lookee 'ere, Liz, don't you talk about the old man being cumpny, not till you know wot sich "cumpny" is. You never got a black heye like this; and do you 'appen to know 'ow a kick from a 'obnailed 'ighlow feels in the ribs?
Sempstress (gently). Well, no, my poor soul; and perhaps I'm ungrateful to grumble.
Flower Mounter. Yes; but what might these topping Nottingham Lydy-Workers talk about when they do meet?
Sempstress. Well, you see——
Laundress. 'Old 'ard a minnit, Liz. Before you begin, let's drink up and 'ave another all round. Torkin' 's dry work, as I dessay the Nottingham spouters found it.
[They toss off, and replenish.
Sempstress (continuing). Well, I see, one of their papers is on "The Ethics of Work."
Step Girl. Lor! wot's that, Miss Mivvins?
Sempstress (hesitating). Well—you see—I suppose it means the morals of work, or something o' that.
Laundress. Morals of work! Might as well talk o' the morals of misery while you 're erbout it. The less I 'ave to do, the better I like it—that's my moral.
Shop Girl. Not much morals about work nowadays, Sarah, if I'm any judge. Piling up work and cutting down prices, with the halternative of the streets if yer strikes—that's about the "morals" of our firm. And if you torked to our Boss about these 'ere Nottingham notions, 'e'd "moral" you!
Semptress. Another lady, I see, with such a pretty, poetic-like sort of name, talks about "The Responsibility of Refinement."
Workman's Wife. Ah, well, we ain't got none, so that can't consarn us, can it?
Shop Girl (tartly). I say, you speak for yerself, Mother Matthews. Of course, that means refinement in dress, and—well we don't all wear a pancake 'at with a 'aporth o' green feathers dobbed on to it! (Sniffs, and adjusts her own "high-up" hat with ambitious "hortridge" plumes.)
Workman's Wife (sharply). Now look you 'ere, Miss Stuckup, if I 'adn't more "refinement" in my little finger than wot you 'ave in your 'ole five foot nothink, my old man 'ud swop me off for a ragman's black doll, 'e would, so there!
Voice from the Bar. Now then lydies, a leetle less noise there if you please!
Sempstress. I see here's another talks of "Home Life," and another of the "Morals of Money Spending."
Workman's Wife. Haw! haw! haw! Morals o' money spending, indeed! If these 'ere torky lydies 'ad got as little money to spend as we 'ave, and as many mouths to fill with it, 'tisn't the morals on it as 'ud trouble 'em. When the wealthy 'uns begin to patter of morals to us poor trash, they mostly mean meanness, I reckon.
Young Machinist. Right you are, Mrs. Matthews!
Sempstress (sadly). And as to "Home Life,"—ah! how many of them know that to some of us it only means a painful "Home Death?"
Laundress. Oh, come, I sy, Miss Mivvens, you'll give us all the 'orrors if you tork like that! While there's life—and liquor—there's 'ope, I sez. So let's 'ave another kind love all round, and then we must see about——
Sempstress. "Home Life" and the "Ethics of Work" again, as the "Women Workers" say at Nottingham.
Workman's Wife. But not in the New Cut—no fear!
Voice from the Bar. Now then, time, gentlemen, please!
Exeunt.