Hobsons Choice | Page 4

a factor in the world in Lancashire or a factor in the house of Hobson, you'll become sane.
VICKEY. Do you want us to dress like mill girls?
HOBSON. No. Nor like French Madams, neither. It's un-English, I say.
ALICE. We shall continue to dress fashionably, father.
HOBSON. Then I've a choice for you two. Vickey, you I'm talking to, and Alice. You'll become sane if you're going on living here. You'll control this uppishness that's growing on you. And if you don't, you'll get out of this, and exercise your gifts on some one else than me. You don't know when you're well off. But you'll learn it when I'm done with you. I'll choose a pair of husbands for you, my girls. That's what I'll do.
ALICE. Can't we choose husbands for ourselves?
HOBSON. I've been telling you for the last five minutes you're not even fit to choose dresses for yourselves.
MAGGIE. You're talking a lot to Vickey and Alice, father. Where do I come in?
HOBSON. You? (Turning on her, astonished.)
MAGGIE. If you're dealing husbands round, don't I get one?
HOBSON. Well, that's a good one! (Laughs.) You with a husband! (Down in front of desk.)
MAGGIE. Why not?
HOBSON. Why not? I thought you'd sense enough to know. But if you want the brutal truth, you're past the marrying age. You're a proper old maid, Maggie, if ever there was one.
MAGGIE. I'm thirty.
HOBSON (facing her). Aye, thirty and shelved. Well, all the women can't get husbands. But you others, now. I've told you. I'll have less uppishness from you or else I'll shove you off my hands on to some other men. You can just choose which way you like. (He picks up hat and makes for door.)
MAGGIE. One o'clock dinner, father.
HOBSON. See here, Maggie,--(back again down to in front of desk)--I set the hours at this house. It's one o'clock dinner because I say it is, and not because you do.
MAGGIE. Yes, father.
HOBSON. So long as that's clear I'll go. (He is by door.) Oh no, I won't. Mrs. Hepworth's getting out of her carriage.
(He puts hat on counter again. MAGGIE rises and opens door. Enter MRS. HEPWORTH, an old lady with a curt manner and good clothes.)
Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. What a lovely day. (He crosses R. and places chair.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (sitting in arm-chair R. C.). Morning, Hobson. (She raises her skirt.) I've come about those boots you sent me home.
HOBSON (kneeling on MRS. HEPWORTH'S R., and fondling foot. MAGGIE is C.). Yes, Mrs. Hepworth. They look very nice.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Get up, Hobson. (He scrambles up, controlling his feelings.) You look ridiculous on the floor. Who made these boots?
HOBSON. We did. Our own make.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Will you answer a plain question? Who made these boots?
HOBSON. They were made on the premises.
MRS. HEPWORTH (to MAGGIE). Young woman, you seemed to have some sense when you served me. Can you answer me?
MAGGIE. I think so, but I'll make sure for you, Mrs. Hepworth. (She opens trap and calls.) Tubby!
HOBSON (down R.). You wish to see the identical workman, madam?
MRS. HEPWORTH. I said so.
HOBSON. I am responsible for all work turned out here.
MRS. HEPWORTH. I never said you weren't.
(TUBBY WADLOW comes up trap. A white-haired little man with thin legs and a paunch, in dingy clothes with no collar and a coloured cotton shirt. He has no coat on.)
TUBBY. Yes, Miss Maggie? (He stands half out of trap, not coming right up.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Man, did you make these boots? (She rises and advances one pace towards him.)
TUBBY. No, ma'am.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then who did? Am I to question every soul in the place before I find out? (Looking round.)
TUBBY. They're Willie's making, those.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Then tell Willie I want him.
TUBBY. Certainly, ma'am. (He goes down trap and calls "Willie!")
MRS. HEPWORTH. Who's Willie?
HOBSON. Name of Mossop, madam. But if there is anything wrong I assure you I'm capable of making the man suffer for it. I'll--
(WILLIE MOSSOP comes up trap. He is a lanky fellow, about thirty, not naturally stupid but stunted mentally by a brutalized childhood. He is a raw material of a charming man, but, at present, it requires a very keen eye to detect his potentialities. His clothes are an even poorer edition of TUBBY'S. He comes half-way up trap.)
MRS. HEPWORTH (standing R. of trap). Are you Mossop?
WILLIE. Yes, mum.
MRS. HEPWORTH. You made these boots?
WILLIE (peering at them). Yes, I made them last week.
MRS. HEPWORTH. Take that.
(WILLIE, bending down, rather expects "that" to be a blow. Then he raises his head and finds she is holding out a visiting card. He takes it.)
See what's on it?
WILLIE (bending over the card). Writing?
MRS. HEPWORTH. Read it.
WILLIE. I'm trying. (His lips move as he tries to spell it out.)
MRS. HEPWORTH. Bless the man. Can't you read?
WILLIE. I do a bit. Only it's such funny print.
MRS. HEPWORTH. It's the usual