Act 1 — 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.