Mother’s Day DORIS: [aghast] Go off for the week-end? MRS PEARSON: Why not? I could do with a change. Stuck here day after day, week after week.
If I don’t need a change, who does? DORIS: But where would you go, who would you go with? MRS PEARSON: That’s my business. You don’t ask me where you should go and who you should go with, do you?
DORIS: That’s different. MRS PEARSON: The only difference is that I’m a lot older and better able to look after myself, so it’s you who should do the asking. DORIS: Did you fall or hit yourself with something? MRS PEARSON: [coldly] No.
But I’ll hit you with something, girl, if you don’t stop asking silly questions. [Doris stares at her open-mouthed, ready to cry.] DORIS: Oh — this is awful... [She begins to cry, not passionately.] MRS PEARSON: [coldly] Stop blubbering. You’re not a baby.
If you’re old enough to go out with Charlie Spence, you’re old enough to behave properly. Now stop it. [George Pearson enters left. He is about fifty, fundamentally decent but solemn, self-important, pompous.
Preferably he should be a heavy, slow-moving type. He notices Doris’s tears.] GEORGE: Hello — what’s this? Can’t be anything to cry about. DORIS: [through sobs] You’ll see.
[Doris runs out left with a sob or two on the way. George stares after her a moment, then looks at Mrs Pearson.] GEORGE: Did she say ‘You’ll see’...? MRS PEARSON: Yes. GEORGE: What did she mean?
MRS PEARSON: Better ask her. [George looks slowly again at the door then at Mrs Pearson. Then he notices the stout that Mrs Pearson raises for another sip. His eyes almost bulge.] -