Mother’s Day When the curtain rises it is an afternoon in early autumn and the stage can be well lit. Mrs Pearson at right, and Mrs Fitzgerald at left, are sitting opposite each other at the small table, on which are two tea-cups and saucers and the cards with which Mrs Fitzgerald has been telling Mrs Pearson’s fortune. Mrs Pearson is a pleasant but worried-looking woman in her forties. Mrs Fitzgerald is older, heavier and a strong and sinister personality.
She is smoking. It is very important that these two should have sharply contrasting voices — Mrs Pearson speaking in a light, flurried sort of tone, with a touch of suburban Cockney perhaps; and Mrs Fitzgerald with a deep voice, rather Irish perhaps. MRS FITZGERALD: [collecting up the cards] And that’s all I can tell you, Mrs Pearson. Could be a good fortune.
Could be a bad one. All depends on yourself now. Make up your mind— and there it is. MRS PEARSON: Yes, thank you, Mrs Fitzgerald.
I’m much obliged, I’m sure. It’s wonderful having a real fortune-teller living next door. Did you learn that out East, too? -