Thursday's Child

Ellen Wilson:
Phoebe! Phoebe!

Phoebe Wilson:
Yes, what is it?

Ellen Wilson:
[she enters] You should have lent a hand at the salvage depot, they could do with help on Saturday afternoon. What do you make of this? [she hands Phoebe a letter]

Phoebe Wilson:
It's meant for me.

Ellen Wilson:
I thought it was for Fennis. That's why I opened it. What do they mean by your application for work?

Phoebe Wilson:
I think Mr Durham must have arranged it for me. I asked him to.

Ellen Wilson:
You know your father wouldn't let you take it.

Phoebe Wilson:
I'm going to take it.

Ellen Wilson:
How can you? It's on Monday. You've got to go to Bond Street.

Phoebe Wilson:
If I were to say that you were in bed that day with a bad chill, Felicia would let me stay away. I'd phone her.

Ellen Wilson:
You must be mad, Phoebe - telling deliberate, downright lies.

Phoebe Wilson:
Mummy, you must help me. You must!

Ellen Wilson:
No, Phoebe. You must drop the whole idea.

Phoebe Wilson:
So I'm not even allowed one day's crowd work? I've got to plod along on three pounds a week while my thirteen year old sister gets fifty? Mother, you've no right to refuse to help me. You've always encouraged me to want something out of life. Nothing was too good for me, until Fennis got her contract. Now you don't care what happens to me.

Ellen Wilson:
Phoebe, it's not true.

Phoebe Wilson:
It is. If I speak to you, you don't listen. You just sit staring at Fen' as though she's the centre of all creation. You almost croon over her beastly press cuttings. You watch every mouthful she eats. You sit for hours gloating over her pictures...

Ellen Wilson:
It's not true, not one word of it.

Phoebe Wilson:
You know it is, Mummy... and I won't stand for it any longer. I won't! I won't!