Evening Star Newspaper, December 15, 1929, Page 112

“Lady Wipers,” They Called Her. And She Tells You Through the Gifted Pen of Llewllyn Hughes Why They Put Her Name and Her Picture in the Papers—It’s One of the Outstanding Prize Stories of the Year—Another of the 0. Henry Memorial Award Selections Will Appear in The Star’s Magazine Next Sunday. HAT'S what ’e used to call me, sir; so that's what the papers called me. Of ‘ course, you wouldn't know about it, seeing you only been back in London a week after doing your paintings ail the Summer on the contenink. Italy is on the contenink, I suppose? Lor!—but you 'ave got your studio in a mess, "aven’t you, sir. I'd bet- ter dust your books & bit. Yes, that's what ’e used to call me. Such a one for jokes, 'e was. You know, sir, when ‘e'd come ‘ome on his leave, I used to stop me work and go to Victoria Station to meet him. And I wasn't so well off you might say, in them days. It was doorsteps then, sir—and polishing door- knockers; and every penny counted. Oh, I'm much better off now, sir—what with cleaning gentlemen's rooms and all that and not 'aving to work out-of-dcors in the cold and rain, like. So it was losing one and thruppence every time I went to meet him; because I had to wait in the station all day, not knowing which train ‘e would come on. And that’s what 'e used to say to me—first off, like. *'Ullo Lady Wipers! 'ere I am—back ‘ome once more; safe and sound. So come on—and let's ’'ave a glass of beer together.” That was the first thing ’e thought of, sir. Oh, "¢ was a great one for his beer. No messing around, taking me in his arms and all that. “Come on,” 'e'd say, “let’s 'ave a glass of beer.” ‘And I was that proud of him, sir— carrying his gasmask and kit-bag and souvi- neers and all, and trotting behind him on the way to the pub. “A pint of the best,” ’e used to say. “And one for me old dutch 'ere—Lady Wipers.” No, ‘e never kissed me, sir—but once. That was when 'e went back to Wipers for the last time. In 1918, that was. 'E kissed me then, just before 'e got on the train. I don’t know what come over him to do it—but ’e kissed me. ©Oh, 'e was fond of me in his ’eart, you might say; deep down in his ’eart, sir. Only ’e never showed it. 'E was too much of a man for that, “Well,” ’e says, “so long, Lady Wipers. Keep the old 'ome fire burning,” ’e says. “And don't forget—if anything 'appens to me—you own a bit of property up round Wipers; a bit I've paid for with me blood,” ’e says. “That’s what the King said in that speech 'e made the other day. So if I cop it,” 'e says, “you go up and tell 'em. Tell 'em you own Wipers as much as anybody in the land—and that Private Bill Blodgett, your *usband, jolly well said so0.” And it was then ’e kissed me, sir. Oh, ’e could talk like Winston Churchill, sir—when ‘e’d had a drop or two. 'E was always fond of his beer. That’s how I met him, sir, first of all. 'E'd had too much, as the saying is. Beg pardon, sir— these books are dusty, ain’t they? YES, I used to keep meself pretty tidy in them b days, and had a little back rocm all to me- self and everything. I'm talking now, sir, of long ago; before the war started. I used to go out every niorning and wash door-steps and polish knockers. And sometimes I got a bit of extra work that kept me late. And likely the last dcor-step would be out Kensington way, sir, and I'd fancy a bit of a walk ‘ome—through the park, like. It kept me pretty late, you might say. But I didn't mind it. There was always flowers in the park and couples going arm-in-arm. And it was through being late as I met him, sir, ’E'd had too much as usual, and there ’e was, sir; lying in the gutter. And such a state. I was frightened at first, sir. I didn’'t know what to do with him. 'E’'d been in a fight, and some ruffian or other had knocked him down—and his ’ead had struck the sewer. And there ’e lay, sir—half-dead like. So I ’elped him up as best I could—till ‘e come to his senses a bit. 'E didn’t know where ‘e was nor nothing, and couldn't remember where ’e lived. So I took him with me, sir— the poor feller—and then I sent for the doctor. And the doctor come and put several stitches in his 'ead and left him lying on my bed. I didn’t like it at all, sir—me being a decent young woman. But what was I to do? So I sat up all night nursing him. And glad of a bit of eompany I was; although it was only a man groaning, you might say. You know, sir, I always blame that doctor for the poor job ’e done. The stitches must ’ave been very clumsy ones; because Bill had the marks of 'em ever after. Sort of ridges, they was: hard as nails, sir, when you felt 'em. 'E @lways had 'eadaches after that, and I used to rub his poor 'ead for him; and me fingers would go over and over them ridges of his—Ilike over a griddle, you might say. Yes, that's how I met him, sir. And ’e was grateful to me, in a way of speaking. 'E knew I had looked after him, like; saved him from be- ing sent to a 'ospital. 'E hated ’ospitals, sir. So then ’e got to taking me out to a pub—of an evening; and now and then borrowing a shilling of me; and glad I was to let him ‘ave It'. You see, sir, I was only 26 at the time; and I'd never had a feller, as you might say. I often used to wish I had some one to 80 out with—seeing ‘em arm-in-arm in the park. So when Bill took me out for a bit, I was proud, like; and got meself up to look tidy for him and all that. And when ‘e wanted a shilling or two, I gave it to him and gladly—because 'e never worked, sir; except when ‘e had to, Oh, 'e was a regular toff with his money. And, as I tell you, deep down in his ‘eart 'e was !dnd to me, sir. The baby died almost before e was born—and what with one thing and an- other we had a hard time, You see, sir, I was too weak to go out working for him, and ‘e took to drinking ’eavy, after the baby died. Oh, ’e was terrible fond of children, sir—you could tell that. And I done the best I could for him, to make him ‘appy like, As soon as I could stand on me feet, you might say, I went to washing doorsteps again and started earning me bit of money regular. Only ’e used to beat me at times—when ’e’d been drinking. I know ’e didn’t mean it, sir. 'E was sorry 'lturwards—l knew ’'e was. But what with his eada_ches and his worrying over the baby and all—'e was crosspatch, you might say, and ulsetd his hand to me, sometimes, course, I didn't do so well with le when I had a black eye on me. They dldn?teonpke the looks of me, and said their door-steps would do until next week—which was only right, after all; wasn't it, sir? But we got along somehow, and managed to eat and all. Only we never enjoyed ourselves like other couples, nor went anywhere nor anything. Would you believe me, sir? I never been to the cinema in all my born days. The only place ’e ever took me to was the pub; and I didn’t like to go inside some of ‘em; they was that bad, ::;.e So It I:wed to stand waiting for him out- , on the corner—exce) oensdbsny cept when it come to But I was "appy with him, sir—quite 'a The ‘appiest days I ever had. ;31 I llkgpt.yo‘ look back on them, and talk about 'em—when I ain't disturbing anybody, sir. And then the war come and ’e joined tha army. The minute 'e knew his ccuntry wanted him, 'e never ‘esitated, sir. Oh, ’e was a won- derful man in every way. Stepped right up, ‘e did, and took the shilling; and when I come ‘ome about 10 o'clock that night, there e was, sir, lying on the bed in his brand-new uniform, Such a picture, sir; real 'andsome, ‘e was. I cried when e went away, sir. I couldn't ‘elp it. You see, 'e was all I had in the world, you might say—and it made me ‘appy to look after him and work to the bone for him. Oh, I didn't mind him knocking me about a bit, sir. All men like to do that, don't they, sir? To show off, like. And after all, 'e was me lawful wedded ’usband and had a right to give me a blow ncw and then—if ’e had a mind to. I dare say I was a bit of a bother to him sometimes, when I couldn't look after him proper—being tired and worn out from walking 'ome. Nine- pence a week, I used to save, sir—by walking ‘ome of an evening. And ’e used to get it— every penny of it; and gladly. Only ‘e didn't realize—that was the trouble. Oh, ‘e could spend his money like water, sir—if you know what I mean. His regiment was one of the first to go, sir. You see, 'e joined up so early. And in 1915 ‘e was in France, sir. I felt terrible lonely at first; and I used to lie awake at night—fearing 'e’d get killed. 'E wrote to me quite regular—I'll say that for him. Scmetimes it was a post card; some- times it was one of them green envelopes—un- opened by censor, as they say. No nonsense in 'em, sir; nothing silly, like. 'E was too much of a man for that. Sometimes 'e’d scold me be- cause his socks was too small; other times it would be the cakes I'd sent him had got hard, like. Things like that, sir. I've got his letters, every one of them—in a little box in me room Three years and more, sir—coming and going ~—and post cards and letters. It was a bit 'ard on me—when I 'eard. Six times ’e had come on leave, sir; six times I'd waited all day in Victoria Station for his train to come in. I “And him and the King having a glass of beer together; and me.c used to choke, sir, every time I saw him; choke with ’appiness, you might say, trying to keep me tears back. ’'Cause 'e didn't like to see me sniffing, as ‘e called it.” Yes, it was hard, sir; terrible hard, in a way of speaking. I ought to ’ave left that back room of mine and gone somewhere else. Only I didn't like to leave it, sir, where so many things had ’appened—the baby and all. So I just kept to meself and went on with me door- steps. But I never walked 'ome through the park any more. I'd get low-spirited, if you know what I mean, sir? When I'd see the couplez arm-in-arm, like. Of course, ’e wouldn't 'ave walked arm-in-arm with me—not for anything I had to walk behind him a bit, as ycu might say. To make it seem as if 'e was alone, like. Oh, ’e was dignified, sir; and such a one for ettequet when ‘e wanted to be. No, I didn't walk ’ome through the park any more, sir. I took the bus. You see, I was bet- ter off then, you might say. I had me own work and cnly meself to keep. And besides that, I had a bit of money coming in regular. His pension, you know, sir. It was the first money I ever got from him; and I expect you'll lJaugh at me—when T tell you. Of course, the money comes from the government. I kncw that. But * I always say to meself, “This is from Bill. This bit of money is from your dear, departed 'us- band.” SO what with the pension and me own earn- ings, I managed to save up quite a bit, you might say. And that's how it all appened, sir. Me ’aving a bit of money to spare. You see, I'm not one for reading the papers much—and I didn't know nothing about it until a friend of mine told me. It was while you was on the contenink, sir—painting your pictures. Some time during the Summer it was; so Mrs. Gub- bins told me, “Mrs. Blodgett,” she says, “why didn't you go to Wipers with 'em to see the unveiling of that memorial the other day? It was all in the papers,” she says. “What memorijal?” I says. “The memorial to the soldiers who was killed at Wipers,” she says. “The ones they reported missing. The ones they couldn't find to give a decent burial to,” she says. “I thought that's what 'appened to your ’'usband?” “They never found him,” I says. “That’s quite true, Mrs. Gubbins. They knew ’'e was killed,” I says, “but they couldn’t find him. “Well, it was all in the papers last week,” she says. “There was a quarter of a million of ‘em killed at Wipers who got a proper burial. But there was another 58,000 of ’em that didn't,” she says. “Their bodies was pounded into the soil by the German guns,” she says. “And maybe that's what 'appened to your 'us- band.” It took me so sudden, sir, thing about it,” I says. “Yes,” says Mrs. Gubbins, “a memorial. They had Lord Plumer to unveil it and everything. And the government ordered a special train for “I never knew a THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHIN { One of the O. H P = i el < i ,‘;""h L) the widows to g5 over and see it. Paid their way for ’em and all. Just to see where their 'us- bands was killed,” she says. I can tell you, sir—there was a lump in me throat, like; to think I hadn’t ’eard about it. “They never asked me,” I says. “Nobody ever said a word to me=—and I got a 'usband over there who's been there all these years—since 1918,” I says. “Well, they got his name on the memcrial, Mrs. Blodgett,” she says. “Because I read in the papers they got 58,000 names on it. So your ‘usband’s name is sure to be amongst ‘em. Still,” she says, “I think it’s a pity you wasn't asked to go. It would 'ave been a little outing for you. Thousands and thcusands of widows went there.” It upset me, sir; if you know what I mean. And when she had gone I just lay on me bed and had a good cry all to meself. I thought it was wrong of the government not to let me know. I'd 'ave given up me wcrk—willingly. And as you know, sir, work isn’t so easy to get these days. But I'd ’'ave given up’everything— Jjust to 'ave gone and been near him a bit, once more. That’s all right, sir!'—don’t you move. I can dust 'round your feet without disturbing you. Yes, that's hcw it all ’appened, sir. If I hadn’t saved up a bit of money—I couldn't 'ave gone there. It makes me smile, when I think how excited I was. You see, I had made up me mind to get a Winter coat for meself—and a tippet. But I thought, “What is a coat and a tippet compared with being near Bill for a little while?” So I made up me mind, like, and took me money and—and went, sir. They was very kind to me at the railway station—and give me full particulars how to get there and every- thing; wrote it down on a piece of paper for me. Oh, they respected me, sir—when I told 'em. So I just give up me work—and went. It was a daring thing to do—I know that. And me ‘eart was fluttering all the way. Fright« ened, like; if you know what I mean, sir. Going to a forring ocuntry and all that—just by me- self. But I kept saying, “Bill took this trip half a dozen times—when there was bombs and U-boats and everything. And you are going over the same ground that ’e did.” You know, sir, until then—just about three months ago, it is—until then I had never been outside Lcndon. But I'm glad now. It gave me an oppgrtunity to see the world, like—and I don't regret spending me money; I don't regret it one bit, sir. I'd do it all over again tomorrow —and gladly. THE boat was the worst. I was sick, a bit. And there was a stylish young woman come up to me and asked if she could do anything for me. But I said no—as I thought I could man- age. And she kept watching me all the time— and talking about me to another young woman. And now and then they would laugh at me. I looked a sight, I suppcse. “Are you going to the contenink,” she asks me. “No—I'm not going there, mum,” I says. “I'm \ \