Woodiss Is Willing

Henry Woodiss

Description

Woodiss was the gamekeeper whose affair with a titled lady thrust him into one of the 1920s' most sensational scandals. Years later, he wrote a fictionalized account of this time. It is raunchy, funny and mocks everybody, not least himself, a hapless clown, in the middle of a farce.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: Help For Bands
• Date de parution: 26 août 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910823057
• Langue: English

Extrait

WOODISS IS WILLING
PART ONE
of
AND WOODISS GETS AWAY
WITH IT
by
HENRY WOODISS


Edited by George Dalrymple


© George Dalrymple 2016


Note by the Editor
Henry Woodiss, author of the trilogy
WOODISS GETSAWAY WITH IT
Woodiss was a simple English gamekeeper whose love affair with his boss’s wife propelled him into one of the most sensational scandals of the nineteen twenties. Many years later, Woodiss wrote an explicit, albeit tongue-in-cheek, account of these events. WOODISS IS WILLING, Part One of his trilogy, recounts how Lady C, who had artistic pretensions, ordered him to pose naked in the woods, sketched him, then shamelessly exploited her social position to seduce him. He describes his life with Lady C after she and her husband divorced. Excluded from society, they settled in a house provided by Lady C’s family, in anobscure Northern town. Lady C’s passion for Woodiss did not diminish, and the couple enjoyed a loving and contented life together until Lady C’s untimely death. Soon afterwards, war broke out and Woodiss was recalled to The Colours. Active Service was a welcome distraction, but Woodiss was seriously injured early in the war and, to his dismay, discharged from the army. He describes how, re-settling into civilian life, he unwittingly became involved with the extreme religious sectwhich was to have a dramatic effect on his life.
In WOODISS WAITS, Part Two of the trilogy, Woodiss tells how he was preyed on by women of all ages,from a teenage housemaid, through whom he tried to acquire a pair of rare monkeys, to an aging Irish widow who believed he could persuade her son, a dissolute Glaswegian doctor, to enter the priesthood. He describes the development of his love affair with Miriam, a beautiful young spiritualist, who claimed that she received messages from his dead wife, instructing her to comfort him.
The final part of the trilogy, WOODISS WINS, relates how it was his misfortune to be drawn to a young schoolteacher, a classic blonde beauty, who seems to have suffered from a severe form of nymphomania. The outcome of this encounter, which Woodiss recounts in painful detail, provides a dramatic climax to his story.


Find out more about Woodiss on
www.henrywoodiss.com


ONE
Not many of you will have found yourselves laying flat on your face, with a 500cc Norton and a dead despatch rider on your back.
Even before I reached the corner I knew there was trouble. But I marched on and stepped smartly onto the road. When he saw me he speeded up, aiming hisself straight at me. I pushed back against the wall and he swerved towards me.
Face down I lay there. I didn’t know he was dead. He had me pinned to the ground, so I was in no position to examine him. My mouth was stuffed with slush, half the bones in my body were broken – if he was as dead as they say he was,he felt better than I did.
é
‘Homicide? Suicide? Or a poor sense of direction? We’ll never know.’ The MO chuckled – another Scotch humorist - and looked down at the papers spread across the desktop. ‘You got some grievous wounds in the last show,’ he said, taking his pipe out his mouth and licking his finger, then turning the pages of my file. ‘Your right leg was the devil of a mess. In other circumstances we wouldn’t have saved it.’ If they’d had busloads of wounded at the door they’d have chopped it off, he meant.
I didn’t know what to say to that. But either way, gammy-legged nor one-legged, I wouldn’t have wanted to be laying next to lads with real wounds, nor answer their questions, like: ‘Where did you get yours, old boy? In camp? Good God!’ The fighting had started. They’d need the beds, so they wouldn’t keep me here; they’d send me to a convalescent home like they did before.
‘You’ll have a limp, you might need a stick, but you shouldn’t have serious difficulties - not with the leg. It’ll ache when there’s rain on the way – why, we don’t know - but it’s not a reliable weather forecaster.’ More Scotch humour. ‘It’s a problem you wouldn’t have had if you’d chosen the wooden leg – not unless you’re one of them folk that feels pain in places that aren’t there. But a peg-leg would be even less reliable at weather forecasting.’ He had another laugh and read some more. ‘The back’s a wee bit more of a problem,’ he said. ‘Three of the lower vertebrae are twisted round in a verrra disobliging way. There’s nothing we can do about it. It’d be prudent to keep a stock of pain killers to hand, codeine’s as good as any, you can eat them like sweeties.’ He put his pipe down and finally looked me in the eye. ‘I don’t know if this’ll be good news or bad. You’ll have a Board, of course, all the formalities.’ He stopped and looked round in case Lord Haw Haw was listening, then said, ‘We’re not supposed to say this, but you’ve earned the right to hear it: For you, Captain Woodiss, the war is over.’ He glanced across at my ribbons: they were the same as his but I’d also got some better ones. ‘Where were you when the last one finished?’
‘Armistice Day? We were over the Sambre River. Beyond Le Cateau.’
He nodded as if he knew the place. Maybe he’d been one of them hairy Jocks that were always shouting the odds in the next trench. ‘What did you think when you heard the news?’
‘I thought, Hellfire, I’m going to have to get a real job.’ There was more to it but I wasn’t going to go on about it.
Anyway, he laughed. ‘You’ll get a real job, a man like you, but it’ll have to be a sitting down job or better still, lying down – try the Civil Service. But not weather forecasting, mind.’
I don’t know what you think, but in my opinion Scotch doctors shouldn’t try and be funny about gammy legs. Most Scotch folk don’t laugh much; like me they’ve been fortunate in inheriting a lack of a sense of humour – but I’m more fortunate in not being Scotch. Let me say I’ve got nothing against the Scotch race in general. They’ve made valuable contributions to civilization: Scotch whisky especially, and other Scotch things, though they should have drawn the line at Scotch bagpipes, and there’s been many famous Scotchmen though I can’t think of one off-hand – and I daresay their doctors are second to none, but the ones I’ve encountered all suffered from the delusion that they had a gift for comedy. MacTurk, our local doctor, did, and the doctor in my old battalion, and so did my friend Gilroy, who you’ll meet later on.
‘Was that Sandy MacTurk you were on about?’ the MO said. ‘Red hair and a big nose? I went through college with him. I wondered where he’d got to.’
‘If you ever get to Briarmains try The Blacksmith Arms ,’ I said. ‘He’s generally there from morning surgery onwards.’
The MO stood up and stuck his hand out. ‘All the best,’ he said. ‘Keep right on round the bend. There’s an ancient Scotch saying I commend to you: never let the porridge stir the spurtle. It’s stood me in good stead.’
Late on that day, I got back to Briarmains. There’d be no food in the house, but there was a fish shop up High Street, so I hobbled in. There were two customers ahead of me but nobody followed me in, and when my turn came I sensed the widow that kept the shop was anxious at being alone with me.
The women in Briarmains had been led to believe I was a ravening sexual beast, so when I went near them a lot of them backed away, either because they didn’t trust me or didn’t trust theirselves; the others thought I didn’t raven enough. However, overcoming her anxieties, the widow said it was nice to see me back, but sorry, all the fish had gone.
‘I fancied a bit of haddock but as I’m hungry I’ll make do with what there is,’ I said. I spoke in the tone of a man prepared to endure any hardship, and left my order with her while I went across to the off-licence, twenty yards down on t’other side. It wasn’t easy. High Street isn’t the main street in Briarmains – the main street is Lowgate – but High Street is high, specially at the top, and the rest of it’s steep. Walking had never been a problem for me. Drunk or sober my feet managed to go one in front of t’other without getting in one another’s way. With the stick they were all over the shop. It would have been easier without it except I’d have fallen over.
I didn’t know the chap behind the counter who looked at me as if customers shouldn’t be allowed in his shop, and he didn’t seem to recognize me. I thought everybody in Briarmains knew me. It’s irksome when everywhere you go, people look at you sideways and nudge their pals and whisper to one another; on the other hand, it can hurt if they don’t recognize you.
‘Where’s Eva?’ I said.
‘Poorly.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’
I lurched over to the bacon slicer expecting him to follow.
‘Bacon’s on ration,’ he said, rooted behind the counter.
‘I want a bit of boiled ham.’
‘Bacon and ham go together. They come from same animal, the domestic pig.’
I wasn’t having this. I rapped my stick on the tiles a couple of times. ‘I know they do,’ I said. ‘You’re talking to an expert. Before I was called on to serve my country for a second time, I used to keep pigs. I’ve bred pigs. I’ve fed and nurtured them, I’ve slaughtered them and butchered them. I’ve cured, salted and smoked them. I’ve eaten them hot and cold, boiled, baked, roasted and fried. So don’t presume to lecture me on pigs, my man.’
‘They’re still rationed.’
‘I’ve got a ration card in my bag. I’ll see to it tomorrow. What I want is something for me breakfast.’
I twisted round and grimaced with pain. He stood there, behind the counter, unmoved.
It grieves me to say this, but Yorkshire has more than its fair share of pettifogging, long-faced, tight-arsed killjoys, who believe it’s their patriotic duty to be awkward and grudging and put as many difficulties as possible in your way. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on,’ they liked to say. Of cours