S2 E4: "Lita Ward" the Soho Girl

right now is certainly not a friend. The row pierces the thin partition walls and carries up the stairwell of one fifty three Warders Street. Sarah Middleton lives in a room one floor above. When Sarah enters Evelyn's room, Evelyn's standing her ground, refusing to give the furious young soldier a penny. She's a full foot shorter than the towering

Canadian private, but she won't surrender to his threats. The man steps over to the door and closes it, blocking any escape with his hulking form, trapping Evelyn and Sarah. Five shillings isn't nothing but it's also not a sum of money worth dying over. The Canadian takes out a pistol and points it squarely at the women. This is the seldom told story of women in World War Two who were killed not by the enemy, but by husbands, lovers and strangers wearing the uniform of their own side.

It's also the tale of a particular string of murder victims that history has swept from view. I'm Hallie Rubinhold and I'm Alice Fines, and you're listening to Bad Women. The Blackout Ripper. Last episode, we traced Evelyn Oakley's early life in England's Northwest, from her turbulent childhood and her father's desertion of the family, through to her work in a drab textile mill. We saw her growing fascination with the glamor of the stage and her attraction to the

freedoms of London's West End counterculture. For some reason, in nineteen thirty six, at the age of twenty eight, Evelyn decided to leave her life in Soho, return north and marry Harold Oatley, a poultry farmer she had met years earlier. They lived together for a year or so in the sleepy village of Thornton. But in the end the role of poultry farmer's wife was not for Evelyn. She appeared to tire of the life we were leading, saying it

was too dull. Before they had married, Harold had promised to allow Evelyn the freedom to return to the West End, so when she grew restless, he kept his word and let her go. That the prospect didn't thrill him. I told her that I was very lonely, and that I did not think a lot of her for leaving me on my own. Back in Soho, Evelyn again assumed that starlet's alias Lita Ward and it wasn't long before she had taken a flat on Wardour Street, the business epicenter

of the British film industry. Here produces, theatrical agents and distributors all had their offices. Movie stars and famous writers could be spotted dining in its numerous cafes and restaurants too, all the way from Trinidad Cyril midnight late further along Wardour Street, the Shimsham Club, a queer friendly venue, was celebrated as Harleman London, a progressive space of jazz music

and so called interracial dancing. The Metropolitan Police recorded it as a den of vice and iniquity for the very same reasons. If they could prove it were selling alcohol without a permit, they could raid the premises and shut it down. Officers staked out the club to note the comings and goings. At two sixteen am, two women, both of the lesbian type, left. As they passed me, one said to the other that was a dear dance for ten shillings. At two nineteen am, a man of color entered.

At two twenty three am, a man under the influence of drink left. He was wearing a fancy hat and blowing a squeaker. The steady flow of people in and out of the club continued, with the spying officer largely remarking on the sex, ethnicity, and level of intoxication of the partygoers, until at three twenty am, two prostitutes entered.

The owners of the Shimsham Club will regularly hauled before the courts and find heavily for liquor offenses, but it was director John myers unorthodox approach to hr disputes that

garnered the club national attention. Myers, a former dock worker and market porter, terminated an employment negotiation with the bandleader of the Kentucky Minstrels by grabbing the seated man and punching him until he bled, and a trumpet player who took a sacking to the Musicians Union lost two front teeth arguing with Myers, something that would forever ruin his

trumpet plane. A court was told Evelyn may have basped in the reflected glow of Soho's notorious and freewheeling haunts, but her own digs were far from prestigious or glamorous. She rented a small room on one of the upper floors of an old and weathered building at one fifty three Warders Street, or rather, she rented a portion of a room that had been carved in two by a

wooden partition wall. Flat farming was a common practice. After the police had begun cracking down on brothels, landlords started buying up housing, often derelict department buildings, and subdividing each room into smaller compartments, which means that they fall into a loophole of the law. They're not technically brothels because a brothel has to be a place where more than

one woman practices prostitution. Professor Julia lat is a reader in modern history at Birkbeck University of London and an expert on the sex trade. In this era, flat farmers set up houses so that each little room is technically a separate flat. They do that by putting in like a hot plate and a gas meter, and that makes it a separate flat. Landlords could make a lot of money out of this system, says Julia, packing tenants in like sardines. It's very much power for the course by

the nineteen forties. So this is kind of the way that the indoor side of commercial sax in London has conducted. The flat farmers have got the market cornered. Evelyn's flat had two windows in a fireplace, and she furnished it simply with a bed, sofa, dressing table and closet. She had china and cutlery for two to accommodate a continuous stream of visitors, friends, clients, and also occasionally her husband.

On a little table sat her beloved wireless radio, and fixed to her door was a name card bearing the proud Monica l Ward. Evelyn wrote to Harold and told him that she had obtained work as a hostess in a nightclub. She was also open with him about having gentleman admirers. Though Harold said he still didn't suspect she sold sex for a living, he continued to believe that

she was also a professional dancer. For her part, Evelyn might have still nurtured dreams of a proper career on the stage, though the older she grew, the less likely it was that these dreams would become reality, a fact surely not lost on her. Hostess work in bars and clubs would likely have suited Evelyn, who, by all accounts, enjoyed making merry. What's more, for the canny hostess, there

were kickbacks to be made, quite literally. Their job was to seem sirtatious and available to men, get them to

spend lots of money on drinks. And there is still a system that's alive and well in many places today where the woman would say, buy me a drink, the man would buy her a drink, but the bartender would pour her water colored water to make it look like it was a drink, and the bar would pocket that money, some of which would go to the hostess at the end of the night, and some of which would be kept by the bar owner. Evelyn also continued to sell sex.

According to her friend Gladys Barton, she used to work Regent Street, a prestigious shopping thoroughfare. She'd roam several blocks from the Archway at Piccadilly Circus up to Lawley's of Regent Street. A specialist of class in China homework. This is London. You will now hear a statement by the

Prime Minister. This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and

that consequently this country is at war with Germany. The impending war with Germany was predicted to be a terrifying ordeal, with devastating aerial bombing, poison gas and the vast mechanized slaughter of conscript armies. But it is evil things that we shall be fighting against, root force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution. And against them I am certain if the right will prevail. The Declaration of hostilities. In nineteen

thirty nine, Turbo charged the London sex trait. The city just gets flooded by young men with money in their pockets and fear in their hearts, and so they're really drawn to this area and they find plenty of places to imbibe. Soho and Piccadilly were immensely popular with the soldiers. Cocaine and emphetamines were available, and alongside the pubs and nightclubs, there was a thriving underground party scene that picked up where the regular licensing hours left off. You get a

kind of hedonism, a kind of almost nihilism. We're here for a good time, we don't know if we're coming back, and it creates an atmosphere where people are just desperate for distraction, for entertainment, for sex, for alcohol and those sorts of things. Increased demand for sex was met in different ways. Alongside soldiers, London was also flooded with young women who came to look for work, but they're also

coming to find a good time. And I think a lot of the women were john to London because it was an exciting place to be Because there were handsome soldiers there. A lot of women who went there wouldn't have thought I'm going to sell sex, but they may have ended up trading sex for either money or for a night out on the town. These were the women who police referred to as amateur prostitutes or good time girls.

The women that the police considered to be professional prostitutes responded to the rise in demand for their services by working longer hours over more days. There's also women who were selling sex as their main source of income prior to the Second World War, who are just seeing more clients, either to make more money or because they were increasingly under the control of third parties who were coercing them or forcing to see more clients than they would have

ordinarily if they were working independently. Evelyn doesn't quite fit into either of these camps. Although Gladys Barton said she worked Regent Street, she didn't think Evan had a pimp, and nor to her, transactions seemed to have particularly increased in number after the war began. In fact, her friend and neighbor Sarah Middleton, described how she had three regular

clients who would visit her. You have to be really careful because of course the police describe her as a prostitute, but Anyone who's listened to the first season of this podcast will implicitly understand why when the police say a woman is a prostitute, we must take that with a green of salt. The weight of the evidence points to the fact that she was selling sex on a semi regular basis. In that way, she's probably pretty typical of most women who would have been selling sex at the time.

The majority were probably moving in and out of different kinds of work, selling sex on the side, sometimes meeting up with a man who would pay their way for a while, sometimes not. It's really difficult to say, though, how often she sold sex, whether she herself saw it as her main occupation, or if she interpreted what she was doing really differently. However, Evelyn saw herself others regarded her as an honest young woman who valued female friendship.

She would give another girl anything, said Gladys Barton. A surviving photograph shows a fresh faced Evelyn with a warm smile, and though she holds a cigarette loosely at her side, her blonde hair immaculately curled and pinned back. There's something childlike about her. People who knew Evelyn described her as jolly, a neighbor said she would come back to her flats singing and whistling, and then immediately switched the wireless on to fill her home with music. Yet beneath this sheen

of gaiety looked a certain darkness. Addis noted that Evelyn could be disconsolate and was a heavy drinker, preferring Scotch, but happy to take anything. She formed the impression that her friend was deeply lonely. Mona Hill, who also worked in the sex trade and was friends with Evelyn for seven years, agreed with that assessment. If she could, she would get a man to stay the night with her,

as she was afraid of sleeping by herself. Julia Late has read many accounts of lives of women in the sex trade, and she's intrigued by the idea that Evelyn sought more than just money from the men she brought home to Wardour Street. I was really struck by that, because most women who are selling sax professionally, who would see themselves as making the majority of their money from selling sacks, would not be looking for men to stay over.

In fact, it was rather the opposite. They would see men who were clients who got out quickly as their best clients, and so it does tell us something particular about the way Evelyn saw the work, or the sociability that she was engaging in. I think it also tells

us something about her fascination for the West End. I really get this impression of a woman who's both fascinated and drawn to that excitement, but also sometimes finds it desperately lonely, somebody who always likes to be surrounded by people and noise and parties, and less comfortable potentially alone inside her own head. Evelyn seems to have met men who showed her affection, some even adored her, but she also encountered others who were less savory, to say the least.

One even came to Ward Street bearing arms. But more on that. After this short break, the Canadian soldier's six foot frame was blocking the door, the only escape route from Evelyn's tiny first floor apartment. The pistol looked small in the man's big hand, but its muzzle was squarely aimed at Evelyn and her neighbor, Sarah Middleton. Sarah had dropped by, attracted by loud voices in dispute. I did not know him. He was arguing about money, and wanted

her to give him back five shillings. Even after the soldier drew his gun, Evelyn still wouldn't give him any money, and so, undoubtedly fearing for her life, Sarah decided to pay the man herself. Finally he left. It certainly wouldn't be the last time Evelyn encountered peril. A new man would put a ring on her finger and promised to start a new life with her, before revealing himself to

be jealous, violent and cruel. Although Evelyn loved and embrace Soho, she also felt the pull of her roots in the Northwest and her husband Herald. Over the years, she traveled back and forth to see him, and sometimes he would visit her in London too. Evelyn and Harold also gave each other money. According to Gladys Barton, it was Evelyn's wages that paid for an outfit in their Thornton bungalow.

Though she couldn't quite get used to this conventional domestic realm or be truly happy in it, she also couldn't entirely break from it either. There were other clues that Evelyn felt attention within herself. As Leita Ward, she carried a white metal cigarette case, a prized possession embossed with the initials l W. Yet inside that cigarette case she kept a small snapshot of her mother, Rosina, a poignant piece of her past, topped within the trappings of her

London identity. Andrew Jackson, a bachelor and his fifties, remembered meeting Evelyn on Regent Street, having dinner with her, and visiting her Soho flat. He later went to stay with her on Harold's poultry farm, and his description of the setup there is curious. I understood from Ward that this house belonged to her arm, but I never met her. Une I was introduced to a man whom I understood

was Ward's cousin, Harold, who looked after the poultry. Jackson, under the impression that Evelyn was a spinster, would visit the poultry farm on Saturdays and stay the night. Presumably he shared a bed with Evelyn, for he described their relationship as intimate. The file's offer no clue as to what Harold made of Jackson's visits or the fact that Jackson knew Evelyn as leite a Ward, but he surely must have suspected that all was not as he'd been told,

and perhaps he increasingly resented Evelyn's London life. You could assume that Harold would be targeted by members of his community for letting his wife go off to London, for having married such a kind of woman in the first place, But he clearly does anyway, and so it makes me think perhaps he's a little unconventional himself. There are other suggestions that Harold's ideas about what was acceptable and respectable

went against the grain. Rather than enlisting to fight in the war, he registered as a conscientious subjector an unorthodox move conditional on his doing full time agricultural work. In earlier conflicts, men refusing to fight on religious or political grounds had faced public hostility and harsh treatment from the authorities. In nineteen thirty nine, the government pledged not to persecute

these conchies. Those some politicians still argued that they should be sent to special work camps and have their wages cats that they earned less than soldiers. Harold's decision not to serve suggests he knew his own mind, and he was even prepared to suffer to pursue his chosen path. This character trait seems to have been apparent in his marital life too. It can be read in so many ways. It can be read as a man who has resigned himself to being treated in this way and just not

having the love and care reciprocated from Evelyn. It could be a man who didn't live a conventional life himself. But I think love is an important thing to remember too. Historians don't tend to think much about it because we don't always have much documentation for it. But this really could have been a love story, a man who loved his wife so much and understood her so well that he was willing to let her go whatever they're understanding with each other. It seems that Evelyn's family wasn't in

on the secret. Her brother Hermann, had gone up in the world. He managed the hosiery department of a store and was now supporting their mother, and he claimed that he didn't know Harold and Evelyn were living apart. They have visited us many times and they appeared to be very happy. Rosina apparently even believed that the pair planned to live together in London. Harold and Evelyn's arrangement may have worked for a time, but nineteen forty their routine

was disturbed. Evelyn was thirty two, when she met Thomas Graham, a stocky, round faced gunner in the Royal Artillery. What can I get you, sir? What's the platue de jour? She sat at the same table as him in a restaurant and they started to chat. He took it in a theater and a relationship sprang from there. Evelyn even kept a photograph of them together on the dressing table in her room, and interestingly, in an apparently rare move,

she gave Graham her real name and story. She told me that she was married, living apart from her husband, Harold Outley, who was residing and working in Blackpool. They saw each other over the next year or so. He later said that their relationship was purely platonic, but Evelyn's friends believed otherwise. Gladys Barton remembered enjoying a drink with Evelyn at the Leicester Lounge around Christmas nine forty one. She showed me a ring and told me that her

boyfriend bought it for her. Mona Hill thought it was an engagement ring. I believe it was a half hoop ring set with diamonds, and Harold corroborated this story. He claimed that Evelyn was being kept by Graham, and that Graham had asked him to divorce her. Harold agreed and was beginning divorce proceedings when this arrangement fell through. Harold said Evelyn had never complained about facing threats or violence from Graham, but Water Street neighbor Sarah Middleton offered a

snapshot of a tempestuous relationship. They used to quarrel with her, and on one occasion I heard them shouting and things being thrown across the room. Sarah even called out in the middle of one such argument to see if her friend was all right. Evelyn responded, we are only having a row. He is a jealous, bad tempered booger. Graham did not like Evelyn talking to other men. On another occasion, he had flown into a jealous rage in the street

and torn at her clothing. Two passing soldiers finally intervened to stop him. You're going to get yourself like this. When the relationship ended, Evelyn might have been relieved to be free of Graham's menacing influence, or she might have been heartbroken, feeling once more alone and adrift. But as always, there were still Harold. At the end of January nineteen

forty two, Evelyn's husband came to visit. He stayed for a round a week and briefly settled into a routine there, shaving at the washstand in her room in the mornings and going out with his wife until late in the evening. On February third, Evelyn bade him farewell at Euston railway station and he returned north. They would not meet again. Oh why so sad? Harold had been forced to sell

his poultry farm and was living with an aunt. A war time shortage of chicken feed had made business unsustainable. Evelyn was also in financial difficulty, owing several weeks worth of rerent. The agent for Evelyn's flat claims she called in with her husband on February seventh to pay off some of this debt. But February seventh was four days after Harold had left town. Was the agent mistaken or was Evelyn by now involved with another man and telling

people that he was her husband. On Sunday, February eighth, at around one pm, Evelyn went to the room next door, just beyond the thin partition wall, to see her neighbor, Ivy Pool, and cook a steak on Ivy's gas stove. The two women chatted as they ate lunch together, and then Evelyn washed up while Ivy got ready to go to her job as a fair ground ride attendant. No

such carnivals were permitted to continue under blackout conditions. As part of a government Holidays at Home initiative, come and see the Galloping horses music was muted, rifle rangers were stripped of their ammunition, and coconut shies, a peculiarly British game of skill, became a rarity for a lack of coconuts, but there were still swings, carousels and Punch and Judy public shows. That evening, Evelyn stopped by the fair ground

or nearby Leicester Square to look round. When Ivy went back home, Evelyn's door was ajar, so she went in to say hello, my you're home early tonight. Evelyn said she rarely went out on Sunday evenings and was planning to go to bed after washing her hair, a laborious process that would have involved fetching a picture of water from upstairs, calling it back down, filling the kettle and lighting a fire to heat the water. After a brief conversation, Ivy went to bed less than a mile from where

she and Evelyn were sleeping. That night, A well spoken air had slipped away from his ra of comrades and begun to troll the West End alone, and soon he would cross paths with the pharmacist Evlen Hamilton. Bad Women The blackout Ripper will return shortly. On Monday, February ninth, Evelyn Oakley might have noticed a tiny stop press report in the newspaper recounting the discovery by two workmen of a strangled woman in an air raid shelter not far from Soho. It might not have had much of an

impact on her. The papers were full of such cases. The report was barely a couple of lines long, and only made the later editions. That day, Sarah Middleton came to visit Evelyn. Ivy would have been able to hear their chatter through the partisan wall. Ivy hadn't lived there long, but the pair seem to have enjoyed each other's company. Ivy was soon invited to join the conversation. Oh do let my friends see your cat, Evelyn called out. Dutifully.

Ivy scooped up her pet and took the creature next door so that the other women could coop over him. Sarah and Evelyn then left together, saying their goodbyes at the corner of the street. They agreed to meet the following day for lunch, an appointment that Evelyn would not keep. It was early afternoon, and carefully coordinated in a brown skirt with red stripes, a brick red cardigan and a dark brown belted coat, Evelyn headed off to post a

parcel to her mother Rosina. She returned home to write some letters, and Ivy could hear her gentle murmur through the wall. Evelyn was talking to a man, she thought. Then at around four pm, there was a soft clunk as Evelyn shut her front door. That evening, Evelyn met a client in Piccadilly, still dressed in that brick red cardigan. They had a drink together at about eight pm and

then went to her flat. A couple of hours later, they walked back in the direction of Piccadilly, though not before Evelyn had changed into a black dress coat and hat. He dropped her off at Monaco's restaurant around ten forty pm. This marble palace was noted for attracting the denizens of the West End demi monde, particularly women who sold sex

and their pimps. It boasted nightly dancing and cabaret, and, along with the universal brasserie and the salted almond, was the sort of place city guides recommended to visiting servicemen. When the pubs closed, a small group of women and soldiers gathered outside Monaco's, gossiping and laughing together. It wasn't that somewhere and have another drink. Anne Carew, a cook in a local cafe who supplemented her income through the sex trade, spotted Evelyn in the midst of this lively throng.

Hallo latah as things quiet came the sober reply. Evelyn bid Anne good night, and then went to talk to a man in an overcoat. Anne couldn't see his face, it was in shadow, and she couldn't say if Evelyn left with him. Back at Warder Street, Ivy had been laboriously washing and tinting her hair to pass the time. She listened to the radio news. When she heard the thud of the front door downstairs, she knew that Evelyn would be coming up, so she switched the wireless off

and turned the hall light on. Sure enough, her neighbors soon appeared on the landing, and she wasn't alone. His complexion was fresh and he was clean shaven. His hair was of chestnut brown and had a hive or two in the front. Ivy carefully studied the man who stood behind Evelyn. He was in his mid to late twenties, perhaps five foot eight inches tall, and wearing civilian dress. His hands were thrust into his pockets, and the collar of his light blue overcoat was turned up against the

february cold. Beneath that sweep of dark hair, his features were sharp, almost pointed. Ivy would later say that he unsettled her, that he made her feel afraid. Miss Ward said hello to me. She went into a flat, followed by this man. She closed the door. Almost immediately, music from Evelyn's wireless began to float through the wall that the women shared. As Ivy sat quietly in front of her fire, waiting for the tint to do its work on her hair, she could hear Evelyn and the man talking,

though she could not make out their work. Then, quite suddenly, the wireless next door began to blare deafening music. Ivy was startled. This was not like her neighbor at all. Miss Ward had always been so considerate. It was just after midnight and the music was so loud that Ivy closed her door and slid beneath the covers of her bed. Somehow she managed to fall asleep. The following morning, Ivy woked around eight am. I followed my usual custom of making a cup of tea. I was having this tea

when a bang came on the straight door. I went down and opened the door. It was two men who had come to clear the electric light maters. They emptied the shillings from Ivy's meter, and then she knocked at Evelyn's flat for them. As she wrapped on the door, it opened a little. It seemed that Evelyn hadn't closed it properly. Ivy ventured inside. The curtains hadn't yet been opened, and the small room was dark. It was cold too. Ivy reached for the light switch, but found it was

already turned on. The power was out, meaning that Evelyn couldn't have fed the meter, or perhaps the light had been left on all night by accident. Don't look aside, there's anybody in. One of the workmen turned on his flashlight. The bright beam sliced through the gloom, and what Ivy saw in that shaft of light was horrifying. Her friend lay across the bed, almost naked, with vicious wounds about her throat. The killer had spent time with the dying woman,

lingering in her room, tormenting her. He'd used any implement close at hand to mutilate defile her, and then he'd ransacked her handbagging cupboards, stealing money and trinkets, including that cigarette case containing her mother's portrait. The next day, the Blackpool police called at Harold's home, and he returned to London to identify the brutalized body of his wife. For all their ups and downs, Harold and Evelyn, apart but still tethered to one another, had shared an understanding and

a lasting bond. Now Harold was quite alone. Within hours, reporters were connecting the murder of the pharmacist Evelyn Hamilton with that of aspiring starlet Evelyn Oakley in Soho, Scotland. Yard detectives are seeking new clues. Riddled with error's coverage of Evelyn Oatley distilled her. I've down into a few

loaded descriptors. Blonde review actress Soho Girl. A number of reports also highlighted a statement given by a clearly distraught Harold, My wife was fascinated by West End life and would not leave it. The barbarism inflicted on Evelyn was cruel, perverse, senseless, and into that void of meaning rushed the kind of fallen woman tropes the press had relied on for decades. Detectives last night made a round of the Soho nighthaunts, whose tinsel glitter drew the girl from Keighley to London

and her death. Several papers even published a risque pin up portrait of a younger, smiling Evelyn, perhaps from her theatrical portfolio Soho Girl Loved Nightlife. Evelyn's real life story was complex and hard to unpick, but even newspaper readers who are unfamiliar with the intricacies of London's West End or the realities of how single women chose to live there, could grasp this moralistic version of events. Actress Soho Girl, an absent wife, Evelin Oatley, lived on that knife edge

between the respectable and unrespectable. She was a certain type of woman, and her lifestyle had unsurprisingly, even fittingly, led to her demise. Next time, we'll examine how even women serving their country and joining the fight against the Nazis were viewed with suspicion and accused of lapses in morality, lapses that explained and perhaps even excuse the violence they suffered at the hands of men from their own side bad women. The Blackout Ripper is hosted by me Hallie

Rubinhole and me Alice Fines. It was written and produced by Alice Fines and Ryan Dilley, with additional support from Courtney Guerino and Offa Gomperts. Kate Heay of Oakwood Family Trees aided us with genealogical research. Pascal Wise Sound designed and mixed the show and composed all the original music. The show was recorded at Woodaw Studios by David Smith and Tom Berry. You also heard the voice talents of Ben Crow, David Glover, Melanie Gutridge, Stella Harford, Gemma Saunders

and Rufus Wright. Much of the music you had was performed by Edgarchan, Ross Hughes, Christian Miller and Marcus Penrose. They were recorded by Nick Taylor a Porcupine Studios. Pushkin's Ben Tolliday mixed the tracks and you heard additional piano playing by the great Berry Wise Hi Berry. The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Heather Fane, Carlie Migliori, Maggie Taylor, Nicole Morano, Eric Sandler,

and Daniella Lukhan. We'd also like to thank Michael Buchanan Dunne of the Murder Mile podcast, Lizzie McCarroll, Catherine Walker at the Royal Pharmaceutical Society and the Earb Historical Society. Bad Women is a production of Pushkin Industries. Please rate and review the show and spread the word about what we do, and thanks for listening.