Off To See The Wild West Show Part 2 Chapter 2 (3/5) By Frank Beill

(1/5), (2/5), (3/5), (4/5), (5/5). Part 1 Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. Part 2 Prologue, Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4.

Why were they rushing? Were the women desperate to arrive home before the head of household returned from his labours, expecting a hot meal to be waiting on the table? I was one of those children again, looking up into my mother's radiant face. She wasn't allowed to become old before her time. Mary was wriggling in her arms, anxious to suckle again on a warm breast. I was hopping in and out of the gutter without a care in the world. The air was filled with the clatter of flat-bottomed rullies, drawn along by emaciated ponies with heads hanging permanently downwards. Men on bicycles weaved in and out of slower moving vehicles. I didn't envy them their ride and winced in sympathy, feeling every bump on the unyielding surface of a road made of hard wooden sets.

The strong smell of chlorine hit me even before I turned left into Madeley Street. Here a further tide of homeward bound workmen met me; more bodies bent by years of toil. The smell was carried on a warm breeze wafting out of the municipal bathhouse. A scrum of workingmen jostled outside the door, copper coins in dirty hands ready to pay. Some would be going for a swim, trying to exercise away the aches and cares of the day. Others would make do with a hot soak in a slipper bath. These men were volunteering for what always required compulsion for orphanage boys. I prayed that the blacksmith's forge would still be glowing.

I didn't want to lose another day. It wasn't a long street and half way down I heard the echoing clang of metal beating heavily on metal. This must be the blacksmith's shop. Tall gates were still open exposing the smith bent over his anvil, hammering on a glowing but resistant iron rod. He didn't hear me walking into the yard, treading over slippery wet cobbles. The sight of my arrival startled him. He jerked backwards nearly dropping the livid red bar.

'What d'you want?' His reaction was fierce. The words came through broken and twisted yellow teeth, almost hidden within a mass of grey beard, which hung onto his heavy leather jerkin. Despite advancing years, rippling, greasy muscles and a bull neck on his squat figure indicated he was still a man of great physical strength. 'Are you, Mr Wilson?' The blacksmith nodded in reply, still eyeing me suspiciously from beneath a brimless leather cap. 'I'm looking for my friend, George Smith. He was apprenticed here ... from the sailors' orphanage.'

I felt cautious despite towering head and shoulders above the blacksmith. He was an intimidating figure waving both a heavy hammer and red hot metal in my direction. The hammer was lowered to a more pacific angle and the crimson rod plunged back into the hot coals. For the first time in the day I felt warm. The heat thrusting out from the forge was stronger than any of the cold breezes I'd been confronted by. 'You're a bit late. 'E's gone.' There was the suspicion of a wry smile hidden within the whiskery bush. 'Gone home?' My heart leapt at the prospect of George still working in the smithy.

Continued... Next Page (4/5)

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