Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 1 (1/4) By Frank Beill 1886: Hull, Yorkshire

(1/4), (2/4), (3/4), (4/4). 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.

Six steps up. All I could see was an entrance and no way back out again. I was only ten years old when Grandmother dragged me up the stone steps into the orphanage. 'They'll take good care of you, Sammy,' she said. I wanted to believe there was a tear in her eye, but all she really desired was to be rid of me: her brown grandson. I was an embarrassment to her in a town where every face was white.

Snotty tears rubbed into her thick skirt as I tugged at the folds, trying desperately to hold her back from the first step. The red brick building looked enormous compared to our street's squashed terraced houses. 'Is Mary coming with me?' I looked up at Grandmother's face wrapped in a grey knitted shawl. She looked so old; old and tired, although she couldn't have been more than fifty years old, but to a child that was ancient. 'Not today ... she'll come when she's a big lass. When she's ready.' Bony finger ends dug into my wrist and she hauled me closer to the door. She wouldn't tolerate any nonsense from me. 'Don't wanna go, Grandma!' There was no grip on the stone flags when I tried digging my heels into the ground. My feet were hurting because my buckled shoes were too tight. They fitted me - near enough - when mother bought them second hand from the tat-man's handcart but a year had passed since then. These shoes were only ever worn for best, on Sundays. Every other day of the week I ran barefoot on the cobbles like all the other children in our street. 'They'll look after you, lad.'

She gave me another yank. My feet didn't touch the steps and my arm almost came out of its socket. She strained to push open the heavy door with her free hand. The other was occupied with my continued struggling. The door creaked open and with another jerk I was in the darkness of a carbolic scrubbed lobby. The antiseptic smell always brings this moment back to me. 'I've brought me grandson, mister.' She stooped to squint through a small window in the sidewall. Her shawl slipped down exposing patches of bare scalp that lank wisps of grey hair couldn't hide.

'What is his name?' Did the brusque reply indicate offence at the intrusion of an old woman and her mewling child? 'Sammy, sir.' Grandmother deferred to someone who was clearly of higher status. 'Sammy Smyle, sir.' 'Do you mean Samuel?' I stretched up on my toes, trying to look over the windowsill while the adults spoke. The man was looking down trying to find something just out of my sight. All I could see was a pale face with round-framed spectacles perched on the end of its nose. Was he an enormous owl? 'Aye, sir.' She never called me 'Samuel.' No one ever called me 'Samuel.' 'We are expecting him ... and Smyle is spelled with a 'Y'? Is that correct?' The man gave the impression of being even more insulted by the possibility of my name having an unusual spelling. 'Yes, sir with a 'Y'.' But she probably didn't know what a letter 'Y' was. An 'X' was the only symbol she knew. It was the only mark she ever needed to scratch onto any document.

Continued Next Page

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