Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 2 (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.

'Let's have a look at you, boy.' Old Stoney stared down at me through the wire spectacles perched on the end of his nose. We were alone in his office on the other side of the little window. I was still the block of wood and he was still deciding what to make from it.

I tried standing tall but I was small for my age and it would be a long time before I shot up in height and it would be under warmer skies, far away from the grey ones of my native Hull. 'Pick up the slate and chalk from my desk.' I remembered Grandmother's final order and did as I was told. 'Rest on the chair over there and write your name.' He nodded in the direction of a wooden chair in the corner. I followed his orders, not only to obey Grandmother, but because it was my nature to try and please my elders. She always tried to see the worst in me: the child of a marriage of which she disapproved. Mixed marriages between English and Irish she could just about accept but her beautiful blonde daughter marrying an Indian seaman was beyond toleration. Father never saw India in his life. He was brought up in a Methodist mission in Cape Town but his face was brown and Grandmother never saw beyond that.

The chalk scraped on the dry slate; the shrill squeal set my teeth on edge. I licked the end of the chalk and tried again. The letter S was followed by A and M but after scrawling those two letters I paused. What should come next? I shaped to add another M but remembered what the Master asked Grandmother and I tried to write the name that would gain his approval.

I knelt in front of the chair with bare knees chafing on the wooden floor and placed the slate on the seat. Mr Mason was looking over my shoulder. 'Hmm,' he muttered under his breath. 'I can see that we have much work to do with you, Master Smyle.' He picked up the slate and pointed at my shaky scrawl. 'Samuel is spelled with an A and an E - not two A's. S - A - M - U - E - L.' He picked up a rag from the top of his polished desk and rubbed out the offending letter A. The correct letter was inserted and he held up the slate to show me the correction. 'Wipe the slate clean and write the alphabet for me.' The tone of his voice suggested he anticipated my failure to execute the task properly. The slate and rag were passed back to me. I tried hard with the letters but writing was never my strong suit. My mind raced over what he might order me to do next. It would have to be numbers. I could count up to one hundred, well just about.

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