Off To See The Wild West Show Part 2, Chapter 1 (3/4) 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.

Revisiting Pearson Park was a temptation but I couldn't face going in alone. It was always a shared experience. George and Sal had to be with me. Entering on my own would be too painful. My memory was correct. Westbourne Avenue was opposite. Most vehicles still used real horsepower and the road was littered with reminders, so I needed to cross carefully. The uncollected droppings were definite proof that Jolly Rodgers was long gone. If my tormentor were still around, some other persecuted soul would have taken over from me. I remembered the rhubarb, the jam, the pies and Mrs G's kindness.

She'd retired to live in the almshouses in Northumberland Avenue, according to the new Master. She was someone else I must see.

As well as the new housing, young trees were growing in the narrow grassed verges between the pavement and road. In time, these saplings would grow tall and shade the houses. In my life as a Lakota I came to love trees as I did all nature. Man was part of nature but as a town child I was denied my bond with it. The presence of these young trees in the unnatural city world struck me as strange. Was there ever enough sunlight in Hull to require their shade, even in the height of summer? Perhaps they were meant to act as windbreaks against the incessant winds blowing through the city. This made more sense.

A cold blast came as a reminder and I raised my jacket collar for protection. Westbourne Avenue's houses were large. Their imposing solidity told me their owners must be people of substance and importance in this new city. I soon found the house I was looking for. Only a few had been built so far in the avenue but there were signs of more being built on both sides of the road ahead of me. I walked along the path to the house and up a short stone stairway before knocking on a solid wooden door.

Heels echoed inside, clipping along a stone floor. The heavy door opened slowly to reveal a young girl in a starched white pinafore that almost hid the long dark dress behind. I could feel her recoil in surprise at the strange sight on her doorstep. 'What d'you want?' She pushed the door forward again so it was only slightly ajar. She was now half hidden behind its protection. 'I'm looking for Sal ... I mean, Selina Smith.' I took a half pace back to reduce my "threat" to her. 'I was told she'd come to work here.'

'Ain't got no Selina Smith 'ere! The door almost closed on me.

'Maybe I could speak to your mother?' My leather boot slipped into the gap between the door and its frame. I wasn't going to give up so easily. 'Ain't got no mother!' Both the girl's hands were on the inside door edge, her fingers curling around the edge. She pushed it further forward. The child was a servant here, in service as Sal had been. Probably an orphan, just like us; living in someone else's home, dreaming one day she'd have a home and family of her own.

'Sorry.' I was feeling her pain and my old hurt all over again. 'Let me speak to your master, please.' My foot came back to let her close the door. 'I'll get the missus.' She mumbled and the door clicked shut. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Continued... Next Page (4/4)

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