Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 4 (2/3) By Frank Beill 1886: Hull, Yorkshire

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

Everyone stood and followed him out of the room to the place where only a short while ago we enjoyed - if enjoyed were the right word - bowls of a salty stodge masquerading as porridge. This was washed down with hot, sweet tea. Other classes followed us into the room. These were made up of the older inmates of the orphanage. Neat lines of young people stood in waiting but there was no sense of anticipation in the room. Resignation would have been a better description of our feelings.

The Master entered followed by Mrs Mason, a woman of indefinable age hidden within the masses of a long, dark dress. We were never able to work out what was the reason for her great volume. Was it the size of her body or just a great number of undergarments? She shuffled to a mahogany upright piano in the corner of the room. Now commenced my first experience of the daily ordeal known as morning assembly. While the orphanage was a Christian institution, to me its main purpose was to instil the fear rather than the love of God. The thin volume tucked inside my jacket was more important to me than any bible. Mr Mason was a solemn gentleman until he spoke the word of the Lord. It made his eyes glow with holy fervour. I did not know if he was acquainted with the way to Heaven but he really knew the route to Hell because he described it to us in no uncertain terms and told us we were all on it, if we did not mend our ways.

We began with a prayer declaimed rather than spoken by the Master followed by a hymn. 'Fight the Good Fight,' I think it was. This was always a favourite. It made us open our mouths and lungs. First Mrs Mason struck up the tune and then after a brief pause we children lunged into the words, always a syllable behind our elders. Another prayer from the Master followed, before everyone in unison chanted the Lord's Prayer. I mumbled the words because I did not know them by heart then. Two years later I could recite them in my sleep. I was to repeat them, at least, once a day every day and twice on Sundays. Finally, shrill young voices gave vent to 'He Who Would Valiant Be,' trying to drown out Jolly Rodgers' baritone and the Master's booming flat bass.

The Master decided we were now in the right frame of mind to commence our learning and he left us to the mercy of Mr Rodgers and the rigours of English grammar. It felt strange to be drilled - and drilled we were - through this subject by a man whose first language I assumed was Scottish. Jolly Rodgers' predator eyes roamed the classroom searching for the next victim to pounce upon. Each one was forced to stand up and recite verbs. Today I was in luck and managed to evade his gaze. 'Beginner's Luck' suggested a less fortunate George at playtime but my luck was soon to run out.

Continued Next Page

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