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

'You are innumerate, Smyle!' Rodgers snarled. The nine times table defeated me. He cornered me like a starved jungle carnivore about to bury its teeth into its next meal. I bit my lip; I was not going to cry. The ground refused to open up and swallow me. The only blessing was that the girls were doing their sewing upstairs with Mrs G and would not see my vulnerability.

'I suppose that's only to be expected from the likes of you!' Rodgers was sneering at me again. The short bamboo cane that doubled as both a pointer and his instrument of punishment swished through the air to indicate the next victim. 'Tell him, Jackson.' An unkempt looking boy with half his collar inside his jacket and half sticking out arose to perform. He stood up but his sleeve caught the slate on his desktop. It clattered to the floor and the boy bent to pick it up. 'Leave it boy! You're a fool, Jackson. A clumsy fool. What are you, boy?' 'A clumsy fool, sir.' Jackson straightened himself but I could see him quivering, expecting to feel a slice of the cane. 'Louder! I cannot hear you, boy!' Rodgers screamed. 'A clumsy fool, sir!' Jackson shouted. I could see tears in his eyes and a half smile crossing our teacher's face. Others in the class giggled but I felt angry.

'Don't encourage him!' Our tormentor was not amused, but then again he never was. The cane thwacked on his desk. His face turned an even darker shade of puce and large blue veins rippled across his temples. 'Recite, boy. Start with one times nine is nine.' Thomas Jackson stood to attention, screwing up his eyes in preparation to commence his recital. Clumsy and untidy he may have been, but he knew all his multiplication tables. He could go far beyond the normal twelve times twelve that was the limit for any normal human boy. I discovered this arithmetical wizard could do all this and multiply and divide impossible numbers in his head but Mr Rodgers could not see beyond the boy's gauche manner. He delighted in ridiculing him on every possible occasion unless he could turn on his new 'little brown friend.'

The eleven times table was Jolly Rodgers' next choice and Stanley Vicars his next victim. There was an audible sigh of relief from the other boys when this name was called out. The rest of us were spared, if only for a moment. Stanley occupied a half empty desk. His usual partner was sick. He stood up and the heavy hinged wooden seat clunked upwards into the metal supports of the backrest. This was another source of merriment in the room. The gangly boy chanted the multiples but once he got to eleven times eleven, he was in trouble.

'No, Master Vicars! Eleven elevens is not one hundred and twenty-two! Hold out your hand!' With a single bound Rodgers leapt from his dais toward his victim on the front row. It was all done in one continuous motion culminating in the cane hacking into the boy's hand. 'What is eleven elevens?' He breathed the words into the boy's ashen face. Stanley's arm was back down by his side and his fingers clenched into his palm, trying to relieve the pain.

'Eleven elevens is one hundred and thirty-three, sir.' 'Other hand!' He demanded the boy's submission to punishment. I swear there was glee in Rodgers' eyes. The cane thwacked onto flesh again. The second hand clenched and I could see tears well up in Stanley's eyes. 'Who knows what eleven times eleven is?' No one responded to the request, not even those who knew the answer. Bodies tried to sink down into the tight spaces between desktops and backrests. No one dare take the chance. Even the correct answer might result in a stroke of the cane. The teacher's manic eyes scoured the classroom. I prayed they would not focus on me. 'Master Scrivens. What is eleven times eleven?' This next victim thought mistakenly it was safe to hide in the sanctuary of the back row but there was no hiding place from Jolly Rodgers. Scrivens' red face was heavily pock marked. He stood up nervously and its hue became even darker than that of our teacher.

'Eleven times eleven is one hundred and twenty one, sir.' His eyes closed and he waited for the response from our tormentor. I could tell he was praying silently. 'That is correct, Scrivens!' With another single bound Rodgers was back behind his desk. On arrival he gave the desktop a whack with his cane. What had the desk done to deserve this? Was it just to remind us?

'They'll look after you, lad.' Grandmother's words rang in my ears. I resolved I would learn my tables off by heart. There was not going to be any excuse for Rodgers to punish me, but he did not always need an excuse.

Copyright © Frank Beill 2005

Continued Part 1, Chapter 5

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