Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 5 (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.

The first Monday of every month was the happiest day for most of our companions and the worst one for George, Sal and myself. It was visiting day when friends and family were allowed to come into the home between six o'clock and eight in the evening. We took ourselves as far away as possible, not wanting to hear the happy chattering nor to see the eating of the cakes, pies and sweets the visitors brought in. At first, I expected to have a visit from Grandmother with Mary, who might have been running around by then but I soon gave up any hope of ever seeing a currant cake or a packet of butterscotch brought in for me.

Mrs G supervised these meetings and she was quick to notice anyone who never received visitors. Somehow magically on these evenings there was always a plate laden with thick slices of bread and a jar of her homemade rhubarb jam waiting on the table just inside the kitchen door. Winters were difficult. Lots of time looking out the window on wet and windy days, sometimes at a world white with snow. If it were dry, Jolly Rodgers would organise a walk for the boys: through the Botanic railway crossing, beyond the cemetery and out into the fields. He called it a hike but it was more like a forced march. We would walk two abreast and he would set the tempo with 'left, left, left, right, left' and woe betides the straggler who could not keep up the pace.

In my imagination we were the United States cavalry. Our blue suit jackets were the same colour as their uniforms. We were going out in search of untamed savages but the wildest people we ever saw was a family of gypsies sitting around their campfire. George got a sore ear for tarrying to admire the gypsy horses; he loved horses.

On our return I told Sal about seeing a Sioux encampment and how the warriors must have taken part in the massacre of General Custer's Seventh Cavalry. George confirmed this but she said she didn't believe us and that boys didn't have any sense. Then there was Snelgrove or "Smelly" as most of us called him. Edward Snelgrove wasn't an orphan; his father was a sea captain although his mother was dead or so he said. He never let anyone forget he thought he was of a higher status compared to everyone else. He never allowed me to forget he considered me to be many steps down the social scale, if indeed I were even on it. 'My grandfather used to take shiploads of your lot across to the West Indies!' He snarled the first time he set eyes on me. 'Bloody savages! Only fit for cutting sugar cane and picking cotton!' He looked at me in the way you would at something nasty trodden on in the street. 'My father's an Indian!' I was not going to stand for his insults. 'All you bloody niggers are the same!' He used the one word I hated more than any other. His thin lips curled and a look of disgust crossed his acne pitted face.

Continued Next Page

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