Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1, Chapter 10 (2/4) 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.

Both the courts to our right, Harold's Avenue and Drewton Terrace ended in high brick walls, which separated them from the football ground beyond. The muddy passageways at the rear of the rows of houses also reached the same forbidding conclusion. At the end of the street I learned one of life's simple lessons: if you reach an insurmountable obstacle then the best thing to do is to go around it. The houses ended at a wooden fence but we were able to scramble between its horizontal bars without difficulty and entered the field beyond.

A turn to the right took us along a path that was no more than a muddy groove worn in the soil. It ran beside the high brick wall of the street's last building. A powerful reek of ammonia came from the other side of the wall. We both grimaced. It told us animals, probably horses must be stabled there.

Once past we could breathe again and were in a position to look into the next field. The rear end of the football ground was in the distance but more importantly, we could see people and animals. The entire cast and crew of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show were camped there, waiting to put on their show. Chains of grey smoke drifted into a clear sky from open fires. Noisy show people sat around the fires drinking coffee and smoking. Pots and plates clattered inside large striped marquees.

The tantalising aroma of bacon frying wafted from their direction. There is something special about this smell; it always gives me an instant appetite. It felt an age since we crammed salty porridge into our bellies.

'Fancy that stuff Sal gave us?' I whispered, even though there was no chance of anyone hearing us. The nearest member of the show was over a hundred yards away. 'Rather have some of that bacon!' George's words echoed what I really wanted too, but we squatted in hiding behind a bush and made do with squashed hunks of bread and cheese. 'What do we do now?' He was swallowing the last of his food, but the frying bacon aroma still remained more tempting than the song of a siren. 'I'm still hungry.'

'We've got to get in and find me father. Then we'll get everything sorted out. Follow me.' I was trying to sound assured. It was as much for my benefit as his. I brushed breadcrumbs from my trousers and stood up. We crept along the side of a wall that had appeared so impregnable from the other side in Buckingham Street. The assembled performers were too busy to notice two small figures slipping into their camp.

For once luck was on my side. The Red Indians occupied the section of the camp into which we were creeping with their ponies tethered near to the wall. The tribesmen squatted around a crackling wood fire, gabbling incomprehensibly. Most of them were smoking cigarettes. Something never mentioned in my novel. They should have been smoking peace pipes. I crept into the camp on almost all fours. I tried to squint through the legs of the ponies desperate to spot my father. A quick glance behind me. I was alone. George was nowhere to be seen.

What to do? I was torn. Continue my search alone or go back and find him?

Continued... Next Page

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