by Irma Joubert
Beth went to the locker and took out a Bible. Quietly she began to read.
Pérsomi sat motionless on her bed.
Then Beth knelt beside the bed and rested her head on her folded hands.
Pérsomi had always thought only Meester Lampbrecht prayed in the mornings before he told the class a Bible story. She had never realized ordinary people also prayed.
Suddenly it struck her: Like Gerbrand, she was among real people, as if she herself was a real person too. Tomorrow morning when she put on her school uniform and went down to breakfast with the others and then to the new school, no one would know she was a bywoner child. Unless Irene . . .
When another bell rang, Beth remained on her knees. “Lights out!” the prefect called.
Pérsomi got up and switched off the electric light. It was another strange and wonderful privilege for real people, these electric lights. Then she drew back the bedding carefully so that she would be able to make it neat the next morning.
Later that night Pérsomi lay motionless between the stiff sheets in the strange bed, listening to her new roommate crying softly into her pillow. She realized she hadn’t used the soap Boelie had given to her.
Pérsomi walked from the dormitory to the school with the other girls. They all looked the same in their white shirts, black jumpers, white socks, and black lace-up shoes. Pérsomi’s jumper was a bit short, but it was the best Aunt Marie could find for her.
“My jumper is very long,” Beth said when she saw Pérsomi’s. “Mrs. Reverend says it’s a sin to wear short skirts. Not that I mean yours is a sin, I just mean . . .” She didn’t finish her thought.
Aunt Marie had promised to look for a longer one, but her success would depend on the welfare donations.
In the school hall the students sat in rows, hundreds of children, all clothed exactly the same. Then they were divided into classes. Pérsomi found herself in a class with twenty-four other Form IIs. She was in the B class. Both Irene and Beth were in the A class. She knew that as a bywoner child she had automatically been placed in the B class.
But after first recess she was moved to the A class.
Thirty strange pairs of eyes regarded her. In the second row, Irene sat next to the window. Pérsomi stood in the doorway.
“This is . . . er”—her new class teacher searched for her name on a piece of paper—“Er . . . Pérsomi Pieterse.” He looked at the children over his glasses. “Yes . . . er . . . is there an empty desk somewhere? Reinier, is the desk next to you open?”
A tall, thin boy at the back of the class extricated himself from his desk. “Yes, sir,” he said reluctantly.
The school shoes pinched her feet as she walked the long aisle to the back. She noticed Beth in the second row from the back. Beth gave her a slight smile.
Her chest opened up a little as she sat. But the strange boy’s tall figure was uncomfortably close to her.
“Take out your math books,” said the teacher.
The children dug into their satchels and put their books on their desks, along with their new pencils, pens, rulers, compasses—everything.
Pérsomi had nothing.
“Open your books to page five,” said the teacher. Pages were turned. Pérsomi sat motionless.
“Turn to exercise four. Who can tell me . . .” He stopped.
Pérsomi kept her eyes fixed on the bare wooden desk.
“Girl, where’s your book?” The teacher sounded annoyed.
She looked up slowly. He was looking at her. She began to stand. Everybody was looking at her.
“Oh, sir,” Irene spoke loudly. “Pérsomi is a welfare child, she must get free books.”
The words hung in the air. Welfare child.
There was nowhere she could run.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the teacher said. “How did you think you were going to do the work? Or didn’t you think? You people . . .” He shook his head. “Fetch a book at the office. And come straight back to class, don’t make any detours, understand?”
Outside, the sun blazed down on Pérsomi’s hot head, but the warmth didn’t reach her heart.
The thin woman in the office grumbled, “You can’t just come and beg for books any time you want. You should have come after school. Here, take all your books. And look after them properly, understand? Another welfare child must use them next year. There’s no end to you lot.”
When Pérsomi got back to class with the pile of books, the boy in the seat next to hers said, “Did you get all your books? That was clever.”
That was clever. A small spot thawed somewhere in her cold, stiff body.
After school everyone went to the rugby field and was sorted into athletic teams. Pérsomi was with the Impalas. She joined her team members in line without knowing exactly what they were going to do.
The Form I’s were first to take their places behind a white line.
A teacher said: “On your marks, get set, go!” The girls ran as fast as they could to the opposite side of the field.
Next the Form IIs lined up. “On your marks, get set, go!” said the teacher before Pérsomi had even got to the white line. The other girls ran.
Pérsomi stood dismayed. “Run!” the teacher roared.
She ran, her long legs flying across the field. Within seconds she had passed the girls bringing up the rear. Her legs felt liberated, her feet free. Halfway across the field only three girls were still ahead of her. She ran away from the welfare humiliation, from her too-short school jumper, from her shirt with the missing buttons and the threadbare dress she slept in. She ran away from free school books and the hard bed she struggled to make and the strange napkin at the dinner table.
Five yards before the white line at the opposite end she flew past the girl in the lead. “Goodness, child, you can certainly run!” said the teacher as he wrote her name on a list. “Do you do long jump and high jump as well?”
Long jump was easy. She ran, took off, and jumped the way she jumped across the pool in the river.
High jump was strange to her. “You’ll find it easy, you’ll see,” the teacher assured her. “You’ve got long legs. Just scissor your legs when you go over the crossbar. But you can’t do it in your school uniform. Wear your gym clothes tomorrow.”
At shower time that evening she remembered her soap. It had a lovely smell, and it felt nice too. She tried not to get her hair wet again.
Beth read from her Bible at quiet time, then passed it to Pérsomi before kneeling beside her bed. Pérsomi opened the English Bible to a random page. She had no idea what she was supposed to read.
“Trust in the Lod with all thine heart,” she read, “and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
She looked up, frowning slightly. Was that what Beth was doing? And others who read the Bible and prayed every night?
Beth was still on her knees, moving her head slightly at times, and even her hands. She seemed to be talking, not praying.
Then the bell rang for lights out. She got up quietly and switched off the light.
When Beth was lying under her sheet, the warm blanket neatly folded back, she whispered, “You run like the wind, Pérsomi. Not like me. I came in stone last.”
“But I don’t have any gym clothes,” Pérsomi whispered back.
“Neither do I,” whispered Beth. “Mrs. Reverend would never allow me to wear anything like that. So it’s just as well I’m not on the team.”
Pérsomi couldn’t ask who Mrs. Reverend was, because she heard the prefect doing her rounds after lights-out.
Late that night, still awake in the hard bed, she heard Beth quietly sobbing in her pillow again. It was a strange sound, not like Sissie’s crying or Gertjie’s wails or Hannapat’s whining. It sounded . . . lonely. “Don’t cry, Beth,” she whispered.
“I’m so homesick,” Beth said softly.
“Me too,” said Pérsomi.
“I miss Mrs. Reverend,” Be
th sobbed, “and everyone at the mission station.”
“I miss my brother,” said Pérsomi, “and my ma and our home on the farm.”
At last they fell asleep.
The coach who had been at the high jump the day before was also the science teacher. “You’re the girl who runs so fast,” Mr. Nienaber said as he stood beside her desk. “Come directly to the high jump this afternoon. What did you say your name was?”
“Pérsomi Pieterse,” she replied.
“She’s Gerbrand Pieterse’s sister, sir,” said Reinier de Vos, who sat next to her in this class as well in math. “Remember, sir, the rugby player?”
“Yes, yes, the redhead. He was in your sister’s class, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” Reinier smiled. “That’s him, sir. He was in Annabel’s class.”
When the teacher turned his back, Reinier whispered, “Your brother was a very good rugby player.”
Pérsomi felt a warm glow of pride inside her. Gerbrand had never mentioned it. “I didn’t know,” she said quietly and carried on with her work.
The next day, when the children went out for first recess after their science lesson, Mr. Nienaber said, “Pérsomi, just a moment.”
She stood at his table. She knew what was coming.
“Why didn’t you come to the high jump yesterday?”
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I don’t have the right clothes, sir.” She said it as if it was nothing, as if she couldn’t care less.
“Oh,” he said. He walked to the door and called down the porch. “Reinier! Reinier de Vos, come back for a moment!”
Pérsomi’s face flushed. She stared at the table as Reinier returned.
“Sir?”
“Reinier, I’m looking for gym clothes for Pérsomi. Won’t you ask your mother if she still has Annabel’s somewhere? They should fit Pérsomi.”
“Yes, of course, sir. I’ll bring them tomorrow.” He glanced at Pérsomi before leaving.
“Thank you,” Pérsomi said to Mr. Nienaber.
Why did it have to be Reinier, just about the only person who had shown her any kindness?
Friday afternoon, Pérsomi went to the library.
“I want to look at the newspapers,” she said to the librarian. When she noticed that the woman was glaring at her, she quickly added, “Please.”
“Please, who?”
“Please, miss?”
“See that you keep the papers tidy! They’re on the shelf over there.”
But the shelf contained only the papers from the past two days. Pérsomi went back to the counter. “May I please have the week’s papers, miss?” she asked.
The woman sighed and reached under the counter. “What are you looking for?” she asked, pushing the pile of papers toward Pérsomi.
“I want to read about the war, and about the Ossewabrandwag,” said Pérsomi.
“Why?” asked the librarian.
“My brother is fighting in Kenya,” Pérsomi said without thinking, “and my—”
“Your brother is fighting in . . . Is he a Red Tab?” Pérsomi heard the disgust in her voice.
She stuck out her chin. “Yes, miss,” she said, outwardly calm. “Gerbrand enlisted in the armed forces, and I want to read what’s happening.” She felt her stomach tighten.
“Gerbrand Pieterse? I should have known. It’s people like him who are willing to aid our archenemies for a few pieces of silver.” She turned her back on Pérsomi and continued with her work.
Pérsomi picked up the papers and walked to a table, her back stiff. Her hands were trembling. That woman had no idea what every copper penny and silver tickey meant to her family.
The interhouse track and field meet took place on the second Saturday of the first term. Pérsomi was awake long before the sun was up. She was so excited she could hardly eat. After breakfast she put on Annabel’s dark-blue sleeveless bodysuit with buttons at the back and elastic around the leg openings. Over the body suit she wore a short white pleated skirt. It fit her perfectly.
By eight o’clock the field around the athletics track was crowded with people: farmers from the neighboring farms, townsfolk, parents and grandparents who had come to support their children.
Saturday turned out to be the best day of Pérsomi’s life. She crouched behind the white starting line and shattered every record. Her long legs flew down the narrow lane and across the sandpit. She tucked her short skirt into the elastic of her bodysuit and sailed over the crossbar. Time after time she climbed to the top of the podium. She was the last one to be handed the baton in the relay race and was still first through the white tape. The rest of the Impalas team cheered wildly.
“My sister was fast, but you’d leave her standing,” Reinier said.
Pérsomi’s cheeks glowed with pride. She wished Gerbrand could be there to see her. He would have been so proud.
When they walked back to the dormitory in the late afternoon, Beth said: “Pérsomi, you were so good. God has blessed you with a wonderful talent.”
Pérsomi tried to make light of her embarrassment. “But your team won.” Beth was in the Kudus team.
“It was fun,” said Beth. There was a blush on her cheeks and she was hoarse from shouting. She shook her head anxiously. “I don’t know what the Reverend and Mrs. Reverend would say about all this. I’m afraid it might be a sin.”
“What?”
“Well I didn’t behave with decorum,” said Beth.
“Why should you?” asked Pérsomi.
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . right,” answered Beth. “A girl should behave with decorum.”
“Oh,” said Pérsomi. “I know a girl shouldn’t swear.”
“No one should swear!” Beth said, wide-eyed. “The Reverend says it’s a terrible sin.”
“Who’s the Reverend and Mrs. Reverend?” she finally asked.
“The people who raised me,” said Beth.
Pérsomi had never been to church, but she didn’t mention it to anyone.
“Listen, they’re calling ‘Come, Sinners, Come,’” Beth said the first time Pérsomi heard the Sunday morning church bells. That January morning in the sweltering bushveld the minister wore a pitch-black cassock. The organ notes dripped like sticky syrup from the walls and ceiling and the people dragged behind the music, as if the organ were drawing their voices out of their throats. She looked at the row of elders with their shiny pates and wrinkly necks dozing in the pews and the deacons in their black suits and snow-white bow ties, passing along the collection plates. She didn’t have a tickey to put in. In truth, she didn’t even have a penny.
She was shown to a Sunday school class and given a booklet from which she had to learn a Bible text by heart. It looked quite easy.
Sunday lunch included dessert. And chicken. She wished she could put away some food every day to take home during the vacation.
After lunch on Sundays there was quiet time until five. They couldn’t do any work, especially homework; they couldn’t jog around the track or practice the long jump; they could sing only hymns; they couldn’t read anything but the Bible.
There was another church service after supper on Sundays. Then they went to bed.
Sunday was the longest day in Pérsomi’s week.
At assembly on Monday morning six big trophies stood on a table in front of the stage, and the principal read the names of all the athletes who had been selected for the school team.
Irene’s name was read. She was in the relay team. Pérsomi’s name was read, and so was Reinier’s. The pupils applauded.
Then the principal said: “And now for the highlight of the day. Everyone knows the Kudus were the winning team. Will the captains please fetch the trophy?”
The Kudus cheered enthusiastically to celebrate their victory.
When the cheering died down, the principal said, “The trophy for the best singing goes to the . . . Impalas!”
The Impalas almost raised the roof. The cheerleaders proudly went up
to receive the trophy, taking their places next to the captains of the Kudus. Pérsomi wondered what the other four trophies were for.
“And now for the stars of the event,” said the principal. He picked up one of the remaining four trophies. “You won’t be surprised to learn that our junior Victrix ludorum is Pérsomi Pieterse of the Impalas!”
Pérsomi heard her name through a haze.
The Impalas erupted with joy.
Gradually it dawned on Pérsomi—she had won a trophy.
Beth nudged her. “Go to the stage!” she shouted over the cheering voices.
Pérsomi climbed the steps. Everyone applauded. The principal shook her hand.
“Congratulations, Pérsomi,” he said, “we’re looking forward to seeing you compete against the other schools.”
She stood next to the other trophy winners, the big trophy in her hands.
She gazed over a sea of faces in identical school uniforms, all of them looking at her, holding the trophy. Her classmates smiled at her.
All day long she felt like a real person.
“Why don’t you wear a nightgown?” Beth asked one evening after lights out. If they whispered softly after the prefect had done her rounds, they could talk in the dark for a long time.
“I haven’t got one,” Pérsomi answered.
“Yes, I know, but why not? Why doesn’t your mom make you one?”
“Where would my ma find fabric? And I don’t think she can sew,” said Pérsomi.
It was quiet for while, then Beth whispered, “Why are you so poor, Pérsomi?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have any money, that’s all.”
“Doesn’t your dad earn any money?”
“No, he doesn’t work.” She didn’t explain everything. Beth wouldn’t understand. Beth was a real person who had grown up with the Reverend and who had dresses and nightgowns and a satchel and two school jumpers. “Beth, why do you live with the Reverend and his wife?”
“My mom died. At the mission station, just after my birth,” said Beth.
“Oh,” said Pérsomi. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, I never knew her,” said Beth. “And Reverend and Mrs. Reverend really love me.”