Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  “Hey, Lottie, I’m leaving now. Have a good journey and I hope to see you next year, unless my application for a teacher training course is successful,” I say, standing by the door.

  “Enjoy your Christmas and New Year too. I’m leaving about 4.00 p.m. to catch the train from Queenstown to Johannesburg. I hope to be very busy this holiday, gathering more information about South Africa,” Lottie replies, giving me a wink.

  “Bring anything you can find, but be careful,” I say.

  “Betty, don’t worry - I know. We need it, though, don’t we?” Lottie answers, and I am slightly mollified.

  “Well, I can’t stay any longer to keep you company while you pack your stuff. Please stay in touch over the holidays. Will you remember that?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lottie says, forcing her overflowing suitcase to close. I give her a comforting hug. Feeling heartbroken from this separation, I turn my back towards her, and leave.

  This time around, I will change my approach, and welcome Baas Jimmie’s children. I’ll accept their invitation into their Big House. I will be like a family friend and narrow the distance between us. As Mark is only two years older than I am, we should have a lot to talk about, especially secondary school life, and our ambitions.

  “I hope his parents will go away, and that they invite me into the Big House. I’m looking forward to this,” I say, lifting up my two clenched fists in excitement. I may borrow some interesting books from their bookshelves. I can also read the latest newspapers.

  Eventually, I go to the telephone-booth to call a taxi. I pick up the receiver, and wind the handle to connect to the exchange.

  “Exchange-number, please!” a man’s voice says.

  “Hello, hello,” I say, surprised with this quick response. “34444 for taxis, please.” I speak loudly. Immediately, I’m connected to the taxi operator.

  “Hello, Tez Taxis.”

  “Could I have a taxi, please?”

  “Where are you, and where to?”

  “I’m at Butterworth High Hostel main entrance, and I’m going to the bus station.”

  “The taxi will be there in a few minutes,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  The taxi arrives, and the driver helps me to put my trunk in the boot. Then the taxi pulls off, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. In about fifteen minutes, we are at the bus stop. I wait for half an hour before boarding the bus to Burgersdorp, my connection to Skoonfontein Farm.

  The bus to Jimmie’s farm is packed with farm labourers. Sadly, I don’t know any of them. I remain quiet until I get off at my bus stop. I struggle to lift my trunk onto my head, and carry my bag with my right hand, slowly staggering home. As I leave the main road, I hear a car approaching from behind. I throw my luggage down to look, hoping it will be Baas Jimmie, and I’m right – it’s him.

  With great difficulty, I manage to load my luggage, and jump onto the back of the open van. I’m used to this. Baas always forgets to invite any of my family to sit in the front next to him, even on miserable rainy or snowy days. Soon, we arrive on the farm. He parks the van in front of the Big House on the drive way.

  Bobby, one of his favourite dogs, welcomes him, wiggling his tail, perhaps hoping he is to be taken for a drive. He loves sticking his tongue out looking through the window of the van’s front seat. That’s enough to occupy Jimmie’s mind, I suppose. He forgets about everything, and gives full attention to Bobby.

  I drag my trunk home. It’s no use leaving it for my mum to help, as she may be in the Big House preparing supper, and getting Theodora’s baby into bed. I get home and make myself a cup of tea. Later, my mum returns, and the rest of the family is back. We all have supper from the left-over food mum has brought from the Big House.

  “Mum, I’m old enough now to help you with your jobs in the Big House. Could you ask the missus if that’s all right?” I ask Mum as she is about to shut the door, rushing off to work.

  “Betty, I can try, but I don’t think she will be happy to have both of us inside. I’ll ask them, and suggest that two hands are better than one anyway. You get a lot done within a short time. When they see this benefit, they may agree.”

  “Try, Mum, please,” I beg her. “Missus may appreciate having more work done at no extra cost.”

  Early in the morning the next day, my mum goes to the Big House to work as usual. After lunch, she returns to inform me, “Missus is very happy to have you helping me, Betty. However, she warned me, saying, ‘Watch Betty. She should stick to the jobs you give her. She shouldn’t be all over the house. Girls of her age are curious, and she could get you in trouble if you’re not careful. Watch her, do you understand me, Gladys?’” Mum uses Missus’ exact words to make sure I understand the importance of what she’s saying.

  “Okay, Mum, I understand,” I assure her. Mum seems happier, too, and I see her off to work for her afternoon shift.

  I have got what I wanted. Tomorrow, I’ll be with my mum in the Big House. I start jumping up and down, in excitement. I look at the mirror, admiring myself, and feeling really inspired.

  The day passes by speedily.

  My mum comes home in the evening with good news for me again.

  “Betty, Missus really needs you there. She has added more jobs for us to do tomorrow. Remember what we talked about earlier. You should be very careful.”

  “Oh Mum, c’mon, trust me. You know I’m responsible. How would she know if I touch anything?”

  “Easily, Betty - she knows the order of everything. If you start moving things about where you were not asked to be, she will know. That would get me in trouble.”

  “Ahuh, here come ‘limitations’ again,” I say to my mum, giggling.

  Nevertheless, the next morning I prepare myself on time to join mum. She instructs me, and I happily obey her orders. I sweep the bedrooms, scrub and polish the wooden floors until they sparkle. I wash the curtains and hang them back. I iron all the washing. I arrange fresh flowers in the big vases and brighten the dark corridors, leaving the entire place tidy, with a scent. ‘I’m a faithful helper,’ I say to myself, walking slowly home, leaving my mum behind. I feel so tired that I fall asleep immediately. Mum comes back, and wakes me up with better news for me:

  “Betty, Missus is very pleased with you,” she says, walking about without looking at me. She continues, “She couldn’t believe her eyes when she checked the vacant bedrooms. I’ve never managed to shine the veranda like you. Baas slipped and nearly fell down!”

  “That’s great news, Mum. I’ll do it again,” I respond.

  “Yes, she wants you back.” My heart leaps joyfully. “That’s wonderful, Mum.”

  From then on, I go to work in the Big House regularly with Mum. I speak to Mark Douglas every now and then, and find that we do have a lot in common. He is reading Political Science and History. When our eyes meet, my heart skips a beat. This is my secret, and I keep it to myself. I think I’m beginning to like him.

  This particular Saturday afternoon, I’ve finished my work but Mum is still busy, so I wait for her in the back garden. It’s beautiful, with green lawns and flowers. I sit on the bench admiring my surroundings and enjoying the sunshine. Suddenly, small Baas Mark comes along and stands by me.

  “Hello, Betty,” he says, staring at my face with what seems like admiration.

  “Hello, Small Baas,” I say, making eye contact with him for the very first time.

  “You don’t have to call me that, you know?” he says with a beaming smile on his face. I’m pleased by this.

  “Oh well, I’m sorry. What should I call you then?”

  “My name is Mark,” he says. “I’ll be very pleased if you use it.”

  “Will your parents be okay with that?” I feel very concerned.

  “Yes, of course. I’m an adult now. I can do and say what pleases me.”

  “I have no problem with that, but I’ll have to call you ‘Small Baas’ when other people are around – just to make things easier for me.�
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  “Okay,” he agrees, shaking his head in disapproval. We chat a bit. “Excuse me Betty,” he says. “I’ll be back soon.” Mark goes inside. After a little while he brings with him a glass of orange squash and biscuits, and gives them to me.

  “Thank you, Small Baas,” I say, not really meaning it. My aim is just to embarrass him this time. He looks at me and laughs.

  “You know I don’t like you to call me that, Betty.”

  “Pardon me, then,” I say. We talk about education. I tell him that I’m going into teacher training, and he encourages me to learn. “Knowledge and its application is the key to a successful life,” he says.

  I’m getting used to Mark, and I feel happy when we are together. He asks me to go for a walk around the farm with him some days. I’m uncomfortable about this at the start. I ask him to walk towards the back of our house and whistle a signal to get me out. I need to be safe lest Missus and Baas Jimmie see us, and disapprove of the friendship - something I anticipate will happen. They would then blame their son, not me, for coming around our house.

  As we walk behind our house, towards the old rusty car that has been abandoned for ages, I feel my heart beat faster. I keep looking around in all directions. We walk towards it. Mark opens the door; it looks good inside. He sits in the back seat, and I stand holding the door.

  “Betty,” Mark calls to me. “Come closer to me, will you?” he continues, beckoning his hand towards himself. “You’re beautiful,” he says lowering his eyes for a moment before meeting my gaze with a strange intensity.

  “Thanks, you too,” I say, giving him a romantic look.

  I’m a bit confused, though. Looking at his eyes, I see a handsome, confident young man. I listen to him speak: his voice triggers a sweet feeling inside me. He is wonderful, I conclude. I think about Lottie, Nancy, and our political discussion, but I see love in Mark. He seems to like me, too: I decide to see how things go. “You’re gorgeous as well,” I reply, surrendering myself to him.

  He puts his arms around my shoulders, staring deeply into my eyes. I can hear his heart beating loudly as he presses himself onto my chest.

  “I’d like to know you better, darling,” he says, in his kind of soft, resonant voice. He moves his face closer to mine. Our lips touch. His deep breath accelerates. He kisses me, and I close my eyes tightly, enjoying the warmth within Mark’s arms. “I love you, Betty. I love you very much,” he says. “We must meet here again tomorrow, in the afternoon – don’t you think so?”

  I agree. Mark pulls me to himself again, and kisses me deeply, the ‘passionate’ kind this time around. Allowing my eyes to close, I kiss him passionately too.

  The old rusty Mercedes Benz car becomes our meeting spot. We meet up regularly. Whenever I hear his whistling, I go outside and head towards the old car. Our bond is natural, and we continue to spend a lot of time together.

  Mark’s version:

  Betty, I’ve always found her attractive. I like the colour of her skin, her figure, hair, and height. She has everything a young man would wish for in a young woman. She is bright and can engage in a conversation. What more do I want? Nothing really. But, I have one problem; I don’t think my parents will want me to love her. In that case, what will I do? Challenge them to give me reasonable reasons? Of course it’s the laws. I don’t think I care any more of what might happen to me. I’m in it now, and I love her – I love Betty.

  January, the following year

  I return from the Big House, after helping my mum serve morning coffee and breakfast. Feeling rather tired, I drag myself into the bedroom I share with Rita. Surprisingly, her bed is stripped – no blankets, no sheets. I look into our wardrobe, and her clothes aren’t there. I look for her pair of shoes – they are missing. I search my parents’ bedroom, and pass through the dining room to the kitchen, looking for clues – but nothing. Where is Rita?

  No one said anything about Rita going away. I’ve lived with her most of my life. My parents fostered her, and that’s all I know. I walked the long journeys to school with her most days. She defended me when I faced criticism from grown-ups and teasing from my schoolmates. She stopped my friends from hitting me. She lent me her clothes, and even carried me on her back, saving me from being pricked by thorns, when I had no shoes to wear.

  Could she have decided to run away? But why would she? How could she not tell me? Perhaps, she’s gone to another farm to find work. That’s not like her though, I console myself. She hardly does any housework, rarely cooks dinner and supper or washes up, never chops firewood or drives the cattle to the river to drink. She’s always in bed claiming to be ill, but not ill enough to see the doctor. I sit down feeling hurt.

  The knock on the door distracts me. It’s Theodora, Mark’s mum. She gives me a letter in a big brown envelope. Eager to see what’s inside, I open it immediately, and continue walking towards my bedroom.

  “Great! I’m accepted at Benson Vale Teacher Training College! I’m going to train as a primary school teacher!” This is a two year course, but it’s a long haul. So I’m not overly excited about this because I know this qualification is for working in specific areas, teaching the native children only. This gives me little pleasure, but I can’t do anything about it for now. It’s still an opportunity to help others succeed. Just then, my mum comes into my bedroom.

  “Mummy, where’s Rita?” I ask, my voice trembling, trying to hide my true feelings.

  She replies moodily, “This is not the right time to ask me, Betty. Have you fed the chickens, and is everything all right?”

  I pretend not to hear what she says, and rush to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. My mum will never open her bag and give me anything until she has drunk ‘tea from my own house’, she always says.

  While I’m serving her hot tea, I hear a whistle, and I recognise the tune. I know this song, Goei nag, Goei nag, slaap my kleindjie – Good night, Good night, sleep my young one. “It’s my dad,” I say happily. “Maybe, he’s popping in for a short break from work.” Joyfully, I run back into the corridor to the kitchen situated towards the back of our house to fetch an empty cup to pour him tea while it’s hot. I don’t want to be sent back to reheat it. I get the cup, and put the saucer beneath to take to my dad, the man I love. As I rush through the kitchen door, trying to get there before the tea gets cold, the cup flies over the saucer. Fearfully, I stretch my knee forward to prevent it from dropping on the floor. I can’t drop it – my parents will be mad. I try to stop it from falling but it’s too late to save it. It breaks, scattering into pieces everywhere. I quickly put down the saucer and pick up the broken china pieces before anyone sees this disaster.

  I open the back door quietly, and walk a few steps to the back garden. I hold the bigger piece of china in my right hand, and aim to throw it, so that it lands far away, where no one will ever find it. As it leaves my hand, it cuts my index finger deeply.

  The blood spurts out, triggering a severe pain. I stand still, pressing the cut hard to stop the bleeding and to suppress the pain, looking around to see if anyone sees me. I can’t make a big fuss out of this; otherwise I’ll get myself in trouble with my mum. So, I quickly go back inside, put a plaster on the deep bleeding cut, pretending nothing has happened.

  I serve them both the tea, and then sit down. I tell them that I’ve got a place to train as a teacher, and that my course starts in two days. My mum shouts, “Oh, thank you, thank you, Lord!” She goes on and on, not realising I’m in pain.

  “Well done, Betty,” says my dad. Feeling the intensity of the pain from the cut, I quickly disappear into my bedroom. Later, I begin to prepare for my journey to the Teachers’ College.

  The next morning, I carry my belongings to the bus stop. Rita isn’t there to help me, and kiss me good-bye. I’m sad about this, and anxious about leaving home again, and not seeing Mark for some time. I guess Rita might have returned to her parents or found a better shelter for herself. I don’t have a long time to wait – the bus soon arriv
es. I buy my ticket, board the bus and find a vacant seat. The engine revs loudly as the bus pulls off gently. I look out through the window as we vanish into the winding dirt roads, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

  Sitting quietly on the bus, I think about being a teacher. I have mixed feelings – why do I have to learn this Bantu education syllabus that I know is specific for those teaching the natives? What else could I do if I refuse it? Nothing – I’ll end up doing menial work, or having no job to go to at all. In spite of all this, I will do my course.

  I arrive at the college, and soon settle down well. The classes start, and I establish myself into the college routines. Days, weeks and months pass without hearing from Mark. I miss him so much that it hurts. My expectation for a letter from him never fades. I wish to receive a letter from him to relieve my emptiness. Refusing to allow this situation to distress me, I choose to believe and trust him. It’s amazing what the mind is capable of doing. As the amount of work I have to do increases, and we have tests to prepare for, I have less time to think about Mark. I hope the Law will be more understanding, and allow us to engage in a fulfilling relationship. But where will this lead to? Will he marry me? I just don’t know.

  It’s been announced that we are due to go out to local primary schools for teaching practice. I’m excited to be a teacher for the first time. I prepare my twenty lessons for the week, and Mrs Liver, my tutor, approves of them. By the end of the week, I’m ready to teach. Will I beat them, like other teachers do? No, trainees aren’t allowed to use corporal punishment. I should make my lessons interesting, to inspire them to learn, rather than beat them.

  On Monday morning, the school bus arrives to take us to our allocated schools. I go in, take the front seat, and read a novel entitled I am David. This is a story about a boy who could not smile. A prison guard helps him to escape from a concentration camp in Eastern Europe through Italy and Greece to Denmark. Whenever I have spare time, I love to read books. I need to know more about the world, and I hope that one day I’ll be able to share my exact feelings with someone, here, or perhaps even abroad.