Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  Soon, we arrive in Aliwal North. He takes me up to the junction to Queenstown.

  “That’s very kind of you, thank you very much,” I say, fumbling with my handbag as if reaching out for a fee.

  “Not to worry about money - just take care of yourself, and have a good journey,” he says, getting into his car, blowing his horn before speeding off. I grab the handle of my suitcase, carrying it to the strategic position for the next lift.

  I wait for a while, before the next car passes. I stick my hand out again, not realising it’s a European driver. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t stop anyway, for fear of breaching the 1953 Reservation of Separate Amenity Law. They shouldn’t get themselves in trouble for kindness.

  It’s difficult to tell the skin colours of the people in speeding cars until they drive past. However, I continue to stop every passing car. Many of them don’t stop. I regret hiking from this end. There may be fewer native cars passing this way. I start worrying, as I don’t want to miss the evening train to De Aar. I have no choice now, but to keep trying, stopping every car driving past, hoping for the best.

  A white Toyota van without canopy approaches. I stick my arm out, giving a stop signal. It slows down until it stops further away from me. Two passengers are sitting in front. I speak to the driver – a native.

  “I’m going to Queenstown.”

  “Sorry, lady, I’m full in front. Will you go on the back?”

  “Yes, I don’t mind,” I reply. I swing my luggage over and then jump on the back of this van, sit in the middle facing backwards, to avoid crosswinds.

  I’m in fact pleased, because no one will try chatting with me. Before he pulls off, I ask him to drop me off at the railway station. He agrees, and drives off. Sitting alone at the back of this van, my mind drifts into deep thoughts. Will I ever see my parents again? Did I really try enough to find Mark? My determination to leave South Africa is stronger than the losses I have to endure. Crosswinds blow strongly. I’m uncomfortable, and feel cold. To pass the time, I think more about Greg, and my hope for our future.

  We arrive in Queenstown on time. The van stops at this busy railway station. The driver helps me out, and hands me my luggage.

  “Have a good journey!” he says, without asking for money.

  “Thank you. Bye-bye,” I say rushing to the ticket office to buy my ticket – third class. I go to the station shop to buy brown bread and some apples. I wait on the platform for the train to arrive. It’s on time.

  I walk to the third class carriage, and get on board. The first class is reserved for Europeans only, second class for the natives, who can afford it. The poorer natives travel in third class compartments. I don’t mind this, because the arrival time is the same. I have a long journey to travel, and a risky one too.

  After an overnight trip, we finally arrive in De Aar, for my connection to South West Africa. I go straight to the platform to board my next train.

  The train is full, just as I hoped for. On each side of the compartment there are three beds. I go up to the top bed, to sleep behind the passengers’ luggage. The train travels all day. I get up when I need the toilet at the end of the carriage. I stretch my legs a bit, looking through the train windows in the corridor. I can’t hang around for too long here. I don’t want the train-guard to see me. He might want to inspect my ticket that I don’t have. I read a book and my reference letter from Mrs Groves.

  This is not bad; it should impress my future employers. It’s self-explanatory. I fold the letter, and put it safely in the side pocket of my suitcase. The temperatures are high; it’s scorching hot on the train. The train stops for a while.

  Some passengers get off the train at Upington railway station, and new passengers join us. Among them, there is a young man, who is keen to talk to me. I quickly excuse myself, giving a good reason for wanting to sleep. He leaves me alone. I hear the ticket inspector calling for tickets. He opens our compartment, looks around saying in Afrikaans, “You all have your tickets here?”

  “Ja, Baas,” someone responds, before he shuts the door, walking down the tiny corridor to another compartment.

  The train finally arrives at Windhoek station about 7.00 a.m., and I have one more connection to Swakopmund. I get off the train, but stay on the platform with other passengers in transit. I wish I didn’t have to wait here. Fortunately, my next train is also on time. So, I board my train, arriving at my destination in the afternoon.

  I get off and go straight to the telephone booth to call Thomas Kruger. I dial the number. Before I even insert the coins, I get a recorded message saying, “This number is out of order, try again later.”

  Hopelessly, I put my suitcase down and sit on it, watching the people passing by. Some young women hurry past me, and I recognise their accent to be that of South African natives. I go to them.

  “Hi, I’m Betty. I was wondering if you could help me.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I need to get to 175, Ludwig Straat, Pioneerspark. I’m visiting Thomas Kruger,” I say, showing them the address.

  “Thomas Kruger, huh, my goodness – this sounds more like a ‘Boer’! Why do you want him?”

  Before I respond, she interrupts me saying, “Come and stop with us if you want.”

  I’m relieved, but tired. I stay positive. Gloria and Caroline help me carry my suitcase to the taxi rank. We drive out of the city for some time, reaching the native township. The houses are all small bungalows with two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom and a living room. The conditions seem bleak here, and some of the properties are run down. As we approach, I look with enthusiasm at the buildings, and there are many people outside. We get out of the taxi, and I follow them to their apartment.

  Drains are bubbling, stinking sewerage is running everywhere above the ground. It is scorching hot. We jump over the filthy puddles, pushing between the people to get to our door. Some traders are selling different things, including meat and fish. The heat attracts flies, and they are buzzing everywhere.

  “Donkey-gxanike!” some traders are shouting in their native language.

  I understand the first bit - donkey, so it’s easy to guess the other, as I could see the meat. Anyway, the girls confirm: it is donkey-meat. In her kindness, a certain lady offers me a piece of meat. I accept it, ignoring the unusual smell, and have a go at it. The taste is fine, though it could have done with thorough washing, as I can chew grains of sand in it.

  People coming from the villages to work in the city live here. Some are homeless immigrants from other countries. Residents need an identification document to be allowed in – a similar situation like the South African townships. The natives here are required to carry identification at all times to adhere to the Natives Act Pass Laws. Failure to show the pass when demanded by the police is deemed a criminal offence.

  I can’t live here, I think to myself. So, I stay with these women for about a week, and then I look around for proper accommodation. Soon, the girls introduce me to a man, who owns houses for rent. He is pleased to share the house that he lives in, sparing me the tiny bedroom situated by the main entrance, for a reasonable rent.

  I’m so pleased with this excellent news. I hire a taxi to move my belongings - a suitcase and some carrier bags. I pay the full amount of rent in advance, to ensure that I secure the room. I ask Caroline and Gloria to stop over with me for the night. It’s been a very hot day, and I’m extremely exhausted. We stay outside, having some drinks. Again, I remind my friends saying, “Please don’t go away tonight. I don’t know this man yet.”

  “Okay, don’t worry, love,” Caroline reassures me. “We’ll keep an eye on you.” I leave them outside chatting, and go straight to sleep.

  I have no reason to be suspicious of my landlord. He appears old, obese, and uninterested. So, I go into my bedroom, quickly put on my blue, short summer nightdress, made of two layers of net. As I’m drained, I soon fall asleep.

  I wake up hearing a key unlock the main door.
I open my eyes, still lying in my bed, to see the landlord returning from work. He is a security guard, and in full uniform. I realise then that I’m alone in the house. Both Gloria and Caroline have left. Sleep and tiredness disappear at that very moment. I lie still, pretending to be in deep sleep. With my head covered, I can hear my heart beat loudly. I can hardly breathe. I watch this man’s movement through a small hole in my blanket. He puts on the lights, and then says in a horrid voice, “So, you are here!”

  From where he is standing by the door opening of my room, he should have noticed I’m alone. “Come and sleep with me here,” he says. That’s enough instruction to trigger next my drastic response.

  Without a word, I jump up, forcing myself out of the small opening between him and the doorframe, hoping to escape. I’m wrong. He grabs me by his rough hands. Struggling to break loose, I fall face down onto the floor. He turns off the light in the living room.

  “Get up!” he commands. I don’t respond. He puts his foot on my body and then neck, shaking me. I feel the rubber sole pressing hard on my neck. Scared of rape, death or both, I lie down, not knowing what to do. His patience is running out. He says, “I don’t have time to beg you. I mean what I say - hurry up.” I do not respond. “Okay, stay there: I’ll carry you.”

  He bends over, picks me up in his arms and carries me towards the dark corridor into his bedroom. I struggle to break loose. I knock the shot gun off his belt with my knee. He is too strong for me. He puts me down on his big bed, perhaps king size. The mattress is very soft in the middle. As soon as he drops me, I sink.

  “I don’t want trouble, do you understand?” he says slowly in a soft voice. He turns the light on. I look at his eyes – they are big and reddish. He is obese, breathing aloud, blowing out his breath and clean shaven. I notice this bedroom hasn’t got a door also. I move myself over to the edge of this bed and gather courage before asking him firmly, “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve asked you to come and sleep with me in my bedroom. You go on and on making this a big deal. Don’t you realise that these walls are thin?”

  Walls aren’t thick, so neighbours will hear me if I scream, I repeat this in my mind.

  “I will not hurt you if you cooperate. Make up your mind. I’ll have a quick one, and that’s all. That’s your choice.”

  I start negotiating with him. “Look, you just came in, and you are horrible to me. What’s your name?”

  He doesn’t answer me. He is wilfully, deliberately, undressing himself. He takes off his jacket, loosens his tie, and takes it off; he undoes his shirt buttons and takes it off; he takes off his vest. He sits on the bed, taking off his stinky boots and socks, making a lot of noises, yawning and groaning. He slips off his trousers, remaining in his big loose black boxer shorts. He leaves the gun in his trousers. Sitting next to me, he puts his right hand on my thigh, and starts moving it about gently. He is disturbed.

  He gets up and rushes for the toilet, just opposite his bedroom. He is careful to leave the toilet door open, and looks back at me every so often. I hear the sound of his wee, and then it goes quiet. He turns around and sits on the pot. He holds his tummy with crossed arms, as if he is in pain. He appears stuck; all I can hear is lots of noises. He flushes the toilet, while sitting on the pot, and continues his business. He bends his head forward towards his thighs. It’s hard for me to imagine what he hopes to do on his return.

  The corridor is so narrow, that he would see me passing by, should I try to escape through to the main door. I guess he has locked it, and has not left the key there.

  I can’t surrender. I have one way if I can regain enough strength, and that’s to escape through the window. The risk in jumping out, falling over, and hurting myself outside is minimal. It’s a lot better than what might happen when this man returns. These thoughts are strong enough for me to act on, while he’s in the middle of his business on the toilet.

  I step on the bed, put my foot on the windowsill, while turning the handle. The window flings opens widely. I jump down, landing safely on my feet. I run away from his house into the dark, but not too far. I’m unfamiliar with the area. I can see the dim light of his bedroom. I watch his room go dark.

  I assume the man is asleep. I’m safe to return just to sleep in front of his door. Frightened of the passers-by all night, I sit up, covering myself with the top thin and transparent layer of my nightdress. The fear and the cooler temperature of the night keep me awake, shivering.

  The early-morning breeze brings a chill that cuts through my bones. I start to cry, but not loud enough for him to hear me. I watch people walking past, a few metres away from me, coming from parties.

  I soon hear the man’s footsteps moving about inside his house, perhaps preparing for work. I get up and move to one side from the door; I sit down hiding slightly from his door’s view. I watch him pulling the door handle behind, walking away. Fortunately, he has left the door opened, probably for me to return.

  I’m in a terrible state, longing for a shoulder to cry on, but there’s no one to comfort me this time. I drag my feet back into the house, feeling very tired from lack of proper sleep. I start getting dressed. As I’m about to put on my last piece of garment, Caroline and Gloria return.

  By then, I can hardly speak. I just look at them with my swollen, blotted bloodshot eyes, and suddenly burst into tears again.

  “What did he do to you?” they ask appearing very concerned. “Tell us, Betty, we can sort him out.”

  They try to stop me from crying, so that I can speak – it’s impossible for now. No word can soothe me. However, after a while, I stop crying. I have two thoughts in my mind - not another night in this house, and never to return to South Africa.

  Later that day Gloria and Caroline help me move my suitcase to Kay. She kindly allows me to sleep in her living room, next to my luggage. She has less furniture, and not even a carpet on the floors, but has more love to accommodate a stranger like me in her home.

  She’s a lone parent, doing domestic work for a young European family. She brings left-over food to share with me and her children. This means so much to me. I can feel a wave of relief. At least, I am safer here.

  I look for work, so that I can maintain myself. Every morning I call Employment Agencies. I read the newspapers, searching for work. I’m confident about selling my skills to impress all the employers.

  I see a temporary teaching post advertised in Windhoek, at Ben Schoeman Primere Skool, and apply. The Principal invites me to visit the school to have a chat with him and the staff. I prepare for the journey by train to Windhoek the following morning. The train arrives at the station on time, enabling me to walk to the taxi rank, to hire a taxi to this school.

  A child directs me to the Principal’s office. I knock at the door. A tall man in his fifties sitting behind his desk lifts up his eyes, pushes his chair backwards, and gets up to meet me by the door. He shakes my hand, beckoning me to another chair opposite his.

  “I’m Mr Beans. Please take a seat.”

  “I’m Betty Baker. I spoke to you on the phone. Thank you for the opportunity to meet you.”

  He is very polite, and offers to make me a drink.

  “Tea with milk, and one spoon of sugar, please,” I say, sitting upright on the chair. He walks out. I scan my eyes around the office, passing time. This is just a man’s office, with blank walls. I notice English books on the bookshelves, and on his desk. He also speaks English fluently, although the official language here is Afrikaans. This reveals to me a bit about him himself, I say in my mind, thinking he must be supporting the freedom fighters.

  Mr Beans returns with a cup of milky hot tea and sugar, all on the tray. “I’m looking for an English teacher on a temporary basis, to cover maternity for six months,” he says. “I’m impressed with your standard of communication. How soon could you start?”

  “Well, I’m available right now. Of course, I’ll need a day to collect my stuff from Swakopmund. Will you provide me with accomm
odation?”

  “Yes, I’ll ask my friend about that.” Mr Beans gives me the application forms. After filling in the forms and showing him my original certificates and reference letter from Mount View, we agree on my start date.

  “Your class will be waiting for you, Miss Baker,” he says as he sees me off at the main entrance of the staff and administration building. I’m thrilled with my new job in a bigger school than the last one in South Africa.

  Within a month of arriving in this country, I’m back to teaching again, the job I cherish mostly. Life is better here; there is legal racial integration. I’m now organised, teaching and living well. I give up searching for Thomas; however, I still have room for Mark in my heart. But, I write a letter to Gregory.

  Pos bus 14467

  Swakopmund

  South West Africa

  19 December, 1971

  Dear Greg,

  I hope you are well. Thank you for your unconditional love. I gave up searching for your friend, Thomas. I’m all right at this moment. Please reply and let me know how you’re doing.

  All my love,

  Betty x

  I go to the Post Office to buy a stamp, and then post my letter to Greg. Eight weeks later, I receive his reply.

  Gregory Davies

  50, Powland Street

  Skipton, North Yorkshire, Great Britain

  19 February 1972

  Dear Betty,

  It’s great to hear from you again. I never lost hope that we will be together one day. I reckon you’ll be able to join me soon; so, let me know when you’re ready to come: I’ll send you a ticket. Tell me more about your life there.

  Love from

  Greg x

  I reply. This time, I write a bit more about the general style of life and culture.

  People live in their own ways. They enjoy life, especially weekends from Friday until Sunday evening; they hold fund-raising activities called ‘braaivleis’. This means barbecues in English. The DJ plays music, and those who wish to dance do so, while others chat over drinks, ‘six to six’, meaning from 6.00 p.m. to 6.00 a.m. I enjoy barbecues. I’ve also made friends, who have introduced me to their social lifestyle - discos. Weekends are all exciting. I can’t help bubbling with the excitement inside me. However, in some moments, life becomes a struggle, with some excruciating pain.