Then I decide not to pursue this matter, as I remember the South West African experience.
Betty relates well to other members of staff, and always works to promote the best impression of the school in the eyes of the community.
Mrs Ann Rogers
Head of Junior School,
Summer Hill Primary School
8th February, 1979
Chapter 12
The Last Mile
June 1981
This time, I return to South West Africa for a short holiday. All the preparations are easier, as Greg takes a lead in doing the bookings, and also taking me to Heathrow airport. British Airways fly directly to Windhoek airport, in South West Africa. The flight lands at 10.45 am. I collect my luggage, and go to the arrivals, to meet, Mariaan, my friend. She has agreed to pick me up.
At about noon, I hear a tap on my shoulder. It’s her.
“Betty!”
“Mariaan, it’s lovely to see you again.”
“How’s your husband? And your children?”
Before I could respond, Mariaan asks many questions.
“No, stop.” I try to slow her down, so that we can get into a serious conversation. I’m dying to hear the news, since I left the city. Mariaan calms down, and we soon engage in a talk and have a laugh about many things. She drives me to her home in Ludwigdorp.
“Betty, have you now given up on Mark?”
“I’m glad he appeared to have fully recovered from the events surrounding the murder. But, do I still love him? No, no, no.”
“How are things with Gregory?”
“My husband?”
“You married him?”
“Yeah, it was time – we’re in love.”
“I had wanted to speak to Mark, the last time I saw him, and this didn’t happen.”
“You’re right, a ‘Hello, Betty!’ or just a wave would have been nice.”
“Obviously, he saw me. Could anyone have specifically instructed him to ignore me? Maybe, yes; I don’t know.”
“It’s too late now, Betty you’re Greg’s wife – forget him.”
“Of course, I’m settled with Greg now.”
I meet up with my friends for coffee, almost daily. We catch up with life stories from since I left them. I soon realise that I’m at peace with South West Africa. Before I realise, two weeks holidays is over, it’s time to return home. I board my flight back to Gatwick airport in England. And I’m back to Skipton.
* * *
It’s great to be with my children and around their dad, Greg again. I missed them massively, when I was away. Greg welcomes me back home, and asks many questions about my family, believing the purpose of my trip was genuine– to see them. His commitment amazes me. From the first time I met him in South Africa he has remained true to me.
Days pass
“So, Betty, what’s up?” Greg asks me one evening, after dinner, as we watch television in the living room, by which time Wayne and Sophie were asleep, in their bedroom. I run out of words, as I feel his presence next to me. He cuddles me, rubbing his lips against mine. By this time, his hand is moving gradually, touching me, sending a gentle electric current up my spine to the brain, and then down to my feet.
“Well,” I reply with my slurred voice, finding it difficult at the moment to think about anything, specifically. “Mmmmmh.” That’s all I’m able to say, enjoying everything he does. After having fun sharing intimacy, we go to bed. I think about Greg’s question, as I drift into sleep in his arms. Hearing him breathe deeply, I know he is fast asleep. I fall asleep on his arms.
The next day
At 6.00 p.m. the following day, Greg returns from work. I serve him a cup of tea. Sitting next to him, I say, “Sorry, love, you asked me a question last night. What, actually, do you want to know?”
“I just wanted to know your thoughts.”
“My thoughts - about what?”
“Your plans for the future - I mean things like work, or that kind of thing.”
“Oh, that’s what you’re on about? It’s good for you to ask. Actually, I was intending to ask your views about completing my training. I think I can give it a final push, and succeed, within the next six months. What do you think, my darling?”
“Of course, you know I’ll support you, Betty. I know how much you want this.”
I’m by now more relaxed about the idea of being at home temporarily. I get up, and help the kids to get ready and drive them to school. After the school-run, I spend time on myself, steaming my face and pampering it. Some days I go to the gym; I have membership for a year. I soon get to know other community members.
I do gardening, and other chores also, along reading in preparation for re-training. I have been considering the college or university to go to.
Fortunately, as I open my bed drawer, to pack our linen, I find my diary, with the McTate Foundation contact details. My colleague, Gary, gave me the number, before I left Summer Hill School, ‘in case I needed it’. I’m pleased Greg is supporting me to qualify.
The following day I call the McTate Foundation. An extremely friendly and very professional lady answers the phone.
“I’m Betty Davies. Is it possible to speak to the Director, please?”
“What is it about, if I may ask?”
“I’m wondering if you have a vacant place to take me on for assessment.”
“Assessment for what, sorry?” she asks.
“I’d like to gain the qualified teacher status for teaching here in the UK. My case might be different from other recruits. That’s why I would prefer to see the Director first, if possible, and then we might take it from there.”
“I’ll put you on hold, while I speak to him, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, thank you,” I respond, holding my breath.
The lady returns after about two minutes:
“Hello, are you there?” she asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I say anxiously, unable to guess the news I’m about to hear.
“Mrs Davies, Mr Roberts is willing to meet you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Will that suit you?”
“Yes, thank you very much.” My appreciation comes from my heart. I can hear her saying, “Mrs Betty Davies,” as she books an appointment for me. “Hello, Mrs Davies, do you know where we are?”
“Are you still at 247, Keighley Road?”
“That’s correct.”
As I enquire, it’s hard to believe that I’ve found them. So, tolerance does breed its own reward, as I’d been taught.
“Yes, we’re in room 44, on the third floor. Just press the buzzer. We’ll open for you. You’re fortunate, you know. The Director doesn’t normally work on Fridays,” the secretary says. I wonder if she is aware of the courage she’s giving me. “You’re booked in now.”
I feel like saying, ‘at last’. I respond with a polite chuckle instead.
“You may come ten minutes earlier, and have a cup of tea, before speaking to the Director,” she says.
“See you then. Good-bye for now.”
I hang up. I sit down, motionlessly, thinking. That’s a different response altogether from what I’ve had in the past. The secretary is so kind, and very polite. What a difference from my treatment in South West Africa. Greg will certainly be pleased with this news. ‘Oh, it’s time to collect the kids,’ I suddenly think to myself, and drive off.
Greg returns from work, I meet him by the door.
“Hi, love,” I say, greeting him with a new optimism.
“Hi, darling, have you got good news?” Greg responds, throwing his arms over my shoulders, pulling me towards himself, and giving me a pleasant kiss.
“Well, I’m meeting the director of the McTate Foundation tomorrow.”
“Wow! And – what is it about?”
“I’m amazed with the reception I received over the phone. Mara, the secretary, even asked me to come in earlier and have a cup of tea - unbelievable!”
“Well done, honey! You never know
- this could be your time to get teacher status.”
I get up early on Friday morning. I take a shower. I put on makeup, my navy blue pair of trousers, jacket and a matching shirt. I select a hand bag to match my shoes. I take two folders containing the most important documents regarding my application to show the Director. I help my kids to get ready to go to Katleen our child-minder, who has agreed to do the school-run for us today. Greg drops them at Mavis’ after taking me to the railway station to catch the 8.35 a.m. train.
At the railway station, Greg reverses the car, and drives off. I stand there waving at them until they disappear around the corner. I buy my ticket, and hurry to the platform. The train arrives. I get on and find a seat. The seats fill up so quickly with people commuting from Skipton to Keighley and Bradford. Some passengers have no seats. Soon, the train arrives at Keighley station. I get off, and it’s a straightforward route to the McTate Foundation office. I get there on time. I ring the buzzer, and listen. I hear, “Hello?” I recognise the voice immediately as that of the secretary.
“Hello. I’m Betty Davies,” I say. “Is it possible to speak to Mr Roberts, the Director, please?”
“Third floor,” she says, abruptly. I find my way up to this floor in an old lift that takes time to ascend. I have to give it one bang, and it responds to that, but it is noisy all the way. On the third floor, the lift stops, and the door opens. I come out of the lift into a corridor. And outside the offices, there is a big banner, with ‘McTate Foundation’ on it. I knock at the door, and push it open.
The secretary appears from behind her desk to greet me, with a firm handshake, and wearing a broad smile on her face. She directs me to the side with the sofa, and towards a jar of mints on the table. I feel relaxed here, as she says, “Please take a seat, Mrs Davies.” As I sit, she asks me, “What drink do you prefer?”
“Tea, with milk and no sugar, please,” I say. I look around, admiring the paintings on the walls. There are three working areas with desks. The staff are already getting on with their work. The secretary returns with a hot cup of tea.
“Thank you.” I receive it with a big smile.
While I’m drinking, I look up at the notice board opposite me. There is a poster of a bird in a pond, attracting my attention. This bird has long legs, and a sharp protruding beak. Inside its mouth, it has something looking like a frog. The head has disappeared down its throat, yet the body is in its mouth, almost eaten up. Strangely, this animal has its fore limbs around the bird’s neck, strangling it. How ironic, I think!
“When you’re ready you could come through for your interview, Mrs Davies.”
“Yes, thank you.”
I get up and proceed to the office. Mr Roberts rises to greet me with a handshake, beckoning me to my seat opposite him. Opening a folder, he says, “Right, Mrs Davies. My secretary has briefed me about your intention. Could you fill me in on the details?”
I narrate my story positively, showing him the supporting documents in my folders, and end by asking if his Foundation could assist me to complete the process of getting English accreditation as a teacher.
“This is possible, Mrs Davies. I’d like to see you teach in the classroom for one lesson. You have enough evidence to prove your competence. You need to register with us first, and we’ll do the rest.”
Filled with joy, I smile, nodding. Mr Roberts continues:
“We’ve got an arrangement with a few schools in the area, to observe the foreign teachers for this kind of assessment. When would you like to start with us?”
“As soon as possible, Mr Roberts. This process is long overdue.”
“That’s all right,” he says, and then calls his secretary.
“Would you register Mrs Davies, and contact one of our schools, to arrange a slot for lesson observation, please? Keep all her folders together, if you would.”
Mr Roberts turns around to speak to me. “We’ve finished now. We’ll confirm your placement by telephone, Mrs Davies. Thank you for coming. Should you wish to speak to us between now and then, just give us a ring?”
I grab my bag, feeling even more excited, as I leave the office. Walking down the road, back to the station, I hum softly my favourite song, ‘All I have needed, Thy hand has provided – great is thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.’
The following Monday
As I walk down stairs, the telephone rings. Picking it up, I say, “Mrs Davies speaking, may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Mara, I’m glad to find you, did I call at the right time?” she asks.
“Yes, thanks,” I say a bit concerned with what I was going to hear.
“Is your family all right?”
“Yes, thank you.” I then remain quiet, hoping she will tell me her reason for calling
She is so chatty as if we have known each other for ages. She then confirms my placement for Tuesday at Wellington Primary School. She asks me to prepare a lesson for a Year One class. I choose Maths.
On Tuesday, I arrive in time for my observation. After signing the Visitors’ Book, the secretary takes me to my classroom for the day. The school starts with Assembly and Collective Worship. The Maths lesson is first. Mr Roberts comes into the class, together with the Head Teacher. They both sit down at the back and observe me teach. At ten o’clock, the children have playtime. Mr Roberts gives me the observation report, before leaving the school. The overall grade is A.
I return home feeling tired, but overwhelmed with joy. I share my good news with Greg, as usual saying, “Mate - it went well!”
“And then?” Greg says, prompting me to continue.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Greg, it did work well in the end.”
“What went well Betty?”
“My final assessment and everything that goes with it.”
“Pardon me.”
“Yes, I am a qualified teacher.”
“Good for you.”
“And for all of us.”
“So, what next?”
“I forgive them.”
“Forgive - who?”
“The authors of the Apartheid Laws.”
“Mmh, Betty, what happened to make you change your mind?”
“Yes, Greg, I now understand: they were doing their jobs, and they had to do it professionally, like everybody else, to earn their income.”
Six months later
I receive my Certificate of Accreditation through the post. It is in a brown A4 envelope, supported by a hard card, and labelled, Do not fold. I show Greg, before putting it away in my folder, for safekeeping. This folder also contains other important documents about me.
In The Folder:
Reference
I have the privilege of teaching with Betty Baker. She has a thorough and dedicated approach to the paperwork side of the job. She instils in the most able pupils a love of literature that has stayed with them. She can see the potential in her pupils, and strives to bring out the best in them. Her infectious faith and enthusiasm radiate. Betty cares for the pupils in her charge, many of whom have deeply troubled lives and whose behaviour is very challenging at times. Betty believes passionately in the importance of our young people’s achievement. She also brings the balance of her sports training to the job. I’m happy to recommend her.
Joseph Cane
Head teacher
THE PRIZE
THIRD PRIZE - Gladys Mountain SECOND PRIZE - Charlotte Brays and FIRST PRIZE is - Betty Baker!
My annotation:
We all walk to the front to receive the book prizes, nicely wrapped in brightly-coloured wrapping paper. I look at my nametag, in disbelief: ‘Betty Baker’. And then walk back to my row. This recognition I will always remember.
THE PRIZE
Betty Baker!
EXCELLENT STAFFROOM CLEANER
For cleaning the Staffroom well, and reaching out to the corners.
Commentary:
Betty deserves this prize - a box of chocolates. She never murmurs when collecting used tissues le
ft on the teachers’ tables. She polishes the tables and chair-backs with ‘Furnigloss’, leaving them shining.
The Cards
From a parent and her daughter, expressing their appreciation.
This card reads:
To: Miss Betty Baker
Thank you for looking after me for the whole year. Lots of love, Miriam & thanks from Mrs McAnthony
A card with a picture of a teddy bear carrying a basket full of red roses reads:
To: Miss Betty Baker
Thank you, Teacher!
Best wishes!
Lots of love,
Hovesh
The Notes:
Dear Mummy,
I have no words to describe the wonderful person you really are. You are very caring, kind and warm. Your love and tender heart are something I’ll always remember about you. You are my greatest gift from God. You are the best mum among all the millions of mothers in this world.
Your loving daughter,
Sophie
Dear Betty,
I’m glad to be the man in your life. You keep my life at peace, my woman.
Your husband for now and for ever,
Greg
x
The End
Appendix
THE APARTHEID ERA IN RELATION TO THE SOUTH AFRICAN TIMELINE 1948-2013
1913: Betty’s dad was born.
1914: National Party founded.
Betty’s mum was born.
1919: South Africa administered South West Africa.
1948: National Party won elections and adopted Apartheid Laws. Mark Douglas was born.
1948 -1998: the 50 years of the regime that impacted on the life of Betty Baker.
1949: Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act 55 passed.
1950: Betty was born.
Group Areas Act segregating the natives from Europeans.
Population Registration by Race Act 1950.
Immorality Act 21
African National Congress (ANC), led by Nelson Mandela, organised opposing campaigns.
1951: Bantu Authorities Act 68
Starlight in the Ring Page 24