Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  There was silence for a moment. Ray delayed, probably still recollecting his mind from the deep sleep. And then he tried explaining, “I’m sorry, my Baas. I went all over, searching…” Before he finished his sentence, Baas Jimmie interrupted him, completely ignoring his lengthy explanation.

  “Shut up, lazy boy… ignorant boy!” shouted Baas Jimmie.

  Ray, complying with the order, kept quiet for a while, and sat up, holding on to the blanket.

  “I’m sorry, Baas!” he bleated eventually, staring at Baas Jimmie, caught up in a trap. Baas uncovered his blankets, leaving him naked.

  Poor Ray had no clothes on, but I couldn’t tell at first, as it was usual for all of us children to sleep half-naked or naked. I heard the whip-sound as he whacked him - one lash - two lashes - and three lashes, all on his bare body. He resisted for a while. It must have been difficult to endure such pain.

  “Aaargh, my Baas!” Ray finally screamed in agony, staring at him motionlessly, with his tearful eyes.

  “Silly boy!”

  Baas Jimmie yelled, waking my parents and other children up. His loud noise disturbed the whole house. My parents put their lamp on, illuminating the living room brighter than his bouncing flimsy torch-light. I saw them standing by their bedroom door, my mum hiding slightly behind my dad, with nothing to say or do. They couldn’t dare to challenge Baas Jimmie, not even in their ‘own’ home. They were just helpless poor labourers, in need of a roof over their heads, and food to feed us and themselves.

  Ray couldn’t take it anymore. He leaped out of the door like the football goalkeeper diving to intercept a score. My heart sank. Trying to hold tears and control my breath was difficult for me.

  “Hey, Ray! Get back here!” Baas Jimmie screamed, attempting to catch him. Fortunately, he missed him, but dropped his torch, instead. He delayed picking it up; and then a chase started. This time he was extremely angry, hissing like a snake. He left our house, slamming the door behind so loudly.

  My parents stood there for a while before returning to their bedroom. My soft-hearted mum wiped her eyes, and blew her nose with her flannelette nightdress sleeve every so often. I knew she was crying. My heart, filled with sadness, really ached. I couldn’t tolerate seeing my mum cry. Under my blankets, hopeless, I felt angry and frustrated with what I witnessed. My eyes filled up with tears. I wiped them off, this time with the hem of my blanket. Soon, it became wet also, and I pulled another dry corner of my blanket to wipe my cheeks. I sobbed quietly. The pain I felt was so unbearable. However, when my tears stopped flowing, I pretended to be asleep.

  Firstly, I heard the running footsteps outside - a chase was on…and then they disappeared in silence. I was trembling under my blankets, wondering what Baas would do to all of us on his return. With my eyes soaked in tears again, my hands sweating and my body shivering, I heard my heartbeat pumping louder than usual. I felt pity for Ray, and disgusted with Baas Jimmie. However, I preferred him compared to his son, Mark Douglas - the ‘small Baas,’ who would never say a word to me. I found his presence intimidating. He would stare, making me feel uncomfortable.

  My parents returned to the dining room whispering between themselves. I could hear the sound of my dad’s deep voice, though. They stood there probably confused and feared for their lives. My mum’s right hand moved across her face every so often. I guessed she couldn’t stop crying. I sat up saying, “It’s all right, Mama.” I got up, stood by her side, whispering and comforting her from the distress she displayed. “We’ll be a successful family one day.”

  “Shh, Betty,” my mum mumbled, with eyes opened wide, tapping her index finger on her lips.

  “Mama, I hate this,” I said softly trying to sound persuasive. “It’s unfair.”

  I know how she felt about Ray. She has always cared about people generally, especially the orphans. The hurt she portrayed in her voice and appearance broke my heart. My parents returned to their bedroom talking softly to each other. I went back to my mattress to lie down. Our house was dark again. Without realising, I fell asleep.

  The first thing I did the following morning was to look around for Ray’s clothes. His brown pair of trousers was lying by the door. The white t-shirt he wore that afternoon was on his pillow. It seemed he tried to grab some of his clothes, but he couldn’t manage it before escaping. He was under too much pressure.

  I looked on the floor, and noticed some dry bloodstains. I followed this blood-trail outside, and behind our house. The grass was long. I couldn’t guess which way he escaped. I thought he could go for ever, and never return. These thoughts triggered the pain I felt when I heard him cry. I returned home, weeping, but hoping to hear Ray knocking at the door, calling my name.

  This didn’t happen. The next few days passed, and still no Ray. Three more days went by without Ray at home. My hope faded after six months. Years went by. Sadly I never saw him again. This incident has stayed with me. Where did Ray go? What happened to him? This was the memory that haunts me now, as we search for the missing cattle.

  “Rita, I am not returning to our house tonight. I know Baas Jimmie will be mad.”

  “Wait, Betty, I have a plan.”

  “What is it, Rita?” I ask, hopelessly dragging my feet due to tiredness.

  “Betty?”

  “Huh?”

  “Could you listen to me carefully, please?”

  “I’m getting soaked, Rita. Come on, what’s the matter?” I murmur, feeling irritated and slowing down.

  “Let’s go back that way!” Rita says, pointing with her wet index finger.

  “Yeah, we could jump over that fence. And go through those bushes to avoid using the usual route home. In case someone is there to get us,” I suggest.

  “Yes,” agrees Rita.

  “We could stay in the bushes behind the dairy, until all lights go off and everybody is fast asleep. And then, we could walk quietly behind the shop to the stables. The young mare, pony, and donkey should be asleep. Also Ringo’s stable may be empty, and that would give us good shelter until tomorrow. We’ll see Janice on her way to school, and we’ll follow her as usual.”

  “Where shall we wash and get clean clothes from?” Rita asks me, compliantly.

  “We should be all right with what we’ve got on – no one will notice dirt,” I reply.

  “If they do, we can make up a story for them to believe. Everybody knows kids love messing about in the sand, and they do get filthy.”

  “We might be able to wash our faces from the duck-pond,” I suggest.

  “We should be fine,” agrees Rita.

  Oh my Lord, I have another long walk to school: out of the stables to the duck-pond, past the old cow-folds on Mr Grey’s farm. I go down the river, up to the footpath, and through the tall grass of the meadow – keeping a good distance away from Janice, my older sister, because she will send us back home. I don’t want that.

  Dad might be pleased to know that we got ourselves to school and may forgive us for not finding Baas’ cattle. He loves children who go to school after all, ‘after organising Baas Jimmie’s stock, though.’

  We follow our proposed route, and reach the stables safely. We make our beds on the floor using every filthy smelly rag we could find. We both cuddle to keep warm. I turn around, trying to sleep. I feel the cold, early-morning breeze. Horses’ blankets aren’t meant to warm humans. They have a rough texture, just good enough to stop the draught.

  I wake up. I must have been asleep just for a short time. My feet are freezing. I try warming them up by rubbing them with my hands; this doesn’t last. Therefore, I soon give in, and start sobbing uncontrollably, with tears running down my cheeks. I control my chattering teeth with difficulty. My nose gets blocked – I unblock it, carefully avoiding disturbing Rita. She is better off asleep.

  With my mind filled with hurtful thoughts, I ask myself several questions: What are we doing here? What is it about this farm-life? Why are my parents so attached to it? Do they really like this kind of life? Ho
w did my grandfather get to Skoonfontein? Why don’t we live in towns or cities? Does my dad like driving the cattle to the fields every day? Does he like milking the cows, ploughing, planting corn, hoeing, delivering milk and cream to dairies in Ladysmith?

  I’m tired of cleaning the dog-kennels with choking, gagging filth all over them. I hate watering the pigeon-loft, feeding the pigs in the sty and chickens in their shed, collecting the eggs from the hens, watching peacocks and turkeys walking around all day. Why spend my time learning about farm-life, if I can never own one?

  No, I’m sick and tired of this situation, I say to myself.

  I don’t want any more lingering about the farm, going from barn to barn, loading hay for horses on a wheelbarrow, watching ducklings and ducks swim in their pond all day, and mama mixing flour with yeast, salt, and water, kneading the dough and leaving it to rise before baking homemade bread from the Missus’s coal stove hot oven for them. I’ve had enough of Baas Jimmie screaming, at my family. This is disgusting!

  What good will these do for me? As I ask myself these questions, I hurt more, and feel internally bruised – not surprising for a ten-year-old farm-girl.

  I close my eyes, hoping to sleep again. I just can’t. I turn around to check on Rita. She’s fast asleep, snoring. The floor without a mattress and a saddle under my neck is hard. This keeps me awake for a little while.

  I hear a cough from the stables behind the wall. Could this be a man? My heart beats faster, and it hurts. No, it can’t be – not at this time, in the stables; who could this be? I dismiss my thoughts. I hear a shuffle and a cry from a deep voice appearing to be that of a man in trouble. Who could be around here at this time? I wonder. Now wide awake, I look across at the stars. Their light comes through the gap above the door, brightening the stable we’re in. Rita rolls over, at the same time as the man sneezes. This might have disturbed her from her sleep.

  She opens her eyes and sits up.

  “Rita!” I whisper, filled with fear.

  “Yeah!”

  “I think there’s a man in the stable next to us. He seems to be in trouble. He is crying – listen!”

  “What, Betty?” Rita stares at me, yawning, and then realises we could be in trouble again.

  “Shush!” I’m worried that this person might hear us and come over, so I ask her to listen carefully again. I’m too tired to tiptoe or go on the hay bales to peep. My heart aches, and I lack the courage to do this. Ignoring this disturbance, I whisper to Rita: “Do you know why we’re living here?” She doesn’t respond. I continue speaking.

  “Why don’t we move to townships in Queenstown, Somerset East, Worcester, Beaufort West and even Newcastle? Dad could get work in the diamond mines around Johannesburg. Life might be a lot better there.”

  The man coughs, and then sneezes again. He murmurs for a long time. I listen, hoping to hear what he says. The man starts crying again, saying, “I’m starving; I have no one to help me. It’s hard to be an orphan. Why did my mum die? Why did my dad leave me - only to suffer?” The cry of this man at this time disturbs me. I wonder who could this be, and why is he here? Men don’t cry. I heard this saying many times.

  Rita interrupts my thoughts, saying, “No, moving into townships is impossible. We have laws here. Your dad explained it all. We can’t just live where we like.”

  “What?” I ask, sternly surprised with what I hear.

  “We must obey the Natives Land Law of 1913, just two years before your dad was born. And the Natives Urban Areas Law that got through Parliament in 1923 is still active. It’s illegal for us to buy land from the Europeans, and also to live among them. Where would we get the money from to relocate, anyway? You know we are very poor. We shall need Baas and Missus to keep us here on their farm, and provide for our needs,” Rita spouts these facts in such an authoritative way, as if she is an agent.

  “Ah, you talk like the government now so you can join them if you like. So, where should we live then?” I ask, turning around to sit on my bottom.

  “We have certain areas reserved for the natives. By law, we should only live there, or be stuck here,” Rita replies. “We can’t do much about it. It’s the law. We must obey the laws. If we don’t, we go to prison. Your dad says this so often.”

  I put my head down, feeling powerless, and weep bitterly.

  “Laws…what are they for?”

  “Ha-ha, they are there to favour and protect certain people,” Rita laughs grimly.

  “Err, Rita?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I now know what I want in my life.”

  “What is it?”

  “I want to be clever. I’d like to be a teacher, like ‘Mistress’ at our school, and help people.”

  “You are joking. How will you do that? You need a lot of help yourself. Stop wasting your time.”

  “But for now, I’d prefer to be like Alvin, Edna and Harris.”

  “Why would you like to be like others, Betty?”

  “They have a better life than me. Jonny, their older brother works in Johannesburg. He sends them nice clothes and shoes. They wear them to school; and they look bright and happy. After school, they go home and kick their balls - real balls. They don’t wrap around old rags and stockings, and pretend it’s a ball, like us, and they have no sheep and goats to worry about, or their mummy telling them to feed their boss’ chickens. I want to be…”

  Suddenly, I hear the cockerel’s crow. So, it’s early morning, and very soon my mum will wake up to prepare morning coffee for Baas and Missus, and lay breakfast in the dining room for the whole family after that. Samson and Howard will be getting the tractors ready for ploughing. What will Dad do? Will he go look for the missing herd of cattle, or us?

  Some months later

  I like going to school: it’s fun, and enjoyable. I love reading and writing. My school is close to my home – about four miles. It’s a good walking distance on sunny days. I cope fairly well with it but it’s not like there is any other choice. Perhaps, authorities aim to make farm schools accessible to as many children of farm labourers as possible. I’m used to walking sometimes bare foot for hours. The only problem is that some days I get to school late, and this is not fun.

  Mr Parker punishes all the latecomers by the gate. We have to run several times as fast as we can around the field, until he is satisfied that we have learnt the ‘punctuality lesson’. I feel sad, though, when he chases the slower children, flogging them with his rubber-whip, like Baas Jimmie’s. I hear the screams of agony behind me, and know that Mr Parker is close by.

  “Mama, I must be in school early. I’d like to be there when the bell rings.” Although it’s a loud buzzing sound that makes me jump.

  “Get up earlier, then. Hurry up, and leave at sunrise.”

  “No, that’s too early!”

  “You want to be in school, when the bell goes, isn’t it? That’s the best way of doing that. Go to bed now.”

  As I walk away towards my bedroom, I hear Mummy calling my name. “Betty, is your homework done?”

  “Yes, Mum, I’ve done it. It was easy. It didn’t take me long.”

  “Go to sleep then. Good night!” Mum commands before disappearing into her bedroom. She soon returns and asks another question. “Is your uniform ready? There’s no time to do much in the morning.”

  “Yes, Mum,” I reply, yawning from tiredness.

  Knowing my mum, she will only move away when she is sure that I’ve done it. She always says that urgent things must come first and then the rest can follow. I’m working hard to get this right.

  “Don’t worry, Mum. Teachers won’t check uniforms. We’re busy practising for our physical education competition and English orals,” I say, hoping to get rid of her quickly.

  “Betty, do your best,” says Mum, walking away.

  “I will, don’t worry, Mum.”

  I lie on my bed and find it difficult to sleep as I think about what I must do to be selected for the Orals. Only the top three ch
ildren in our class will do English oral examinations externally. This ensures Mr Parker’s teaching practice is moderated. I’ve done very well this year and I should get in. English is my favourite subject after all. I’m good at reciting all the poems but I must stick with Julius Caesar.

  The following morning I get up early to prepare for school. I walk all the way alone today. As I enter the school-gate, the bell rings for the start of the lessons. I run quickly to my classroom and sit down. It’s registration time.

  “Good morning, Dennis,” says Mr Parker, lowering his chin, opening his eyes widely to look above his brown-framed glasses which rest on his nose. Dennis gets up, replying promptly, “Good morning, Mr Parker.”

  Mr Parker calls Harold, Dorothy, Paul and then, “Good morning, Betty Baker.” I shake my body, pretending to be getting up. “Present, Mr Parker,” I reply with attitude, hoping to amuse the class. I regret my actions.

  Most children start laughing loudly. Worried, I look around and notice that some children are quiet after all. They didn’t get my joke, perhaps. Mr Parker puts down his glasses on the table staring at me. “What’s amusing?” he asks in his loud croaky voice. The class responds with silence, and then starts to murmur loudly. I sense trouble. Everybody knows Mr Parker’s immediate reaction when upset. So, I get up as I should have done and look down, feeling ashamed. Mr Parker bangs his hand on the table, screaming, “Silence!” Suddenly, everybody in class goes quiet.

  “Tell us your story, Anne Barnsley. What’s amusing?” This time Mr Parker is holding up his glasses, nibbling on them.

  Anne shouts loudly, “The names, Barker and Parker rhyme, Sir.”

  “Yes, Anne, that’s correct.”

  Our teacher appears disappointed, after realising that Anne isn’t silly after all. She remembers the rhyming-word lesson we had yesterday.

  We start the English lesson straight after registration. I hear my name and realise I’ve been called to recite. I get up and stand far from my desk, allowing myself enough space to move around and act. I know my recitation by heart, so I recite from memory: