Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!

  I’ve come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

  The evil that men do lives after them…

  I recite all the verses, changing the tone and pace of my voice, as I say the last two lines:

  My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, until it comes back to me.

  I end with a sad expression on my face for the loss of Caesar. My classmates clap their hands. Mr Parker gets up, nodding and saying, “That’s good!” However, I don’t need anybody to tell me it was excellent; I’m already convinced it’s great.

  Mr Parker says, “Very good” again. He sends me to a Standard Five class with over forty children to show them how to recite a poem. I leave our class, smiling, and knock at the door. The Standard Five class teacher welcomes me in.

  “Yes, Betty Baker, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr Parker has sent me here to recite my poem, if that’s all right with you, Sir?”

  “Okay, you go ahead,” he says. “Could you all stop what you’re doing, and listen?” This time, as I’m unfamiliar with any of the children, I recite the verse even better. Again, I receive a big round of applause. I leave the class, feeling good about myself. I return to my seat, and Mr Parker cannot control himself: he bounces joyfully. He sends me to the Standard Six classroom to show me off yet again. I go and do even better than before. Today, I’ve received attention for my hard work. I return to the class, and thank my teacher.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he says, grinning. As I turn around to sit down, he calls me back. “Betty, come and see me before going home today.” I’m not frightened this time. Surely, he should have good news for me. So I do as I’m told. He gives me a letter for my Dad in a blue sealed envelope.

  “Make sure your dad gets this letter today - or else…” he says.

  “Yes, Sir,” I nod, receiving it with a smile on my face. I know I know very well what he would do if I disobeyed him.

  Believing I’m carrying good news to my parents, I take the letter and run away. I try to catch up with my school mates, who come from the farm on the other side of Baas Jimmie’s.

  I run down the hill, cross the river, pass the church, cross the stream and catch up with them. We walk together past the tennis courts, and around the foot of the mountain. All the way home, my heart is filled with joy, but I keep it to myself. My mind is in an unusual state – I don’t often feel like this. This is not a state of mind I often experience.

  “Teacher’s pet!” John teases me.

  I don’t react badly to this. Instead, I respond with a cool smile. I reach my home, and wave good-bye to them as they continue with their journey.

  I go straight into my bedroom, and change into my home-clothes. Then I go to the kitchen to look for food. My Mum asks me to serve myself and as I finish eating my food, my Dad arrives back from the farm. I can’t wait to give him a cup of tea, his meal and the letter. I know he wouldn’t welcome any news from me, until after he’s eaten.

  Finally, he opens his letter, and reads it aloud. It says:

  Dear Mr Baker,

  It’s my pleasure to inform you that Betty has been selected to represent our school at the English Oral Competitions in town. I’ll go with her next Friday; please make sure she gets to school by 7 o’clock. She should wear the full school uniform and have her packed lunch. We shall walk from school at 7.30 am and should be back by 5.30 pm.

  Yours faithfully,

  Mr O. Parker

  “Well done, Betty, keep up the good work!” Dad says. That’s the only reward I get from him, yet it means so much to me. I can’t ask for more: a hug, a kiss on my cheek, a seaside holiday, ‘Well Done!’ stickers, or certificates of achievement. However, I should motivate myself because it’s about my future. I could give myself a pat on the back if I like. I smile.

  “It seems a thorn is stuck, piercing deeply into the sole of my foot. When it is untouched, I’m okay. I can limp around, getting on with daily activities, just like other people do. I force a smile, as nothing amuses me. When something touches my foot with the thorn, accidentally or on purpose, it bleeds and I feel intensive pain from within, leading me to cry. Around the pierced part of my foot, my flesh has grown almost covering the thorn. Therefore, I can tolerate the hurt, and I’m accustomed to it. However, beneath I have a deep oozing wound.”

  from Betty’s Diary, 5th December, 1973

  Chapter 3

  Ups and Downs

  February 1961

  It’s 10.00 pm. I’m in bed reading my favourite comic ‘SHE’, struggling to see the words in the dim light from the tiny paraffin lamp, made from a baby-food tin and a wick. I’ve been reading the series of this comic about a woman’s self-defence tactics. I find her powers and high kick absolutely fascinating. I feel drained. My eyes are red, nodding every so often, but I’m determined to read it until the end.

  “Betty, why’s your lamp still on at this time?” Mum asks me kindly, pushing the door, and walking into my bedroom. “Aren’t you going to school tomorrow?”

  I stop reading, thinking about what to say. Then I reply, “I’m going, Mum - you know that I like school.”

  My mum, humming her favourite tune, opens the drawer of the chest, looking for something. She takes out a towel, turns around, and blows out the lamp. It gets pitch dark instantly.

  “Good night, Betty,” she says, leaving my room, and then shutting the door behind her.

  “Good night, Mummy,” I say, closing my eyes, hoping to sleep.

  I stay awake for a little while, thinking deeply about the comic. I wish to be like this woman, and kick everyone who hurts me. I think about my first target, imagining myself releasing my high kick on his chest. Due to his height, I’d have to approach from a distance, skip and then deliver my kick that would undoubtedly bring him down. Hopefully, he’d respect people.

  Suddenly, my heart leaps with joy as I remember tomorrow’s school timetable: I’m ready for the History test. I know the dates we’ll be tested on - the arrival of Jan Van Riebeeck at the Cape in 1652, the second Anglo-Boer War 1899 until 1902, and so on. The afternoon is cool, with Mistress Marlene Overton’s needlework lesson. She’s fine. Without realising, I fall into a deep sleep.

  The next morning, I jump out of bed to make the morning tea for my parents in the kitchen. I like them to have it before my mum goes to work in the Big House, so that she has no desire to have theirs. That’s what I do when Rita’s gone back to the boarding school.

  When the kettle boils, I fill the washing basin with warm water to wipe myself with the flannel before putting on cream and combing my hair. It’s easy to comb it because it’s soft. This is the requirement for boys and girls in our school. I prepare myself breakfast – bread and tea, and then walk quickly to school.

  I enjoy all the morning lessons. The bell rings for lunchtime. My friend, Marcia Bush, has brought a bag full of fried dumplings. I help her sell them, and we both eat the leftovers.

  The bell rings - it’s the start of the afternoon session. I wash my hands thoroughly and quickly before rushing into our needlework room. Mistress Overton is already waiting in front of the classroom.

  “C’mon girls. We’ve got a lot to cover today!” she commands.

  I join the queue from the end. All the girls are holding their hands up high, ready to show the teacher that they are clean, as we walk inside. She always sends back anyone whose hands are dirty.

  I’m surprised. We aren’t told off today, for anything. Usually, she has a go at us, for getting there late, or for whatever reason she finds at that time. We all sit down quietly, waiting for further instructions.

  “Could the monitors give out sewing please?” Mistress Overton asks.

  Both Loretta and Constance get up, go to the sewing cupboard and give out our bags. They then sit down. Miss Overton introduces the lesson.

  “Today you are going to learn about ‘gathering’. Gathering is different from making pleats,” she
says, holding her demonstration bag up. “Start with backstitches.” She demonstrates on her bag, but I’m too far away to see what she’s doing. I’m sitting at the end of the second row of desks. I can’t dare to mention this, because she would scream at me. I’m certainly very frightened of her. It’s difficult to know what her next move will be. She laughs for one minute and the next minute she stares at you, and shouts. Mistress continues:

  “When you have sewn through to the end, come to show me,” she commands.

  I pick up my bag, sew the first stitch, and then I remember to backstitch. So, I carefully go over the same stitch once again, before sewing through to the end. I follow her instructions precisely. Mistress will be pleased with my work, I think, as I get out of my seat to show her. I join the long queue from the back, as usual.

  My turn comes, and I give her my bag, with a gentle smile of satisfaction. She picks it up, looks at it, and then pulls the thread from the end to make gathers. Sadly, the whole thread comes off. She never says a word. She just slaps me very hard on my left cheek, and throws the bag in my face.

  My cheek feels very hot. I see the bright flickering lights, as I stagger about a bit, finding it difficult to see. I stand still, confused, while Miss attends to Constance and other girls. I’m very good at controlling my anger. I manage this well this time around.

  After a little while, I pick up my bag to return to my seat. My eyes are flooded with tears. I try to hold them back, but fail. I lower my head, weeping silently, wiping off my salty tears with my palms. I do this quietly to avoid provoking my teacher to anger. She’d go berserk if I cry aloud. Sitting down, I wish I was dead. However, I pretend to be fine, hiding my broken heart.

  I’m thinking, Mistress this is your entire fault. You didn’t explain the purpose of backstitch, and what would happen if we didn’t do it securely. Should you have told us, surely I would have done it properly. I wish to explain, but I can’t. Children aren’t allowed to prove adults wrong, especially their teachers. I stare at her. The sorrow is unbearable within me.

  The bell rings for home-time. I hand in my bag to Connie and walk towards the door. Before stepping out of the door, I turn and stare at Miss, who seems to be ignoring me. I return to my classroom to grab my school bag, and walk all the way home, alone. I am not keen on catch-up with other children, as we usually do. I greet my dad by the gate of the Big House, “Hello, Dad.” I walk past without saying much. My dad likes talking to me, finding out the day’s news.

  “Have you got any good news today, Betty?” he asks me, hesitantly.

  “No, there’s none today, Dad,” I reply, walking away quickly.

  “What has been good today?” he insists.

  I reply, “I’m sorry, Dad, I can’t say much about school. You know that I like school, generally.”

  “So, what happened actually? I need to know Betty.”

  “I’ll tell you later, Dad. I want a good future when I’m old. I have to put up with this kind of school life. I can’t stop going to school. If I do, I’ll miss out on education. That will be bad for me, because I’ll have to do hard labour for the South African Europeans. This is the worst thing I could ever do.” My voice fades, slowly whispering the last words in the sentence. My dad senses something has gone terribly wrong with me.

  I turn back, and run to my dad, screaming loudly, “Daddy!” and throwing myself into his arms. Tears mixed with mucus dribble down my chin. I bury my face under my hands, closing my eyes tightly as I take a deep breath, controlling myself.

  “It’s all right, Betty. Please don’t cry. This hurts me,” my dad says, hugging me. This works. I stop crying, and cling to him, knowing very well that he’s unable to protect me, for now.

  In October, the same year

  We are in our History class revising question papers, preparing for end-of-year external examinations. I am sitting on the front row, my usual place in this class, to avoid my teacher. He asks the children sitting at the back too many questions, perhaps to encourage their participation. I’m happier when he leaves me alone, and takes no notice when I’m not paying attention.

  Feeling proud of himself, he usually says, “In the future, you will remember me for helping you define your careers.” He enjoys parading in front of the class. Mister Lyndon, a tall man with a hunch-back, bald with a long scruffy greyish beard, smells of some kind of odour from the tobacco he smokes through his pipe. He is unpopular with most of the children.

  Slowly, he makes a few steps towards a wide-opened window; a cold breeze comes through. Grinning slightly, his forehead crinkles. He raises his eyebrows, creasing it more. He does this, when he is very upset.

  I take a deep breath, suppressing the fear in me. I have no reason to be afraid. I stare at him striding from around the window to the door of the classroom. Suddenly, he turns around. “Who made that noise?” he asks aggressively, in his deep voice.

  Most children ignore him; others laugh loudly, provoking him further. Vincent Hunter even bangs both hands on his desk, until he wobbles in the aisle with his eyes full of tears from laughing.

  “Children, tell me, who caused this bad smell?” he asks again.

  The class is chaotic, with everyone in denial. All I could hear is:

  “It’s not me! It’s not me!”

  “Why look at me like that?”

  “Don’t you dare to try to accuse me!”

  Some children have their hands on their noses, and others are waving their books in front of their faces, trying to keep the smell away from them.

  “Someone with bad manners did this,” Mr Lyndon says, looking threateningly at Patricia sitting next to me.

  “No, Sir, it’s not me!” exclaims Patricia Paddington in her high-pitched voice.

  “You are going to tell me who it is,” Mr Lyndon commands, looking at his stumpy stick, moving his hand around, feeling and bending it. Shuddering from a wave of fear, I put both my hands on the desk, and then on my lap, feeling uncomfortable. His heavy breathing along with his ugly appearance is unbearable.

  “Are you going to tell me the truth?” Sadly, no one responds.

  “You have no right to interfere with my work,” he insists in his efforts to find the culprit. He makes his last dramatic move, and then turns around sharply before reaching the door.

  “Right, I know what to do,” he says, walking towards the first desk of the front row, rolling up his sleeves. “Okay, children you have a choice – to tell me the truth, or remain silent about this for ever.”

  As he is about to hit Terence Rook, sitting at the start of the first row, and continue beating everyone else, his usual practice, someone shouts from the back, “Sir, it’s Betty Baker!” My God! I turn around to see who calls my name, but I can’t tell or recognise her voice either. Everybody appears cool and innocent.

  “No, teacher, it’s not me!” I plead. It’s too late.

  Shivering, I watch teacher Lyndon’s next move through the corner of my eyes, my stomach lurching violently. I feel virtually defenceless. Already in tears, I see no escape in continuing defending myself. It’s useless anyway. He doesn’t listen to children. He walks towards me in silence. His eyes are opened wide as saucers. My anticipation of his next action is right.

  He whacks me repeatedly on my shoulders with his knobbly stick. I respond by looking at him in silence. I feel a rain of lashes from this stick on my chest, head and face. With my eyes in floods of tears, I get up. By this time, he is hitting me everywhere throughout my body. I can’t cry. I try to shield my eyes and head with my hands, as my teacher repeatedly hits me. I hope he is going to stop, but he doesn’t. I move backwards towards the door. I can hear a roar of laughter from my classmates.

  He continues beating me until I am outside the classroom.

  “Silly girl!” he says, shutting the door with full force behind him, leaving me outside like a dog in an African village. I stand with my back by the wall for a while. When my eyes start watering, I stare deeply holding my tears
until they flow, first gradually. I then let go, just like some babies do, constantly wiping off my tears with my white shirt’s sleeves. As my legs start aching, I sit down on my bottom.

  Engaged in deep thoughts, I fail to understand the reasons for the suffering of an innocent child like me. I know children aren’t allowed to let out wind – it’s bad manners – my teachers told me that. When adults do it, children aren’t allowed to laugh – it’s horrible, and I know this too. I always play by the rules, although I don’t sometimes agree with them.

  I wouldn’t do it. And even today, I, Betty Baker, confirm I didn’t do it. I defend my innocence. Through this experience, I learned that the innocent children could suffer in a similar way as bad boys do.

  Teacher Lyndon has failed to conduct his investigation properly before causing me such pain. What shall I do? I look at my arms, with visible stripes. Anyone can see where the stick has hit. I have cuts and bruises, and I’m bleeding. I bury my face under my hands, crying again. I have no clue what my face looks like.

  The bell rings - it’s time to go home. Frightened of what teacher Lyndon might do when he appears through the door, I remain outside until the last child has left the classroom. My teacher re-appears from the door, staring at me. He walks past me, and then turns around, shaking his index finger, pointing and shouting, “Never again, Betty Baker, do you understand me, you silly girl?” I don’t reply, but look at him with my swollen eyes full of pain and sorrow. He walks on slowly, until he eventually disappears around the next building. I see him no more.

  I return to my classroom, put my books in my bookcase and rush out. Am I coming back here tomorrow? Several thoughts cross my mind. I remember that I dearly want education, so I must be prepared to get it at whatever cost. What kind of education am I getting? I ask myself this question, knowing very well: it’s the education that the natives get, that is inferior to the education of the Coloureds and Europeans in South Africa.