Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  The school is quiet, as most children have gone home. I walk slowly towards the school gate, down the hill and across the river. I jump over the stream, and I keep going my usual way, but not to catch up with my schoolmates today. I reach home and go straight to the kitchen to meet my mum.

  “Hello, Mum,” I say, sitting down on the chair.

  “Hello, Betty. You took longer to get back today. Is everything all ri…?”

  Before she finishes the sentence, I burst out into a loud cry, like a pig going for slaughter – a bitter cry.

  “What happened?” says my mum, looking at me shocked. “Betty?”

  I keep quiet, and continue crying. “Who attacked you? Did you get involved in a fight? Who could do this – beat you up like this? I can only help if you tell me. Oh my God! Betty!” my mum cries bitterly, covering her eyes that are filled with sadness. She can hardly look at my face. She drags her feet about the kitchen, wandering aimlessly. I look at her face, imagining her inner pain.

  “Betty, did you get involved in a fight? Betty, tell me, please?”

  After a while, I stop crying. The silence is remarkable: Mum is just looking at me, waiting for my answer.

  “It’s my teacher, Mr Lyndon – he beat me, Mum,” I say, wiping off tears and mucus, coughing and blowing my nose.

  “What did you do to him?”

  “Someone accused me of flatulence.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “No, Mama – I’d never do that in public.”

  “Tell me the truth, Betty.”

  “Mum, I didn’t do it. Believe me, God knows this.”

  Looking at my mum, I could guess her feelings. I’m her daughter and in pain. She is hurt. I can sense her internal cry. However, what can she do? There is absolutely nothing, unfortunately.

  The teachers have authority to do as they like, in the name of ‘educational interest’, to see their children succeed. Mum tries to wipe off the dry blood from my wounds, and gives me tablets to stop the pain. She serves me dinner, and then sends me to bed.

  “You can’t go back to school until you look and feel better,” she says, watching me walking slowly towards my bedroom door. She follows me into my bedroom, helping me to change into my pyjamas. She assists me into bed, tucking me in. She kisses me goodnight on my forehead, and closes the door behind her.

  I don’t mind being away from school this time, because I have my textbooks in my suitcase to study at home. Whether my parents contacted the principal or not, I’ll never know.

  My parents are concerned about my future, so they will encourage me to return to school, when I feel better. In spite of the handful of brutal teachers at school, I still miss my friends and I look forward to being with them again.

  Two days later

  I get up to look for a book from the bookshelf. Missus gives us old books when she’s clearing up their study room. So, we have many books. I choose a fiction book, and then return to bed, and start reading it for pleasure.

  It gets darker. I get out of bed again, searching for the matches to light the lamp. I realise that it has run out of paraffin. So, I light a candle instead.

  We always keep some candles for emergency, like tonight. The candlelight, although it is also not bright enough for reading, will have to do for now. I check it’s fixed properly in the candlestick, and leave it on the old dresser, that we got from Missus. I really like her: she gives us many things. So, the light shines from behind, as I lie down on my back, reading.

  I feel tired, and drift into a deep sleep.

  I wake up hearing my mum’s hysterical yelling as she uncovers my blankets.

  “Betty, wake up! Wake up! Fire!”

  When I open my eyes, I see flames spreading rapidly all over me. With my heart beating faster, I jump out of bed, screaming. The room is dark, and full of thick smoke. My face and body feels very hot. Inhaling the smoke through the nose is difficult and my throat has a kind of burning sensation as my rasping breath is loud in my ears. I’m suffocating, struggling to breathe, as my pyjamas are on fire. My mum pours a bucket of water on me. The flames disappear. She pushes me out to the living room while my dad is doing all he can, extinguishing the remaining flames. After a long battle with the fire, everything goes quiet. The clothes on the dresser have burned to ashes. I am lucky not to have died in this fire – what a narrow escape!

  There are no fire-fighters to call on for help around Skoonfontein. The nearest Fire Brigade station is in Burgersdorp, quite a distance away. Our house is also very far from the Big House, so we can’t even tell Baas Jimmie and Missus. It’s better that way, though, because their concern is bound to be for their property. I may have got my parents into terrible trouble, inviting brutal beatings from Baas perhaps.

  My dad hates it when Baas hits him, and treats him like a child. He’s already told my mum, if this happens again, we’ll have to move out. What happens if they fail to extinguish that fire? I may have burned down Baas’ servants’ quarters, and I myself too.

  The burnt bedding is a constant reminder of that disastrous night. My parents didn’t beat me up, just because the accident happened while I was reading a book, something they are fond of. “Education is your only inheritance, Betty,” Mum always tells me.

  Therefore, I strive to learn new things daily, and I always try to achieve my best. I have hope for a better future.

  One unforgettable Friday

  Teacher Russell Hamburg is a man of average height, well-built, with a big tummy. He has dark hair and a long, scruffy, clumsy beard. His eyebrows are thick, and he frowns, as he quickly marks our Mathematics test books.

  “Right, when you hear your name, get your book and go outside,” he says. He calls thirty-nine names, and finally says, “Betty Baker.” I get up from my desk, and walk towards him to get my book. He appears upset. I don’t know why; however, my guess is that many of us have failed the test. He is the last person to vacate the classroom. He stands by the door, his large brown eyes wide.

  “Thirty out of thirty!” he calls out. Steven, Walter, Virginia and Gloria walk towards him by the door, show their books and go in.

  “Twenty-nine!” Martin, Maria and Suzanne walk towards the door. They put their books on the floor. My teacher picks up the cane he got from prison recently, bends it and hits in the air to test it.

  Martin goes first. He lifts up his right hand towards the teacher. “Take it,” the teacher says, beating him. He receives a lash on the palm of his hand, and goes in.

  “Next!” calls teacher Russell. Maria goes, and then Suzanne. Those with two errors get two lashes and so on…

  I’m still outside, shivering. I’m looking at my classmates, crying aloud bitterly. Those who fail to hold hands up properly don’t escape. They are beaten everywhere. My turn comes.

  “Five.” I walk forward, ready to receive twenty-five lashes. I put my book down and stretch my right hand up towards my back with my fingers pointing backwards. I really don’t want him to hurt my fingers. My teacher flogs me, until I lose count. When I fail to keep my hand up, he hits me anywhere. I cry, cuddling myself like a ball on the ground. He stops when he is satisfied.

  November 1962

  Our class is learning to write English essays. We edit our own work in the presence of our teacher, with a cane in her hand. It’s my turn to read my story out loudly and clearly. She expects me to identify and correct my own mistakes. This is very difficult for me, because English is my third language. For every mistake I fail to spot, she strikes me hard. By the time I finish reading my story, I’m groaning in pain. My book is wet with tears as I return to my seat. Most of the children are crying today, as we have made many mistakes in our stories. We are all ordered to resubmit by the next morning. Next day, I’m first to arrive at school, followed by my teacher.

  “Betty, bring me your composition book,” Mistress Shirley Copperfield commands.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I reply, hoping for the best. I take out my exercise book from my boo
kcase. “Here, Mistress,” I say, handing over my book with a smile. She takes, and marks it without my involvement this time. That’s my reward for arriving early on that day.

  January 1963

  It’s the beginning of the academic year in South Africa. I’m in our house at Skoonfontein. My end of Standard Six results arrived yesterday: I’ve passed, and will definitely be going to Blythewood with Sharon Hurst, my friend, to start in Form One. I call her ‘Shah’. We’ve been best friends ever since I started at Skoonfontein Primere Skool.

  “Betty, you must pack your clothes.”

  “Okay, Mum. I can’t wait to travel with Shah and her parents to Blythewood High School.”

  “No, you aren’t going there.”

  “What?” My heart sinking, I look at my mum.

  “You’re going to Butterworth High School.”

  Immediately, my eyes feel up with tears. “No, Mummy, I didn’t apply to go there. I want to go to Blythewood with my friend, Shah.”

  My parents don’t consider children’s views. I have no choice. They have made their decision, and I know it’s final.

  I pack my uniform, clothes, canned stuff, spices and tomato sauce in my metal trunk. I fill the mattress cover with soft hay from the garden, and roll it into a small bundle, ready to catch the 5.30 a.m. bus to Butterworth High, a residential church school. I prepare another provision trunk for a week - putting in cakes, bread, meat, squash, etcetera, from Missus. I go to bed earlier.

  I board the bus at about 5.30 a.m., arriving at the hostel six hours later. The matron shows me my dormitory. Unpacking my clothes, hanging them on the wall, and making up my bed, I have no clues what to expect in a combined secondary and high school.

  As days go by, more students arrive, and our dormitories are filling up. Every so often I meet a new face. On this particular day, after supper, Sister Fatima, one of the old comers, summons all the newcomers to the Common Room.

  When all of us are in, Sister Fatima shuts the door, and then says, “I welcome you to Butterworth High School. I hope you will enjoy your studies, and learn about the activities here. You will be called ‘Tails’ until the 1st of April. This is a special day called ‘Fools’ Day’.” She pauses. “Until then, you are not allowed to look at the faces of the ‘oldcomers’. If you do, they will come around you and say, ‘Eyes down, Tail!’ Don’t be offended with this. It’s the common practice for every newcomer. The best thing to do is not to be ‘cheeky’; otherwise, they’ll make you jump up and down for ages. That’s enough for tonight. Good night, Tails,” Fatima, the head-girl says.

  “Good night, Sister,” we all respond in a chorus. She holds her thumb up – a sign for ‘okay’ – and leaves us.

  I return to my dormitory, having mixed feelings about the treatment. Will I cope? I hang my jacket on the wall, fold the rest of my clothes, and put them in my suitcase. I put on my pyjamas and get into bed. I stay awake, thinking. The lights go off.

  The waking-up bell rings at 5.00 a.m., the next day. I sit up, and one of the prefects starts singing the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’ I join in. Some prefects walk around between the beds looking for ‘offenders’ - those who aren’t sitting up and singing during prayers.

  As we sing, ‘Amen’, I jump out of bed quickly, and rush outside to collect my water, which I hid in the nearby bushes. We aren’t allowed to keep it inside the dormitories. I can’t delay getting out, in case someone steals my water. I get to the bathroom to wash myself. Good gracious, I have space - but the bathroom starts filling up as I’m about to leave.

  I return to the dormitory to make up my bed. I ensure the four corners are pointed, and the bed is not descending in the middle. This is very difficult to do with my hay-mattress, but I manage well in the end. All the beds are covered with white bedspreads, or white sheets.

  I put on my new school uniform – a white shirt, a pleated gym-dress, a gold tie with black stripes, and a gold girdle around my waist. I wear my black and gold striped jacket, black socks and shoes with laces. I go outside to brush my teeth. Prefects are watching every move in this quiet and tense environment.

  At 6.00 a.m. the lining-up bell rings, and I go outside ready for breakfast. Everyone is quiet. You could hear a penny drop. The whistle goes, and the students walk all the way, down the slope, jumping over the furrows to the dining hall. The prefects are walking by our sides carrying notebooks and pens, recording offenders’ names whenever necessary.

  The dining hall is a very old, unused stable, built with stones. I walk in. Before sitting down, I put my dish and mug on the table. Everyone does the same. Our tables are long wooden sheets placed on triangular prism stands. When everybody is in, again one of the prefects starts to sing the thanks giving song. I close my eyes and sing:

  “I thank you, for the food we eat

  I thank you, for the world so sweet.

  I thank you, for the birds that sing.

  I thank you Lord for everything.

  Amen.”

  We all sit down. The waiters come in, some carrying buckets of cornmeal porridge and hot water with sugar. Others are carrying trays with brown bread. This is done very fast. The prefect bangs the table, giving a signal to go outside to line up again. This meal is enough to keep me full until dinnertime at about 3.00 p.m.

  The lining-up bell for going to school goes. I join the queue, a very long one, although we are standing in pairs. The prefects inspect if shoes are shining, and we are in full uniform. Breaking all these rules is a punishable offence. I am not very good at shining my shoes. However, will she notice?

  I watch her walking slowly towards me. I hold my breath hoping she will walk past. I’m wrong. She stops by me.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Betty,” I reply, my legs and voice shaking.

  “Speak louder, girl – what’s your name?”

  “Betty Baker, sister,” I say, raising my voice. I remember the warning – not to be cheeky. She writes my name in the Punishment Book. We walk quietly all the way to school. Then the prefect shouts, “Dismiss!”

  We hang about the school grounds waiting for the bell to ring. Some children are completing their holiday-work, while others lean against the wall chatting.

  “Betty, you should use old stockings to shine your shoes,” Dora advises me.

  “Okay, thanks – I didn’t know that,” I reply, with my voice still trembling.

  The bell rings for the start of the school session. We all go to the Assembly. Mr Jerry Water, the Principal, comes out of his office carrying a Bible, and reads, “St Matthew Chapter 5 from verse 3 to 10:

  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven….

  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.” Then he sings, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  We all join in until we sing, “Amen.”

  He says, “I’d like to welcome all the new students here to Butterworth High School. I hope you will enjoy your studies, work hard, and achieve your education. The teachers are here to teach you, and you have come to learn. We have rules, and you must obey them. Your class-teachers will call you. Follow them to your classroom; and have a good day!”

  I listen carefully for my name to be called. When hearing, “Betty Baker,” I walk quickly to our line to join my classmates. Our class-teacher leads us to our classroom. I sit quietly at the front desk. The old students bring the exercise-books and textbooks for those who have paid their book-fees in full. Baas paid my dad in advance. So, my family will be receiving a reduced income, while paying back the loan. I get all the books required for Form One.

  I look across to my right-hand side. A girl is sitting alone at her desk, a bit further away from me. I approach her.

  “Hey, why don’t you bring your books over here, and sit next to me,” I say, confidently.

  “Yes, thank you, I could do,” she says, picking up her ‘bookcase’ and moving to sit next to me. She quickly op
ens it to get a book out.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her, my voice loud in my eagerness to make friends

  “Charlotte,” she answers softly, but fidgeting with her book as she asks. “What’s yours?”

  “Betty Baker.”

  “So, where do you come from?” I ask her firmly, looking at her face hoping to get her full attention. This works out. She turns slightly looking at my eyes.

  “My home is at Soweto Township in Johannesburg. And what about you?”

  “I come from Skoonfontein Farm near Burgersdorp – Baas Jimmie’s.”

  We talk for some time, getting to know each other better. I get on well with her. I’m happy that I now have a friend, and by the end of the day, I call her ‘Lottie’. The bell rings for home time. We walk together all the way. Lottie tells me all about her family - that they work for the Europeans.

  I’m interested in her talk, as we have similarities. I had thought those who work for the Europeans in cities have a better life than the farm-workers do. I want to hear more. I have many questions for Lottie, but I need to wait. We have time anyway.

  Lottie and I always look out for each other. We fetch water from the river, hand-wash and iron our clothes together.

  In May 1963

  “Lottie, I’m sleeping by you tonight,” I say.

  “All right, Betty,” she agrees happily. I return to my dormitory, change into my pyjamas, and go to Lottie’s dormitory. Whispering under the blankets, she tells me about her family life - her parents and the treatment they receive from their bosses.

  One of the incidents that strikes me is about what happened to her family one morning. She keeps quiet for a little while; I encourage her to tell me about it.

  “My mum was doing domestic work for the Europeans, who lived in a very Big House with a garage and servants’ quarters at the back. I was in the servants’ quarters. My dad was helping the Baas’ son, Graham, repair one of their cars.”