Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  “Eugene, you’ve given me one ticket. Where’s the other one?” Mum asks, appearing confused. She has been travelling on the buses, but without me.

  “Sorry, Aunty, I issue tickets to adults only.” I can see my mum’s not pleased with this response.

  “Don’t worry, Mama - there seems to be little or no place for children in this world,” I say, sadly.

  “Oh well,” says my mum, shrugging her shoulders. She gestures, ‘No’, shaking her head. The bus driver appears to ignore Eugene’s conduct.

  At the next bus stop, another passenger gets in, and then it can’t hold any more. It drives past other bus stops. I see Eugene holding his left fist up, tapping his right palm into it signalling ‘Bus Full’ to those who might have been waiting there for hours. I wish I could give them my place and walk to town. I’ve done this several times before.

  I see the tall trees on both sides of the road, and know we’re nearly there. The main road is broad, with shops on both sides. On the right-hand side, there is a petrol station and a restaurant called Dees á la Carte, written in big black letters on the wall behind the blue and white striped canopy.

  The bus carries on up to the bus rank, and then stops. It’s busy, as usual, with some traders rushing to the bus door to sell fruit to the passengers getting off the bus. All the traders are calling out loudly, trying to persuade us to buy their products.

  “Peaches, reduced to three for ten cents now!”

  “Sweet and juicy oranges to quench your thirst - only two cents each!”

  Men and women, old and young, are all about their business selling their fruit. I look around this crowded and busy bus terminal, with more buses coming while others leave.

  We get off the bus quickly, ignoring all the traders as they push through trying to sell to us. My mouth waters as my eye catches the ripe yellowish peaches and their wonderful smell. There’s no chance of having any: my Mum has to ensure the money goes a long way for the essentials.

  I look at other things of interest around me, but continue walking. After a little while, I hear Mum shout, “Betty, hurry up!” I’m not surprised - she always does this. I’m used to her going on and on.

  Today’s weather is brilliant – scorching sun, with a blue sky and no cloud. I’m excited about gathering facts for writing my composition – My town visit. So, I take note of everything I see. I hope that my teacher will be pleased. I’m excited, but I have to hide this from my mum, and continue pretending to be ill.

  Cars pass, and sometimes hoot to people crossing the streets anywhere, as there are no pedestrian or pelican crossings. Would it be possible to have these road markings on a gravel road? Traffic lights could control the traffic, but there are none.

  I walk a few steps forward, and then I stop to make some notes. I look around to find that my mum has left me behind. I run to catch up with her as she yells, again, “Betty, hurry up!”

  Suddenly, my mum stops to greet Uncle Elvis and Aunty Lisa. They live on another farm far away from us. They haven’t seen each other for a very long time and they start to talk, laugh and pat each other’s shoulders for a lengthy time. I quickly become bored.

  “Good, old friends,” I say to myself, pleased to turn around and see what really happens in town, and make notes. I won’t see everything, of course but I should see enough to write about when I return home.

  Aunty and Uncle join us as we walk towards the Dees á la Carte Restaurant. I see many people walking about, but I’m more interested in the lighter-skinned ones - the Europeans and Coloureds, like me. We continue walking. I can’t keep up with them, so I’m often left a bit behind. My mum notices this, and turns around, shouting impatiently.

  “Come on, Betty, hurry up!” She grabs me hard by my hand. “We should be at the doctors by now!” Mum says, hoping to get me moving.

  “Yes, Mum,” I say, increasing my speed. I’m so attracted to what I see, I start dragging my feet again. Two younger European girls, around the same age as me, walk past. They are wearing flip-flops, blue t-shirts with straps and shorts, eating ice-cream which dribbles down the side of their mouths as they lick their lips. I look at them and my mouth begins to water. “You can’t have it, Betty,” I whisper to myself.

  I can’t even taste it: it’s a luxury. I must stop being greedy, I tell myself. I continue walking, but I can’t take my eyes off them. Mum seems to have a problem. She grabs me by my hand again, a bit rougher this time, and walks very fast, especially considering her sore knee. She holds my hand tightly, stopping me from admiring this beautiful town and lovely community.

  We reach the Surgery on time; I can tell by seeing the very long queue. It is impossible to arrange appointments in advance, and the doctor can’t send away people who just turn up. We have to live with this, so we join the slow queue until our turn comes.

  When we enter the Surgery, I sit on the chair by my mum. The tall, bald European doctor who is wearing a white coat comes around. He asks the usual questions and Mum explains, “Betty is suffering from toothache, Doctor.” The doctor looks at me, saying, “Let’s have a look.” He looks at my teeth and says, “Say, ‘Ah’.” I do, and then he repeats, “Open your mouth widely, and say, ‘Ah!’”

  “Ah,” I say, opening my mouth until it’s about to tear. “Aha, well, we can’t save this one. It should come out,” he mutters, looking at Mum for agreement. I hear my mum saying confidently, “Yes, Doctor.” I wish she knew that I’m frightened of this process. I hate the pain that comes with it.

  I’m happy that no one will ever discover my trick. The doctor leads me through to another consultation room where the nurse is already waiting. I sit on the dentist chair, and the nurse holds my head. I feel very uncomfortable and start breathing heavily, due to fear of the injection. I close my eyes as the needle goes into my gum. A tears rolls down my cheek. The friendly nurse says, “You’re very brave - well done!” just to cheer me up. I return to the waiting room until I’m recalled. After a short while, the nurse appears from the door.

  “Betty Baker, could you come through, please!” the nurse says, in her friendly, high-pitched voice. Immediately, I feel like I need the toilet – that’s how nervous I am. I’m very glad that they call me by my name, though. I follow the nurse through to the consultation room, take off my jacket and sit on the huge dentist-chair. She puts a big bib around me and holds my head in position while the doctor extracts my tooth. The nurse gives me salty water to gargle before putting cotton wool into my bleeding gum. Both my mouth and cheek feel numb. Mummy pays the fee and collects the green medicine. My excitement vanishes as we leave the Surgery.

  We go back the same way, passing the Dees á la Carte Restaurant. This time we walk closer to the restaurant. It is full of people: I see families with children of my age and younger, sitting at the tables outside. I notice the difference between them and myself - they have a good life. I smell the delicious food coming from the restaurant and, knowing that I can’t have it, I just stand there looking at them. My lips and throat feel dry. I swallow my saliva every so often, finding it difficult to walk past. In my mind, I wish to be like a European child. Could my mum have sensed my feelings? She grabs my hand, swinging it slightly up and down, counting “one and two” as we move on. This distracts my attention, and I pick up my pace. I say, “Mama, I’m thirsty.”

  “Okay, Betty, I’ll get you something to drink,” she says.

  “I don’t want water,” I protest.

  “I’ll get you a cool drink,” Mum says.

  We come to the Las Vegas Café, and I see two doors facing us, not far away from each other. Above each door, there is a sign and white writing on a black board. On my left, the writing says, ‘Non-Europeans.’ On my right, it says, ‘Europeans only’. The latter is the side with the tables.

  The Reservation of Separate Amenities Act of 1953 requires the display of the signs, to ensure errors don’t occur. People from all racial groups must use their allocated facilities. There is no exception
to this law, even in an emergency. These laws make provision for different races to receive unequal treatment and opportunities. Being classified a native, despite my appearance of having mixed genes, including that of the Europeans, forces me to have to accept the places reserved for the natives in the restaurant.

  I know I must obey the laws at all times. The police arrest the law-breakers, and make them work hard on the streets and sometimes on Baas Jimmie’s farm; so my mum and I walk into the door with the sign, ‘Non-Europeans’. We wait for a long time to be served in this strictly takeaway part of the café. While waiting, I look on the other side; this café is actually one building divided with a room-divider made of reeds. Europeans are having meals at the tables with their children. All servers have darker or brown skins; they wear blue dresses with white aprons, and their heads are covered with cream caps. They are moving in and out of this café serving food, drinks, collecting empty plates and glasses. I can hear loud cheerful laughter from the people on the other side.

  It’s my mum’s turn to be served. “Could I have cold coca cola, please,” she says. This coloured woman brings a bottle of coke, opens it and stretches her hand over the counter to receive the money first, before giving my mum the bottle. She takes it, and we go outside, stand by the wall and share the drink. Fortunately, the weather is bright and sunny. Had it been windy, rainy or snowy, we would still have been standing outside. My mouth feels numb. I take a sip of the coke but, no, I can’t taste it, so I give it back to my mum.

  Next to the Las Vegas Café is a Boland bank. It also has two signs displayed above the entrances reading ‘Europeans only’ and ‘Non-Europeans’. The side for Non-Europeans has a very long queue that extends outside the bank. People are lining up against the wall on the pavement, and the tired ones are sitting down on the dusty ground.

  A young European woman walks into the bank through her door. Perhaps there are a few customers or more cashiers on that side, and that’s why she walks out quickly. Mum needs to buy a stamp from the Post Office in the town centre so we walk to there. It has two entrances with similar signs to those at the restaurant, café and the bank. We pass the ‘Europeans Only’ door to go into our side. We wait for a long time in the queue to be served. My note pad is almost full with my writing and sketches. I’m desperate for the toilet so, I tell my mum and quickly run out through my exit to the toilets across the road.

  As I approach the toilets, I feel the bad smell. The toilets for the non-Europeans are the ‘bucket-system’ kind that gets emptied by ‘uncles,’ as everyone calls them. These are male toilet cleaners who operate tractors with a big tank at night only, emptying the toilet buckets. As I come closer, I notice urine flowing from the entrance down to the streets, and know they’re ‘our’ toilets. I’m not surprised, as this is a busy time of the day. I go in, and there’s hardly any space to stand on the floor due to the mess and filth. The buckets are almost overflowing, and the whole place has flies buzzing about.

  I use this facility effectively, but have a problem there after. There’s no toilet paper or newspaper to use. So I slip off my favourite pink underwear, that Missus gave me. Tears flood my eyes immediately, and I can’t hold them back. Slowly, they flow down my cheeks and over my lips. I lick them; they taste salty and then dry my cheeks with my best underwear before using it as a wipe. At least, I’m happy to be clean, and no one will notice that I don’t have them on. I manage well without them, until I reach home. I don’t even tell my mum. ‘My special birthday present - did I have to abandon them there?’ I think to myself, my heart feeling torn apart. ‘I was unprepared for this…’

  * * *

  The holiday is over. Early in the morning, I get up, have a wash, dress and walk to the road, to get a bus to Burgersdorp where I will get my connection to Butterworth High School. I decide now to share my holiday experience with my classmates and friends. When writing about ‘my holidays’, I don’t mention the visit to town, I write about the farm experiences instead. Days go by quickly and soon, I’ll be returning home for holidays.

  I was one of Betty Baker’s course tutors at St David’s College when she started. She faced considerable difficulties in tackling the course. She showed determination and commitment in working to establish a foundation of knowledge and understanding of the British Education system. Once she had acquired good communication skills in English, she participated in the group discussions and showed that she could draw implications from education practice in this country that would be of value to her.

  Matthew Bones

  Lecturer

  St David’s College of Education

  January 1977

  Chapter 5

  The Shooting

  December, 1967

  This afternoon I’ll be boarding two buses to Baas Jimmie’s farm to spend the Christmas holidays with my family. I’m not looking forward to it at all. Yawning, I undo my bed, empty the mattress, and pack all my belongings in my metal trunk. I think about everyone on the farm. I think I know a bit more about Baas now: perhaps he doesn’t like the laws? How will this new knowledge influence me when I return there? I really don’t know.

  ‘Huh, Baas Jimmie, Small Baas Mark - are you really my boss as well?’ I ask myself. Feeling agitated from the disturbing thoughts that this new knowledge has created in me, I bend over my thighs with both palms covering my face. I feel tearful, and struggle to release my anxiety. In a little while, I disown this dreadful feeling, letting my salty tears free onto the palm of my hands. I release my internal pain, crying out loudly. Was I better off not knowing anything?

  I have no ‘small baas’ but Mark. Aah, he’s a handsome, charming young man. I need to spend more time around him. Who knows, he might have different views about the laws. He is very quiet and I don’t really know him.

  Suddenly, another disturbing thought strikes me. I remember my mum, wearing my dad’s old whitish underwear. She usually ties it with a string to hold it up due to its loose gusset. She wears it daily, and it gets a wash at night. My parents are very poor. My mum can’t afford to buy herself underwear, not to mention clothes, yet she’s worked on the farm since she married my dad. Dad has toiled here all his life. My parents care less about their status; they seem stuck here, and won’t leave. Another pain grips my heart. What’s the point of worrying and complaining? Oh silly me.

  My parents genuinely adore the Douglas’ family as if they were their own. They treat them as their son and daughter. They’ve known Jimmie from when he was a baby, and my mum was his nanny. Some days are better than others, though.

  I pull my trunk into the middle of the dormitory ready to go out. In this process, I get distracted. Without realising it, I’m speaking to myself. “They are so devoted to them. Perhaps they know nothing, or very little,” I say, not really bothered about Mandy passing by.

  “What’s that, sorry?” she asks, presuming I’m talking to her.

  “No, don’t worry, love. I’m thinking aloud, planning my holidays.” She ignores me entirely, and carries on going out towards the clothes-line behind our dormitory.

  I start humming my favourite chorus I learned at Sunday school, ‘Yes, Jesus Loves Me’ to distract the nerves. It doesn’t work: my thoughts are too deep to ignore. “I should respect the farmers looking after us in their own terms, and stick to my original me,” I continue to think aloud. “I should be closer to Mark; we might actually enjoy each other’s company. He may learn from me, and perhaps I’ll have a lot to learn from him. Hopefully, both our parents will be comfortable with our friendship. I wonder how my dad will react if I share with him what I now know. He always says, gesturing with his index finger, ‘No political talk here. Those who want to discuss politics should do it away from me.’ Perhaps one day he will change his mind.”

  I start feeling happy and excited at the thought of going home and interacting with Mark Douglas, and everybody I value the most. I know some good and popular things that are happening as a result of the current political cli
mate, for example, the African National Congress (ANC) or the ‘Viva Mandela, Viva!’ in support of Nelson Mandela. Anyway, I have a lot to think about, but I have a duty to study any syllabus the government provides until I complete my education, and perhaps leave Skoonfontein.

  On the farm, I’ll speak to small Baas, Mark. He is studying at The University of Witwatersrand, one of the universities for European students instituted according to the 1959 University Education Law. He might help me out with my studies – who knows?

  For some reason, today I’m thinking more about Mark than ever before. Is he his dad’s favourite because he is his first-born son? Or perhaps it’s because he is lovely, with good-looking features? Mark is two years older, and a bit taller than me – about five foot seven. His body often looks tanned, and he has dark-brown, thick, long hair cascading over his shoulders. He has a low voice, protruding lips, and greyish eyes. He always puts on casual clothes – jeans, t-shirts and trainers – except on Sundays. He wears suits and ties for church – The Dutch Reformed Fellowship. Lately, he has made an effort to talk to me, and isn’t discouraged that I’ve always ignored him completely. I remember the olden days when he used to pass by me without saying, “Hello.” Ah, forget this, Betty, you were just a kid. Now you’re a teenager.

  I believe I can engage him in a real conversation. How will I do this? My parents tell me to keep a ‘reasonable distance’ from Baas Jimmie’s children, and I am careful to observe this. Could they have been told the same by their parents? I doubt it because they are all friendly to me, especially since I moved to secondary school.

  Always, I’ve shortened the conversation whenever they try talking to me, and I quickly walk away from them. I feel uncomfortable. I refuse to play with them or say anything to them. They are persistent though – small Baas Mark always stares and smiles at me. I’ve never smiled back. Does he know anything about these Apartheid Laws? If so, how much does he know? I go to Lottie’s dormitory to say good-bye.