The bus pulls out of the driveway onto the main dirt road. We head towards the town, passing over the bridge with the river flowing gently beneath. It’s a long way before we get to my school. I try to concentrate on my book, finding it interesting, and I’m drawn in. I feel a tear escape my eye. I cry discreetly, covering my eyes with a handkerchief, and gently rubbing my cheeks to avoid removing my makeup. I distract myself by looking at the roadside. The bus slows to drop off the first lot, and then it’s my turn. Feeling low from the story I’ve just read, I gather my stuff and wait for my stop.
I get off the bus and walk to the school: it’s a reasonable distance from the town. I report to the principal’s office. He takes me to a Standard One class to meet the teacher, and introduces me to the children. After the Assembly, I teach Mathematics and English, and the morning goes on very well.
At lunchtime, I go down town to buy myself more reading materials. It’s a lovely hot afternoon: the sky is blue, with birds flapping their wings in the air, and I can hear them singing on the trees. I enter the supermarket that sells books and newspapers, and buy The Daily Dispatch, and a grammar book. On my way back, I take a different route, passing by the Sparrow Laer Primere Skool, meaning Lower Primary School, which is for Europeans only. It’s a shortcut, and will give me more time to rest before the afternoon session starts.
As I walk past, I see children in the playground. I stand and watch them through the five foot tall barbed-wire fence with razor blade trimming that surrounds the school. It’s very well secured indeed.
Some children are playing on the swings; others are sliding down slides; another small group is going up and down the seesaw. The rest are playing tennis, netball, hula-hoops, volley ball, cricket and other ball games. Opposite the playgrounds are outdoor swimming pools. Some boys jump in and disappear under the water for a while. I see their heads above the water, and then they disappear again, and come out at the other end. I shouldn’t hang on the fence for too long. An adult, perhaps one of their teachers appears, gesturing at me from a distance to go away. I don’t move. She takes a few steps towards me. I resist and she shouts, “Hey, ‘kaffir’!” (meaning ‘unbeliever’, or ‘a derogatory name for the native’), then gives a signal again for me to ‘go away’.
She speaks to one of the children, who beckon to another, and they both run into the building. I’m afraid she might be sending a child to their principal to call the police and cause trouble for me. I rush away then turn and look at her as she walks towards the school buildings. I wish I was a European child, just so I was able to enjoy their privileges.
I walk along the roadside to my school. It’s still lunch-time and some children are sitting in the shade under the trees narrating stories. I come closer to listen. The stories vary in length, but all have a moral. The story-teller ends by asking,
“What is the moral of this story? And what can you learn from it?” Story-telling is allocated time in the curriculum because of its benefit to the children. It precedes creative writing. It seems that the children like it so much that they continue sharing stories at playtime.
Other children are sitting on the ground playing the ‘Puca’ game. They have dug a round shallow pit on the ground and put twelve stones in. They take turns to throw a stone up and, while it’s in the air, take all the small stones out of the pit, and then catch the falling stone. The stone goes up once more and then they push the rest back into the pit keeping one. They then continue until all the stones are out of this pit. When they fail to get the right number in, they’re out and the next child takes over. The children seem to be enjoying this game as they talk and laugh.
Another group of children are playing a game called ‘Round-us’. There are two teams, the Fielding Team and the Playing Team, and four goal posts with a circle in the middle. Two girls are throwing an improvised ball made of old stockings and fabric over to each other, while the rest of the opponents run into the goal posts. The two girls try to throw the ball at those who run between the goal posts. Those who are touched have to go out, but if one of the players scores twenty-four, they all shout, “Twenty-four!” and run into the circle and the game starts again. However, if they are all touched, the game is over and they swap sides. I stand there watching them for a while.
They play happily, enjoying school life.
Some boys and girls are playing ‘Touch’. A child chases and touches someone. That one does the same to the others, and the game goes on. Another game I find fascinating is the ‘ball’ game. Children are in two teams, A and B, separated by a line drawn on the ground. A child from team B rolls the ball and calls a name of the child from team A. The named child runs, kicks the ball as far away as possible, runs and touches the line, and then goes back to the starting point. While running, they throw a ball at them; if they are hit, they’re out; if not, they score a goal.
In the classrooms, other children are playing with their homemade skipping ropes which are made from grass. They sing the song ‘Cat Chases a Mouse’; they hop three times, and then go out. The cat mews. They hop once and go out.
Other children are playing a game in pairs. I move closer to see them keeping a rhythm with clapping hands and patting knees. They all speak in a chorus, “1, 2, 3 – 4, 3 - 4 up, up, 3-4, 3-4 down, down, 3-4, 3-4 left side 3-4, 3-4, right side, hurray!” The games are beautiful, with children playing together all by themselves with no teachers or adults around.
I carry on up to my classroom and sit down to reflect on what I’ve seen. The bell rings, the children walk in, and I continue to teach, appreciating the creativeness which I’ve just observed. This part of the country is similar to Skoonfontein. I remember my childhood days. The school finishes, and I board the bus back to the hostel. It’s noisier this time and we all chat together, sharing and laughing about our first teaching experience. The rest of the week goes well, and we later find that we’ve all got good grades for our teaching practice.
December 1967
I’m home for the Christmas holidays. I’m looking forward to spending time with my boyfriend, Mark.
“Mum, would you like some help in the Big House tomorrow?”
“Of course, Betty. It makes my life easier when you’re there. Be ready for 8 o’clock, then.”
At 7.30 a.m., I’m ready, and having porridge for breakfast. After drinking coffee, I wait in the living room for my mum. We walk together to the Big House and she knocks on the door. Missus takes her time to welcome us in. She goes through a long list of today’s jobs – “Washing the windows, scrubbing and polishing the floors until they shine. You know what I mean Gladys, don’t you?”
“Yes, Missus, you want everything spotless.”
I stand there, looking at her, smiling and nodding frequently, wondering how she expects my mum to complete all that hard work. It’s good that I came along to help her.
I start cleaning all the bedrooms, including Mark’s, while he’s outside taking the dog for a walk and deliberately ignoring me. I am thinking. Baas Jimmie is having visitors for barbecue today. The whole family will be sitting outside together, so I’m unlikely to see Mark. I really miss him.
My love for him has grown stronger over the year. He is definitely opposed to the Apartheid Laws, and is a genuine socialist. But he can’t show this because this would ‘disgrace’ his entire family; his dad warned him, he told me this. I also know that Baas Jimmie would never cope with that kind of life. He is one of the respected European Farmers, expected to uphold the South African laws. I hope they never find out. I work between the house and the garden preparing salads, collecting and replacing clean utensils. I hear loud talking, and ignore them.
I return to our house, leaving my mum to finish the last of the day’s chores. Through our front window, I can see the visitors’ cars pulling out gradually one by one. I’m contented, suppressing my feelings of love. At least, Mark has seen me around.
It’s summertime, and light outside. Perhaps Mark will go for a walk past our hou
se, and I can see him? I feel my tummy rumble as I think of him. I miss him loads. I keep looking through the window until I see the last car drive off.
Suddenly, Mark comes out and walks towards the sheds. He returns shortly and walks towards the back of our house. I conclude he’s out to meet me in the old car. Usually, he whistles loudly as he walks past our house. I wait for a while and then sneak out discreetly.
I hear the whistle, and believe that Mark is calling me. My heart leaps with joy. I feel fulfilled and confident. I’m wearing my black trousers and white top which I got from Mark’s mum. I walk out quietly behind our house passing the stables and the kraal towards the fields, where the old cars are. I can’t see Mark from the distance, but I know he is waiting for me inside the ancient rusty car, our usual meeting spot.
* * *
We should be all right tonight. Baas Jimmie and Missus should be in bed earlier after the heavy alcohol drinking with their guests. They won’t notice that Mark is still out. And he’s a grown man, for goodness’ sake: they should leave him to follow his own mind.
I reach the old car, and Mark is lying on his back waiting for me, with the car door slightly open. As he hears my footsteps, he sits up.
“Betty!” he shouts, opening his arms to cuddle me.
“Mark!” I say, throwing myself into his opened arms, satisfied. We hold each other tightly for a while before we begin to kiss and talk. He gives me a good kiss – the type of kiss I enjoy most. I later stare into his eyes, making sense of every word he says. I still love him, I think to myself: he’s amazing!
He tells me about their visitors – his family friends and his uncle. We talk about life generally and I ask him many questions about the European culture. What happens if his family discovers our affair? Should I fall pregnant, what will he do? What if we decide to live together permanently and, therefore, have to marry? What do we do if I’m put in prison for breaking the Mixed Marriages Law, Act 55 of 1949 which prohibits us from marrying?
Mark is mature and independent in his thinking. He allays all my fears, and commands me not to worry because he doesn’t.
“Betty, be courageous for your beliefs,” he says. I regain my courage and assure myself; I’m in love with my small Baas Mark. He is such good company.
I touch his soft, silky hair, moving my hand gradually around his head. We hold each other, and kiss, cheeks, lips, and everywhere. He confesses how much he loves me. There’s less talk and more action, groaning out of pleasure. Mark becomes so ready that I want to make him happy. As he is about to go further, I hear a shout, “Mark!” and recognise his father’s loud aggressive voice.
“Mark, please listen,” I say softly, trembling in fear. Our bodies are so entwined together that Mark feels I’m engulfed in terrible fright. I cling onto him tightly anticipating the end of my precious life. Mark ignores me and continues with kisses.
“Betty!” I recognise my mum’s voice.
“Mark, we’re in trouble. They’re looking for us. What shall we do?” I ask, panicking. I clasp my arms around him. I could hear his heart beating as he breathes heavily.
“Nothing, Betty, we’re fine. Don’t be afraid. Just relax please, darling. Stay quiet, please,” says Mark, sticking his head out of the back window, listening carefully.
Feeling a bit weak, and sweating, I sit up and look at our home. As the sun has set, the atmosphere is darker, making it almost impossible to see clearly at a distance. All I can see are three figures coming towards us. Without doubt, I am assured that we’re caught – that’s Mark’s mum and dad, and my mum.
After a moment of excruciating silence, Mark says, “Betty, let’s go.” I remain still. “C’mon, get up!” he says firmly, pulling my hand.
Bravely, we both get out of the old rusty car and walk straight towards them, hand in hand. We get closer to them, about one hundred metres. Mark is about to branch into the direction of the Big House, so he changes his position to hug and kiss me, “Goodnight, my Betty.”
Then, I hear, Bang! Bang!
“Betty!” Mark cries out loudly in anguish. “Betty, hold me,” he repeats, his body pushing me backwards. I grab him trying to hold his heavy body upright without success. He slides sideways, drops on the ground and the blood spurts out from his forehead where the bullet penetrated him. His eyes roll over involuntarily, and I realise Mark could die.
“No, Mark, don’t leave me!” I wail hysterically in shock and frustration. I look at his chest. He is alive, and seems to be struggling to breathe. His eyes close and open again. “I love you, Betty.” Those words were clear.
I hear my mum screaming, “No, Baas” and then cries in despair, “My God, oh my God!” Whether his mum screamed or not, I can’t tell. At that moment, there was only fast movement and commotion.
“He’s killed him!”
Jimmie, holding his shotgun in his hand, comes running to the scene. The whisky effect might have vanished as he realises what he has done. He drops his shot gun on the ground, calling in distress, “Mark, Mark!” He shakes his body. There is no response. “Wake up!” He kneels down over Mark.
I feel a harsh grip on my hand; it’s my mum. “Go!” she says, whispering. As I turn around to walk away, my mum following behind me, I hear Jimmie wailing terribly, “Mark, my only son! It’s me, your dad… No, my son; you will live…Jesus!”
I think my mum realises I’m not walking fast enough; I’m weak, shocked and confused. So, she grabs my hand more firmly, as she overtakes me whispering, “Betty, we’ve got to leave this farm, now! We can’t stay here for another night. Hurry up!” Mum appears to be in her worst state of mind. Still confused, attempting to make sense of what has happened, I reduce my speed and ultimately drag myself behind my mother. She gets annoyed. Looking back at me, she says,
“Hurry up, Betty! Snatch whatever you can! The police might be here soon. Baas may follow us to take out his anger and grief. He might want revenge. Quick!” We get home and alert dad.
“Benjamin, wake up! We must leave now!”
My dad opens his eyes, still drowsy from sleep. “Don’t be silly, where should we go?” he says, sitting up. “Gladys, sit down, what’s the matter?”
My dad tries to understand what’s happening; my mum is not giving the full explanation. She’s rushing around saying, “We’ll talk on the way. Baas had a lot of whisky. He was very drunk. He couldn’t have done that.”
“Done what? Speak to me – I need to know.” But my dad still follows us to the main road.
With extreme difficulty, Mum tries to explain the details of what happened. “I loved him, like my own son. I brought him up!” she screams.
Dad cannot come to terms with what has happened. There’s just chaos. “What is it?” he keeps asking, as if he has lost his mind.
“Baas Jimmie pulled the trigger, pointing at the kids,” says Mum. “They were in the wrong place together – Betty and Mark.”
“Where is Mark now?”
“I doubt if he’ll survive. I don’t know. We had to rush away out of fear that he would want revenge on us.”
“I don’t think he knew what he was doing – too much alcohol. I know Baas Jimmie; he is the good Baas.”
“Mum, we left Mark breathing,” I confirm.
“No, no, no!” In his shock, that’s all my dad can say. “We must go away now!” he grabs some bags and leads the way. The tension gets worse, as each one of us grieves in our own way.
My dad makes repeated groaning noises, and murmurs, “Why? Why did you allow it, Lord?” My mum cries openly, constantly wiping off tears with the apron she’s wearing. My head is throbbing, and my eyes are blinded with tears, making it hard for me to keep up the pace. I feel a deep pain in my heart – a pain of loss and regret – and the internal ache in me increases with every second. I feel the emptiness that accompanies the thought that Mark Douglas will probably be gone forever. I’ll never see him again, or feel his gentle touch. I will miss him. My eyes flood with tears, and I bottle t
hem up by squeezing my eyes and lips tightly together. No, Mark will not die, I console myself.
I walk between my parents for a little while, carrying my suitcase on my head. My dad’s long legs allow him to stride, leaving both my mum and me behind. He realises this, and looks back shouting, “Hurry up!”
I keep up with him for a little while, and then the distance between us starts to increase, gradually. Feeling exhausted, I run a bit. I can’t keep the pace; I drag my feet, panting heavily. My heart thumps loudly. I think I am going to faint. I put my right hand on my chest to suppress the pain coming from within. I look back to see how far my mama is behind me. The atmosphere is dark, with a cold breeze cutting through; I can see a figure following, and I know it’s her. I put my suitcase down, sit on it, waiting for her.
As she arrives, she can hardly breathe. Her body weight contributes to her struggling to rush, and worse of all the shock and hurt. My dad waits for us. I hope we shall all rest, to allow both my mum and I to regain strength, for this journey seems to be long and draining.
“We must hurry up. Our lives are in danger,” he says, carrying on.
“Dad, please, let us wait a bit; Mum is out of breath.” He slows down; we walk together, but not for long.
For a time, I walk deliberately slowly, hoping Jimmie will catch up with us, enact his revenge and kill me. I don’t care anymore. This seems a better option than having to face guilt and loneliness all my life. It’s hard fumbling in the dark on such a bad road with deep potholes. The grass is so tall in some areas that we are unable to walk faster. I take a few steps forward and peep backwards.
I try to reason all this. Will Baas and his wife follow us or try to save Mark, by rushing him to the hospital? Is Mark dead? If not, how will he be in the future? Will he still be the man he was? Finally, I think, whether Mark lives or dies, I’ll never know.
Starlight in the Ring Page 10
