Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  We have a long walk until we reach the main road towards Burgersdorp. We get to the T-junction and turn right. The road is quiet at this time of the night. Walking between my mum and dad in such a pitch-black night with no street light to bring a glimpse of light is hard indeed. I wonder where we’re going but no one tells me. My mum talks to herself, muttering “you’ve got us into this trouble.”

  “They’re following us,” says Dad. Mum turns and looks backward at the same time as me. I see the moving lights from a distance. As we approach a small bridge, Dad shouts, “Get in under here!” I go in first with Mum following. We’re all panting and no one talks. I hear the sound of the cars driving above us on the road.

  They have not discovered us; at least, we’re safe for the night. We all fall asleep and the sound of cars wakes me up early the next day. With no water to wash or drink, and food to eat, we continue our journey to nowhere. We pass many farms on route until we come to a side road with a bridge. We go in to hide again.

  Dad leaves us for hours while he tries to trace his cousin who lives at Kanevlak village nearby. He returns to collect us with Uncle Ben who is limping because of a gold mining accident in Johannesburg which took place many years ago. He got trapped underground for a week when his mine collapsed. We go to his house and he welcomes us in, making us feel at home.

  Over time, we settle well again. Dad starts making red bricks to sell and his business develops gradually, until he has orders waiting. He employs Ruben and Stutterheim to help him meet the demand. They work long hours daily, just like at Skoonfontein farm.

  I mourn the loss of my boyfriend, Mark, for months with outbursts in between. One day I think he died from the bullet shot and other times, I doubt myself and think he could have survived. Perhaps the help he needed came on time and he’s in the hospital. Whatever happened that evening doesn’t matter to me anymore; the fact is, I’ve been so deeply hurt ever since I heard that bullet shot, Mark calling my name and I couldn’t help him, the pool of blood and Baas Jimmie’s wailing.

  Having nobody to comfort me, I cry until I am dried out of tears to shed. These are my darkest moments which only I could feel. I couldn’t say, “Goodbye” to the boy I love. If he died and is buried, I may never lay a wreath, put a rose or stone on his grave. If he died, his headstone will be engraved, Mark Douglas, born on 21 June 1948 and died on the 20th December 1967 and a scripture. Perhaps, I’d visit him one day in their family cemetery – his last resting place.

  I dream about him so often. Sometimes he just disappears, leaving me in deep sorrow. I wake up screaming or chasing him. I dream of those affectionate moments – when he assured me that he would live with me forever, anywhere in the world. I miss him so much.

  Some thoughts I couldn’t dismiss from my distressed mind: when Mark took me in his arms, his voice, declaring hope for our future – these echo through me every so often; his assurance of loving me, when I doubted it, which made me carry on in our relationship. I wish to be with him very much and I mostly remember our last tragic night together. He was so loving and he wouldn’t let me go. My heart aches terribly. I feel a sharp pain on my left, just beneath my breast. I put my right hand over it and press very hard to suppress the pain but it doesn’t go away.

  The loud bang, his body-weight as he leaned against me, the gasp, and his words, “Betty, I love you.” The sight of Mark’s pooled blood traumatises me the most. The horrific cry from Jimmie in despair echoes in my ears. I hardly sleep.

  * * *

  The world is wonderful, and full of surprises. No one can comprehend these, unless he or she has experienced them. I’m glad this happened after Rita, my cousin, had left. It could have been worse if they were around, and had to go through such a misery by night. I can’t imagine not seeing Mark again.

  I certify that Betty Baker has been one of the best teachers at this school. She teaches English and History in Standards Three, Four and Five. She shows enthusiasm in imparting her knowledge to the learners. Her teaching and learning approaches take place with ease, and she gets teacher-learner rapport going excellently in her classes. Her empathy towards learners’ problems and needs is such that she extends extra help by counselling them and encouraging peer-support.

  Betty Baker initiated extra-mural activities in this school, such as supporting programmes for children with communication and emotional difficulties. Due to this programme, learners are able to open up and communicate their problems, which stem from either home or school. I asked her to conduct teacher-development workshops, which have been successful.

  She also coaches netball and conducts the school-choir. Her scripture reading during school’s assembly is brought down to the level of learners for better understanding. Her long association with this school provides her with a breadth of experience in dealing with her colleagues and learners from various ethnic backgrounds, as well as the opportunity to apply her specialised skills in a real situation.

  I wish her success in her future endeavours and that this certification receives the merit it deserves.

  Mrs Penny Groves

  Headmistress,

  Mount View Primary School

  10th July, 1971

  The day before the shooting disaster

  I’m in bed at uncle Ben’s home alone thinking. I remember the Douglas family having barbecues, fun all afternoon, playing board games, swimming, and drinking all sorts of drinks – alcoholic, hot drinks and non-alcoholic ones, and Jimmie getting over the limit. I see him driving around the barns in his jeep, while heavily drunk. There are no traffic officers to stop and check on him. The nearest police station is in Burgersdorp. In fact, that’s where many public services are based - quite a long way from Skoonfontein.

  As I’m working, helping my mum in the Big House, I hear the high revs of the jeep, before it goes quiet. I look through the kitchen window, and see Baas Jimmie stepping out of the van, shutting the door very hard, rushing towards the back where the visitors and Theodora are sitting. He opens a folding chair and sits down facing the swimming pool, with his back towards the barbecue stand.

  I take my eyes off him for a little while, to wash up the empty glasses. There’s a row outside, where the Douglases are entertaining their visitors. I’m curious to know what this is all about. I decide to go out to collect firewood, as it is closer to where the family is gathered. I hear the disagreement between Mark and his dad. Listening carefully, Jimmie is opposing Mark’s intention of becoming a human rights solicitor in South Africa.

  “I don’t believe in this human rights thing. We do have rights, so who are you going to defend?” Jimmie challenges Mark. Marie and her husband are opposing him, arguing that Mark should be allowed to decide his future.

  “Not while living under my roof,” says Jimmie. As the alcohol intake begins to work, his agitation increases. He walks about, stretching his thin lips, making faces, demonstrating the power he holds.

  Jimmie continues nagging Mark, refusing to discuss other issues. He just wants to talk about South Africa and its successful governance. He is fond of the government, “because the natives have some authority, and are running their affairs in their homelands.” Mark speaks against the South African practice of discriminating against certain racial groups, and walks away in a rage in the end.

  I take the firewood into the kitchen, and ask Theodora if it is okay for me to leave.

  “Of course you can; you’ve finished your chores for now.”

  I quickly walk back to our house, hoping to connect with Mark.

  After a short while, I hear his whistle. I look out of the window, and see him pass our house, heading towards the old car, our usual meeting place. A few moments later, things go wrong. What caused Baas Jimmie to pull the trigger at us? No one knows; only Jimmie Douglas can tell.

  Jimmie rushes towards us. Missus Theodora, after seeing Jimmie pointing the gun at us and hearing the gun shots, hurries behind Jimmie to get to where Mark and I are. She finds her husband kneeling o
ver Mark, who is lying down on the pool of his blood, gasping for breath. Immediately, she rushes back to the house, probably to call the ambulance, while Jimmie is doing all he can - applying First Aid to save his son.

  Some months later

  I have not given up loving Mark, nor ruled out being with him again. I don’t know where he is, whether dead or alive. Nevertheless, I’m hopeful that I’ll see him again some day. I can’t dismiss the idea that he might have a special need, that requires him to be looked after by his parents, day and night, or he may be cared for in a government hospital. Perhaps he has recovered already and is a human rights lawyer, something he desperately wanted to do, especially after having an intimate, secret relationship with me. I don’t allow this situation to distress me. I think positively.

  I could travel to Burgersdorp, and visit the library to search the archives for the news from the month Baas Jimmie shot Mark. There may be some articles about that incident. I may be able to establish what actually happened to Mark after all.

  I decide: I’ll visit the family graveyard first, to find out if Mark’s grave is there. If he is dead, I can have closure, and if he is alive, we can continue our relationship. He can visit me now in my home without being afraid of Jimmie, Theodora, my parents or anybody else.

  However, I’d still have other problems here – the headman, and the villagers. They know I’m unmarried, and this act is ‘immoral’. Therefore, they will never approve seeing a man in my home, especially a European. The place would be in total havoc. I’ll have no reason to give them for having him in. He could come at night, and if anybody is inquisitive, and they knock at my door, he can go into hiding under my bed. It’s high enough; there will be sufficient room for him underneath. I’ll quickly lead them outside to finish the talk, just in case Mark becomes uncomfortable, or needs to cough or use the toilet – the pit latrine outside.

  My thoughts drift from the present. I recall life at Skoonfontein. I miss Mark Douglas very much. Where is he? Will we continue our love affair, if we can find each other? Yes, maybe he still loves me too. He kissed me, after all?

  My thoughts trigger my tears. I rush to my bed, bury myself under the pillow, and cry out loudly. I speak to myself, ‘Mark - we parted too early. You were very kind to me. I’d like to be with you. I miss you… I love you.’

  I must have fallen asleep. I wake up from my dream, hearing Mark calling, “Betty!” I missed the opportunity to say ‘Good-bye’, or ‘Rest in peace’. I must do this. I must go to Skoonfontein Farm to look for Mark, or his grave, and lay a stone. I must have him, or release him from my heart for good, and move on. I stay in, awake, finding it hard to sleep. I reach the conclusion in the early morning to visit Skoonfontein the next Saturday. This is the risk I’m prepared to take, just as I did that last night at Skoonfontein.

  Early on Saturday, I get up, and prepare myself to return to the farm, to look for my boyfriend Mark, or his headstone, and pay him my last respects. I flag down the van passing by. It stops, and I jump in. I’m not in the mood for a talk, but this driver continues asking me questions to which I respond, “Yes,” or “No,” noncommittally, hoping he will leave me alone.

  He doesn’t give up: he wants to know where exactly I’m off to, and why I should be visiting the Boer farm. I surely cannot be ‘sexually messing about’ with them, says this driver, perhaps wondering why on earth somebody looking good like me, would be visiting a farm. I don’t dare to tell him the true story regarding my visit. Instead, I make up a story:

  “My aunt used to work for Baas Jimmie in Skoonfontein. She died after a short illness, and was buried on his farm. On her anniversary, I make it my priority to visit her grave, to clean it up,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s very kind of you to do that. Few young ladies are like you. They usually forget and move on,” this man says.

  Great - my story has stopped the driver from digging into my life. He starts apologising.

  “I’m very sorry to hear this, young lady. Will it help if I drop you closer to the farm, and then you can find your way back?”

  “Yes, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  He drives as close as he can to the farm, and drops me. He accepts the hiking fee, and drives off. I wait by the roadside for a while. I walk across the fields towards the family cemetery. The grass is tall. This is to my advantage. I should be concealed from a distance. My brown pair of trousers with a matching jacket helps me to be invisible from afar as well.

  As I approach the cemetery entrance, I notice that it looks bigger than when we left. I see many more headstones. My heart beating very fast, I open the gate, walk a few steps forward on the overgrown grass and start reading the names from the graves. The headstone of the first grave is almost covered in sand and tilting to the right. I take my handkerchief out of my hand bag, and brush off the sand. It says, ‘James Douglas, Senior, died on 12 August 1927 aged 63’ and the one next to it appears fresher, with clear writing, hidden behind the long grass. It says, ‘Theodora Douglas, born in 1918, died in 1968 aged 50’.

  “Oh, Theodora - That’s Missus, has she died?” Thinking, I got this wrong, I bend over, saying, “died - Theodora – that’s Mark’s mum! How did she die? Oh no!”

  I blurt out a cry before carrying on. The cemetery has overgrown weeds, and knocked-over headstones. It could do with cleaning, I think. This was one of my parents’ jobs to clean it up, water the flowers, and then plant new ones if necessary. It is a respected place, where the Douglas’ ancestors are buried.

  I look in the direction of the farm houses, ensuring my safety. My heart sinks as I approach the next headstone. On it, the writing is ‘Mark Douglas’… I look at it; the dates of birth and death aren’t clear. This grave is run down too, with grass all over it. I feel a lump dropping into my throat. It hurts. I swallow my saliva to remove it. This lump won’t go. I bend over to pull out the grass out of the way. I disturb a snake; it slithers away. I stand motionless for a while.

  And then, I open my mouth to speak, “Mark. You were never annoyed with me.” Tears flood my eyes, as I continue expressing myself. “I can’t believe you’re lying here.” My voice vanishes. I whisper, “I love you loads. May your soul rest in peace.” I take out the bottle of coke from my bag to have a sip. It removes the lump. I feel it disappear. I had the stone I picked up from the road in my hand. I put it down beside me, and pull out the grass to read the dates below his name. It reads, ‘Born in 1930, and died in 1945 – Rest in peace, and rise in glory. We’ll meet up with you again.’ I release the tears I have been holding for a long time. I pull the weeds off, and tidy it up a bit, feeling relieved - this is not my boyfriend’s grave. I turn around, walking towards my right-hand side, passing other graves with broken headstones. I search the whole place, and can’t find my Mark Douglas, who was born in 1948.

  As I turn around on my way back, I see a van driving towards the fields and the cemetery. I sense trouble. Fear grips me. I hurry towards the direction of the road. The van drives towards me. I’m dead. That’s it. Baas Jimmie won’t spare me. I carry on walking, determined to face the worst. The van stops. A youngish European man flings the door open, and jumps out.

  “Hey, woman, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry, Baas; I’m visiting my Aunty’s grave. She was buried here. She worked for Baas Jimmie and Theodora Douglas for many years, before she died.”

  “Okay, I own this farm now. I don’t like people trespassing on my land.”

  “I’m so sorry, Baas; I came to pay my last respects. I do this yearly on her death anniversary – to remember her. She loved me.”

  “This is private land. Do you understand me, and what that implies?”

  “Yes, Baas,” I reply with my fragile voice, hoping to gain sympathy. In my mind, I’m wondering what happened to Mark and Baas Jimmie; if they had passed away, their graves would be in this cemetery, perhaps next to Theodora’s.

  “This is my farm. So go away now!” As I turn my b
ack to walk aside, he speaks to me again.

  “Have you finished your business?” I keep quiet wondering, what business? I didn’t come to run a business here. After all, I spent my money on this journey. But he explains himself:

  “I mean to say, have you worked on your Aunty’s grave? Are you happy now?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I reply, with a nervous giggle, pretending to be satisfied. I’m unhappy, and confused. I need to solve a mystery – Mark and Jimmie’s whereabouts. So, I ask him, “Where is Baas Jimmie, who previously owned this farm?”

  “I do not wish to discuss anything with you. Go now, and do not visit your dead aunt ever again.”

  I’m free. I walk all the way, hoping to stop the first car to pass by. I wonder what happened to Missus. People die of various causes. I wonder what happened to Jimmie and Mark.

  I’ll discover one day – or perhaps I’ll never know. I have no connections with the Europeans here. This may complicate this matter.

  I walk for a long distance without a car passing by. My legs ache; my eyes are in floods of tears, because this breaks my heart. I feel dizzy as if my head is spinning around. In my mind, I’m asking one question, where are they, then? I know now about Theodora, and not about Mark and Jimmie Douglas. If they are dead, and I can find their graves, my heart can rest.

  Suddenly, I hear the car sound from behind me. It’s dark; only the lights shine on me. I stick my hand out to stop it.

  “What are you doing here this time, woman?”

  “I have visited my family. Now I’m returning to my home,” I respond to shut him up.

  “Get in, and let’s go,” he says. “You’re beautiful. Who do you resemble?”

  “Thank you. People say, I’m my dad’s spitting image,” I say, and then keep quiet, hoping he will leave me alone to ponder over the day’s key issues.