“Marie cut her short, saying, ‘Theo, okay; I’m coming now.’
“Having heard what had happened, and also in shock and desperation, this time around I walked to the corridor to meet Theodora. I heard the revs of Marie’s van arriving at Jimmie’s farm. Theodora rushed out, and I followed her into Marie’s van. Marie drove off to the fields. As we arrived at the scene of the shooting, the ambulance was pulling away, with Jimmie sitting at the back with Mark. The sirens went off, and the blue lights flickering all the way, in this speedily-driven ambulance. I sat in this van without saying a word.
“Marie drove frantically behind the ambulance to the Blanke Hospitaal, meaning the European Hospital. ‘I’ve never driven a car over 120 kilometres per hour,’ she confided later.
“Theodora, Marie and I sat in the waiting-room, while Mark, carried on a stretcher, was rushed into theatre for emergency treatment. Jimmie, who was probably now sobered up, followed the stretcher and waited outside the theatre. He returned to join us after about six hours, following Mark’s admission to the Intensive Care Unit. Theodora’s voice was faint, and her face swollen, from crying.
“‘It’s okay, Theo,’ I heard Marie say, patting her shoulders, giving her a hug for comfort. ‘Mark should recover. The doctors are looking after him now.’
“‘What if…?’ Maybe she wanted to say, ‘…if Mark survives, but never recovers fully?’ Hurt overcame her speech; she continued crying. However, later she summoned up the strength to complete her sentence.
“‘There’s no need to think about that now, Marie,’ I said encouraging her. ‘Life is the most important thing, regardless.’ Jimmie returned at this point.
“‘Let’s go home!’ he said, joining us, appearing dreadful with his bloody eyes. We all went to the car park and squeezed in front of this three-seater van and left the hospital, with Jimmie being upset for not receiving sympathy from all the nurses and doctors. According to him, he was stopping his son from committing crime.
“‘What Mark was doing with that Betty, I really don’t understand. He returned from the university with these funny thoughts - the United Nations’ declarations of democracy, equal opportunities, human rights, and so on,’ Jimmie kept going on and on.
“‘What was this all about, Jim?’ Marie asked inquisitively.
“Jimmie explained, ‘Mark changed his career from being a medical doctor to a Human Rights lawyer.’
“‘Okay, whose right was he concerned about, then?’ Marie asked him.
“Jimmie, shrugging his shoulders, replied, ‘I don’t know; as you know, our race has all the rights.’
“‘Hmmh,’ Marie responded, nodding her head, and trying to stay awake, at that time of the day.
“‘Mark was always around Betty lately; that’s where I suspect he got all these lunatic ideas from – I think,’ Jimmie said. Jimmie continued talking to Marie, who was struggling to keep her eyes open behind the wheel, sometimes blaming Theodora for the mess he found himself in. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get that Betty. She must pay for the damage she’s caused,’ Jimmie said in conclusion, as the van stopped in front of their Big House.
“Theodora invited us in for coffee, but Marie refused this offer saying, ‘Thanks love; that’s very kind of you. You have a lot to get on with. However, please call me again when you need support. Tarra,’ That’s all Marie could say as she turned on the engine ready to drive off.
“‘How can I pay you back?’ Theodora asked with her voice raised.
“‘Don’t worry, Theo, just be a good neighbour. I hope Mark recovers. Give my love to him.’
“And Marie drove off, as Jimmie, Theodora and myself walked towards the house. Strangely Jimmie and Theodora were not hand in hand as they usually did. Certainly, this incident had affected both of them. I remained with them, and was prepared to do so, as long as they needed me. They are my friends. Jimmie went into their bedroom and came out carrying a shotgun, and headed towards the Baker’s house. Perhaps he hoped to find them asleep. I followed him. In his anger and frustration, he kicked the door open, and went in, searching all the bedrooms. To his surprise, there was no one in. ‘Betty, where are you!’ he cried out loudly, dropping his shotgun. After a while, he must have come to terms with the reality: the Bakers were gone and probably for good. He had to deal with this incident - more importantly, with the police.
“Sobbing, he picked up his gun, maybe having many thoughts in his mind, as he dragged his feet back home. ‘What’s this life all about?’ he repeatedly asked himself. ‘The Bakers have left me, with no one else to do the farm work. Mark is in the hospital; he may die. If he lives, he may require constant care – that’s what the surgeon advised. Who will provide that? He may never be a graduate, have a wife and children.’
“Jimmie went into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee for himself and took it to the sitting room. He poured it into the mug until it overflowed onto the table covered with a cream tablecloth. To me he appeared to be not concentrating. He drank it slowly, perhaps thinking about the police, who had to be after him. I don’t know. Tears kept flowing down his cheeks, like rain, and he wiped them off with his blue handkerchief. He slept right there on the sofa, for the first time in their marriage. He told me he always slept in the bedroom, next to his wife. I slept on the other sofa.
“The next morning, we all visited Mark in the hospital. The news wasn’t hopeful, although the doctors were doing their very best. He needed some time in the hospital for recovery. The sister responsible told us about the police visit, asking for professional statements and a medical report.
“‘Surely they will want to speak to all of you?’ she said, and refused to answer our questions, and just kept saying, ‘that’s all I can tell you for now.’
“This news disturbed Jimmie again; he started sobbing, as we walked to the car park.
“Nevertheless, he had to face the consequence of his actions. In his view, the crimes he committed were not intentional and were, therefore, justifiable. ‘I did my best to stop mixed racial relationships in my own home,’ I overheard him saying this.
“So often he blamed alcoholic drinks and not himself. We all returned to the farm; Jimmie driving their 4×4 truck this time. The latest news caused more tension between them. As soon as they got in, Jimmie went to the kitchen, poured himself gin and tonic, and drank it down. He must have hoped to forget about the latest events at Skoonfontein Farm. Heavy drinking became his habit, here after.
“I returned to my home briefly, and stayed with the Douglases most of the time, supporting them emotionally and in every way possible. The next visitors to knock at the Douglases’ doors were the investigation officers. They took statements from both, first starting with Theodora. This was too much for her. During the questioning, she broke down in tears. She became the state witness against her husband. Will Jimmie like this? His turn came. He didn’t deny going out with a shotgun to protect ‘themselves’ against the natives.
“He admitted having had too much alcohol, and worrying that Mark wasn’t home, following the row they had had. He insisted that he was a good citizen, had obeyed the laws – keeping the natives on his farm, and using just ‘reasonable force’, where necessary. However, he denied attempted murder, due to immoderate use of alcohol. Jimmie accepted, seeing his son with Betty, could have provoked him into taking the action, and he could have acted without thinking. He couldn’t remember well what he did that evening. I volunteered an interview, and was able to have my version from when I returned to Jimmie’s house recorded. I became the second state witness. The police, after receiving sufficient answers to their questions, were satisfied there was enough evidence to press charges against Jimmie, and then they arrested him. Jimmie spent that night in the cells.”
After this long speech, Koos then sits down. The court plays the recording from the ambulance service up to the end; Koos’ account is so accurate. Judge Retief asks, “Do you want to say anything, Mr Douglas?”
Baas Jimmie rem
ains quiet for about a second. “No, your honour,” he replies, looking up at him while sitting down.
The judge allows a short break, while summing up all the deliberations. The court resumes, and he then says:
“Jimmie Douglas, you have let yourself down. You have let your family down. You have let your community down. You are an extremely dangerous person to the community, and yourself. If you couldn’t spare your own innocent family; you don’t deserve a life within your community. You must stay in prison indefinitely, and you will not be considered for parole until you have served at least forty years.”
The court is dismissed, and Mark walks out of the courtroom, through ‘their door’ with his relatives and friends. Baas Jimmie is escorted to a cell, I imagine similar to the one the man in the stable was sent to, with a low brick stand, a mattress, a water tap and a toilet bucket, where he is going to spend his term in isolation, unless his condition is reviewed.
I push through the natives from around Skoonfontein Farm, who are walking towards ‘our door’; I want to speak to Mark outside, and comfort him. The people are moving slowly, as some try to speak to each other – expressing their sadness, and getting their sorrows off their chests…
“Hey, this is the hardest sentence Judge Retief has passed to a non-native in my life time!” exclaims an elderly farmworker sympathetically, taking out his pipe from the sachet. He fills it with tobacco before sitting on a big stone to smoke, coughing constantly. He is trying to come to terms with the latest news from Skoonfontein Farm.
“I’ve never slept well since I heard about this incident,” says another woman, wrapping a shawl around her shoulder.
“I’ve known Jimmie, since he was a young man; I can’t believe he could turn out to be so dangerous.”
“Seeing him on the dock breaks my heart,” says another woman wiping off her tears with a white handkerchief, before burying her face into it crying like a baby.
“I miss them. Skoonfontein has never been the same without the Douglas family,” says another man called Stuurman, sobbing, wiping tears off his blood-red, swollen eyes.
Hoping to draw Mark’s attention to me, I push forward to get myself outside quickly; the lingering crowd is blocking my way. Fortunately, I manage to squeeze through and reach the door. From a distance, I can see Mark, walking among other Europeans towards a car parked by the road side. “Mark,” I shout. He doesn’t respond to my call. My heart sinks as I continue to shout, “Mark, Mark!” but he shows no sign of hearing me.
There is a heavy police presence, and many reporters around. I manage to squeeze through this crowd, pushing my way past all the natives, until I reach the police line. The police stand almost directly between me and the European people there, making it difficult to walk past them to where Mark is standing by his car. I force my way between the police, slipping through and running towards the car. The reporters are holding up their cameras taking photos for their story coverage. There is some commotion as the police are blocking my way. I call him even more loudly, hoping to get his attention this time, “Mark!” It doesn’t work. I push forward harder to break the police line.
“Arrest her!” another police officer shouts.
“Mark Douglas!” I scream harder again, waving my arm, but in vain. Knowing Mark’s tender heart, I know he is worried about his dad, and thinking about his mum, and perhaps me too. He can’t have forgotten me, I know for sure. His heart must be torn apart – the ache from the loss of his mum, his dad in prison, and torn apart from me. What a disaster!
He must be crying, unable to notice me. My eyes are right on him.
“Let me speak to Mark, please!” I plead with the police once more. One officer completely ignores me. Mark gradually opens the back door of his car while speaking to another man next to him.
“Mark, please wait for me!” My voice is blunt from screaming; I’m panting heavily from struggling to break through one more time.
“Mark, it’s me, Betty Baker!”
Mark puts his foot in the car, slides his body gently inside, and shuts the door. I’m now just five metres away from him.
“No, Mark, please wait!” I scream, drawing the attention of the Press. I cry out loudly from the top of my voice, with my back bent and my face buried in my hands. A police officer holds my right hand, leading me to the police van in the car park. The back door is flung open.
“Get in!” the officer says. Anyone watching me might think I am losing my mind. No one can ever understand the pain I am feeling at that moment, except those who have had a similar experience. The van stops at the police station. An officer, who was sitting in the passenger seat, opens the door, and says:
“Get out!” I comply. He says, “Go home now. Do not cause any trouble again.”
I enjoyed team-teaching with Betty when she joined us at Summer Hill Primary School. I can confirm that she has fitted in easily into our school life, worked well with all pupils, staff and support staff. She could take full responsibility for all professional tasks. She recognised and responded effectively to equal opportunity issues as they arise in the classroom, including challenging stereotyped views and inappropriate behaviour, following our behavioural policy and procedure. Betty responded to pupils’ learning needs. Her planning was well founded in good subject knowledge, showing clear progression for all children. Children found her lessons interesting because she used various stimuli. She had good communication skills, and always took my advice. She demonstrated a sound knowledge and understanding of teachers’ legal liabilities, and assisted with the organisation of out-of-school learning activities. She demonstrated the skills of a more than competent teacher.
Mrs M. Brent
Headmistress
Summer Hill Primary School
Chapter 8
Illegal Love
January 1970
Ireturn to Benson Vale Teacher Training College to complete my course. Being a teacher would certainly make my parents proud; I’ll be the first in our family to go beyond Standard Six and hold a profession. Skoonfontein Farm has never produced a school teacher: so, I’ll be leading the way. It is renowned for having ‘out-of-school-children’, or school drop-outs. I hope the farm labourers’ community will one day know about my achievements. This thought comforts and encourages me.
I work very hard, getting the best grades in all my subjects. Music is my favourite. Is it because the music tutor is friendly? The music period is on Friday before lunch. I sing first soprano in the college-choir. I like ‘The Hallelujah Chorus’ from the Messiah; we also sing ‘The Goslings’.
My worst subject is cursive handwriting. Oh my God, I struggle with this! My letters are uneven. I just can’t get the right letter size. On this day, I watch Mrs Stone through the corner of my left eye, walking between the rows checking on every trainee’s chalkboard, ensuring the correct handwriting movement. Suddenly, Mollie gets a smack on her head. I turn around as she drops the white chalk and duster to shield herself with her hands.
Mrs Stone places each foot with delicate precision; therefore, it’s impossible to hear her footsteps. I’m aware she’s moving closer to me. I haven’t written much. I write a sentence, glance to see how far she is, and then erase it. My heart is pounding loudly, and my hands are sweating profusely. I’m afraid of this woman.
Conscious of her presence behind me, I smell her perfume. My right hand shivers slightly - I stop writing. As the vibration of my hand increases, the piece of chalk slips through my fingers onto the floor. I quickly bend over to pick it up, expecting the beating on the back of my head. I start writing another word. I quickly erase it again, because it just doesn’t look right. I pause, until I feel a relatively slight tap on my shoulder.
“Betty, come here,” says Mrs Stone softly, beckoning me to follow her towards the back of the classroom. I guess I’m in trouble. Looking at her face, I gauge her moods. I shiver from fright, the palm of my hand still sweating. I pretend to be brushing off fluff from my uniform, but actua
lly dry my hands. It’s impossible to anticipate her next move. Just in case she flicks, something common with her, I take one step backwards, leaving a reasonable gap between us - should I have to run away.
She picks up her handbag, puts her hand in it, searching. I wonder what all this is about. I don’t dare to ask. She takes out a bunch of keys. Handing them to me, she says, “It’s better for you to go and clean my house. Empty all the bins, and in my bedroom you’ll find my washing basket of dirty clothes: wash them all.”
“Yes, Mrs Stone,” I say, receiving the keys, beaming with a smile. My tutor is doing me a big favour, sending me to clean her house during this period. I don’t only miss learning the chalkboard writing skill, but the smacking that comes with it. She returns to her home after school, and finds her house spotless.
“You’ve done a great job, Betty, thank you. You’re better off as a cleaner,” she says, sitting down on a sofa, ready to have a cup of tea.
Cleaner? I ask myself in my mind, but with my eyes wider open than usual, looking at her and smiling. I hope she won’t read my mind or notice my surprised look; I can’t dare disagree with a teacher and get myself in trouble.
Anyway, the school term draws closer. We’ve covered most of the syllabus. I take my final external examinations, but it’s impossible to predict the results, as marking will be done in Pretoria. Shortly, after that, I return to Uncle Ben’s house, my new home. I wait patiently for the results to arrive. I integrate well with this family. Recognising and respecting that it’s not my home, I make an effort to do all the chores to impress them.
Starlight in the Ring Page 13
