Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  “Gregory,” says my dad, looking at my face.

  “You must return to England. You don’t understand life here. It’s illegal for us to have a relationship with non-Europeans. Haven’t you noticed the signs in all public buildings?” Clearing his throat, he continues, “Boy, we don’t mix with them.”

  “But, Dad, that’s wrong. You can’t discriminate against other people on racial grounds.”

  “That’s the English law; it doesn’t apply here. Tomorrow, go to the travel agency, and book yourself the next available seat.”

  Annie, with a cloak covering her shoulders, soon returns with a tray. She pours the tea, and then sits down. She seems to be in deep thought.

  “We would like to have you here, Gregory. We can organise a party for you, and invite girls from our community so that you can find yourself a European companion. Should we do that?” Annie asks, trying to help me.

  “No thanks. I’m in love with Betty,” I reply, fervently.

  “But she is a native,” says Dad, bluntly. “You will never marry her here, son. Why waste your time in a relationship that has no future? If you break the laws, you will be put in prison, and be deported with a criminal record. Do you want that to happen to you? I’ll not accept these kinds of raids, and I don’t want other Europeans to isolate me, just because we ‘hang about with the natives’.”

  “Just for loving the woman I choose, Dad?” I ask, with exasperation. Gradually, my heart begins to break. I keep my emotions under control. I don’t want to cry. I remind myself that I made a choice to love Betty, and I’m not going to backtrack it. I take a deep breath of relief.

  This is ridiculous. I whisper to myself. “Okay, Dad, I’ll return to England, and will take Betty with me.”

  * * *

  I’m back in my bed, thinking about what has just happened tonight. I find it hard to believe and accept that I can’t love Betty by law, because our skins aren’t the same colour. I love her - the typical kind of ‘love at first sight’. Perhaps another young man should convince me that my views are wrong, and the law is right. I must speak to someone younger, someone likely to understand how it feels to have strong feelings of love for a woman. Carlos Gilianno, an Italian man, runs a restaurant in town. I’ll have my lunch there tomorrow and have a chat with him about this. I must arrive just after twelve o’clock, before many people get there for lunch an hour later. We can discuss my relationship freely, and then I can return to Britain in the next few weeks, having decided what I’ll do about Betty.

  * * *

  At eleven o’clock, I get into my dad’s van and drive to town. I’m fortunate to find a parking space in front of the restaurant. The tables are bare, as I anticipated. Carlos notices me. He comes over to take my order.

  “Hi, Gregory,” he says.

  “Hi, my friend,” I say, hoping he won’t notice that I feel bad. “Could I have two bottles of coke with ice cubes please? One is yours. Please join me at the table for a while before it gets busy; are you expecting many customers today?”

  “Hopefully - that’s what I like.”

  Carlos walks away, and Fanny, one of the waitresses, brings a tray with drinks. There’s also a bottle of wine. She pours a drop of wine for both of us to taste, and we give the signal, “It’s nice - please fill up the glasses.” She does so, with great respect, and then quickly disappears into the kitchen.

  Carlos pours more drink into the glass, and looks across thoughtfully.

  “What’s the news today, mate?”

  “Nothing I can think of, my friend.” I organise my thoughts in my mind. I want to make the best approach. So I ask Carlos, “What are your views about natives socialising with the Europeans, getting into firm relationships and marrying?”

  Looking up into the ceiling, Carlos replies, “Oh dear, that’s impossible. It’s going against the laws of nature.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask inquisitively, feeling hot all over my body, with my right hand shivering, but not letting him know the background of my question.

  “Their bodies are completely different to ours.”

  “Mh, in what way?” Now I really stare at him.

  “The skin feels and responds differently from ours. It’s not nice for them to make children – a European and a native. It’s like being out in the bush. A buck can’t mate with a lion.”

  I look at his face, and he seems certain of what he says. I listen controlling my feeling. I realise it was all up to education. It is unbelievable how people can be indoctrinated. Here, I have the most beautiful woman in the world, Betty. Why would anybody query our feelings for each other?

  “Carlos, where’s your wife?”

  “Back home.”

  “So? Don’t you miss her, mate?”

  “Of course, I do. We actually do spend lots of time together, when possible. She has a good job – managing one of our companies in Italy. She can’t move over to live with me here.”

  “Do you really love her?”

  “What do you think? Of course I do.”

  “Why aren’t you together then? Why choose to satisfy financial needs before the physical?” I ask Carlos to provoke his feelings.

  I have heard Carlos’ viewpoint. I just have to accept that my time to see Betty has come to an end. I have to return to England. This thought triggers an intensive sense of the pain of loss within me. I feel my tears about to rush out. Resting on my elbows on the table, with my eyes buried behind the palms of my hands, I manage to hold them back at first, and then let them go freely down my cheeks, before I wipe them off.

  “Gregory, there’s no need for this. Just accept that’s how things are here.”

  “Okay, mate, I better go,” I say, getting up from my chair and shoving it forward. Trying to smile, I say, “Take care of yourself,” as I leave Carlos.

  Instead of going straight to my dad’s van, I go into the café by the railway station. As I’m standing waiting to be seated, a tall fair-haired man walks in, and sits at the table. I realise he speaks Afrikaans well. This is another right person to speak to, I think, as I move myself slowly towards his table.

  He has a large suitcase by himself, obviously about to embark on a substantial journey. I ask him, “Where are you off to mate?” I can tell, he is an Afrikaner.

  “England.”

  “Really, why now?”

  “I’ve decided to leave South Africa.”

  “Tell me more about it.”

  “I know, the climate isn’t that great, but I appreciate their way of thinking.”

  “Hmm,” I think this conversation is taking an exciting turn. I ask him, “Do you see the natives as lesser beings here?”

  “No way,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “From a very early age, I thought what we were taught was wrong.” He pauses, and qualifies his statement, “My parents have similar views as me. They brought me up to assess situations before I find an opinion. That’s why I’m going to England; to be away from this way of thinking. I’ve been told that in England, everybody has the freedom to attain their potential, and there are no apartheid laws there.”

  I am struck by the stark contrast; encouraged that there are some people whose thoughts are not entrenched through the government’s indoctrination of the masses into believing in unfairness. I see now why some people want to go to England. I am absolutely convinced, and more determined than ever, to take Betty back to England with me.

  At Betty’s home

  The time is 9.30 p.m., and it’s dark outside. The wind is blowing and there’s a chill in the air. I hear a knock at my door. I turn the lights out and peep through the window. I see a man with a dark balaclava, a hat, gloves and a three-quarter length coat – all in grey. From his body structure, I can tell it’s my Greg. In our planning, we agreed to him disguising himself. What is he doing here? Everybody will know he’s been. Oh my God, I’m in trouble again.

  “Bet, darling, open the door quickly! It’s me, Greg!” I sense the urgency in his voice. I�
��m concerned someone will notice him, and get the police around. I open my door quickly, and let him in. Standing by the door, I say, “Greg, I’m very sorry - you can’t stay here for long. I’ll get into more trouble. Are you all right?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s very bad out there. Bet, darling, I want you to know that I love you very much.” Looking at Greg, I’m certain that his fear of losing me is great. I can’t bear the thought of living without him too.

  “I know Greg, but it’s impossible to continue like this.”

  “Betty, let’s get out of here, I’m taking you away with me.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  “Let’s go to England. There is no racism there. I’ve got my booking sorted. When I get home, I’ll arrange for you to join me.”

  “Mmmm.” I stare at Greg, saying nothing. I can’t entertain the thoughts of having Greg away from me, for any length of time. I feel like screaming; my love for him is so deep. I can’t envisage us parting. I look at Greg, pull him towards me, and give him a long, deep kiss; the one to leave in his memory. I could feel the wetness from my eyes dropping onto Greg’s cheeks. I close my eyes, so that I can cry. I feel my head pounding. I look at him one more time, before speaking.

  “I’m very sorry, darling. I can’t leave South Africa. I don’t have a valid passport to travel abroad. Look, I only have a travel document endorsed to be used to travel around the homelands of Transkei, Ciskei, Botswana, Swaziland, Lesotho, Bophutatswana and Venda. I can’t even go to live in certain parts of South Africa – the laws won’t allow me.”

  Greg appears confused. He takes my travel document, looks at it and shakes his head.

  “Are you a South African citizen?”

  “No, I’m not. I could have been, and the government introduced new laws later, thus removing my citizenship.”

  “What’s your nationality then?”

  “I’m not a citizen of any country at the moment. According to the law, I’m just called a ‘Homeland Citizen’.”

  “So, what passport do you hold?”

  “None at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “How can you travel beyond South Africa? What kind of law is this that prevents you from travelling freely? This is crazy.” There is a remarkable silence. Both Greg and I are confused about this legal system.

  “I’d like to go away with you, but without a valid passport and a visa, it is impossible,” Greg says.

  I look at him, thinking, “What are my options now?” The thought of Greg leaving me behind tears me; a part of me is about to be taken away.

  “That’s one of the problems I have to face as a native. In addition, my money is limited. I earn just enough to sustain me to the end of the month – that’s about one hundred and forty rand.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this. There are strict passport checks at the airport. You need a valid and recognised passport, and a visa to go to Europe,” Greg advises me. “You can’t apply for a visa with this ‘rubbish’ document. It’s not recognised.” Greg pulls a face, shaking his head sideways, before throwing my green travel document of the floor.

  This talk triggers my emotions. I sob. Tears start flowing down my cheeks again, and heavily this time. I feel bitter. My sadness becomes intolerable. I see my bleak life clearly, embedded in pain and suffering, and I yearn for a more fulfilling future.

  “Bet, I have a friend, Thomas Kruger. He lives in South West Africa. I met him at the United Nations Conference in London. I’ll bring his address next time; perhaps you can visit him, for a start. He may be able to help us, because in his work as a solicitor, they handle human rights issues. You may apply for a South African passport through his help. I’m going back to dad’s home. I’ll see you soon,” says Greg, leaving my home in haste. I watch him take a few steps forward, and turn to look at me. I sense his feeling of hurt.

  “Remember to come and say good-bye before you return to England, Greg,” I say affectionately.

  “Bet, I promise you I will come around to say good-bye.” I look up at him and smile.

  Greg grabs my hand gently saying, “Betty, I’m sorry - I’ve got to go.” Holding back an ocean of tears, I cling on him.

  “Promise, Greg, you’ll return to say good-bye - then I’ll let you go.” Tears start pouring down my cheek, and Greg’s cheeks. We wipe them off.

  “I promise you’ll see me soon again; that’s a deal,” Greg says and smiles, before kissing me goodnight. He puts on his coat, gloves and balaclava, opens the door, looks back, and hugs me, before disappearing into the dark village.

  I start thinking about my journey. I need a free lift to Queenstown. From there, I can spend my money to buy a train ticket, perhaps just to get to De Aar or so. I’ll connect trains from there and stay in hiding behind luggage in the compartment, where no one can take notice of me. I’ll reach South West Africa. However, I have to wait for the right time, when trains are busy and everybody is excited about Christmas. With staff shortages, there should be the minimum of checks.

  * * *

  Greg visits me again, to say good-bye, as promised. He gives me two pieces of paper with addresses written on them. The first one says:

  Thomas Kruger

  26 Post Street, Swakopmund

  South West Africa

  Tel. 064 20713

  And the second reads:

  Gregory Davies

  50 Powland Street, Skipton, North Yorkshire

  Great Britain

  Tel 01756 850699

  I hold on to them, for safekeeping, and to put them in my handbag later. I look at Greg. He’s gorgeous. We come close, hug and kiss each other. I feel the wetness on his cheeks, and notice he is crying. His cheeks are so red; I am crying too. We hold each other tightly as we kiss the very last good-bye. It’s a very difficult moment for both of us. My hope is that we shall meet again in England, because I believe there’s no racism there.

  “Betty…” Greg calls looking at me expressionlessly.

  “Mmmm…” I answer.

  Rolling his eyes, and blinking every so often he says, “Rejoice, I love you.” Gradually, I tell my heart, ‘Let him go.’

  * * *

  I feel terribly alone. I miss Greg. I want to hear the sound of his voice, and talk to him for ever. I decide to go on that risky journey, following my heart and leaving the country. I write my letter of resignation:

  To the School Committee

  Firstly, I thank you for giving me the opportunity to teach at Mount View Primary School. I’ve enjoyed serving my fellow natives here, providing their children with the skills and education they require to be successful in life. I did my work to the best of my ability.

  However, the time for me has come to move on, in search of the greener pastures elsewhere, for my children and I to graze on. This letter serves as my official document for immediate resignation from the teaching post I hold.

  Yours faithfully,

  Betty Baker

  I can’t wait for the next day to submit my letter to the principal. Of course, this will be a surprise to everyone in the school. I knock at her door.

  “Come in,” Mrs Grove says, immediately. I walk in, and pull the chair to sit opposite her. She puts down her spectacles, grins, looking straight at my eyes. Feeling innocent, I look at her face, saying, “Hello, Mrs Grove.”

  “Yes, Betty,” she says. She is wearing her usual navy blue jacket, that over a white shirt. Her pearl necklace matches her stud earrings. These blend in nicely with her bright red lipstick. Her grey hair is curled into a bun at the back of her head. She holds onto the frame of her spectacles with her left hand. “What can I do for you? Are you all right, Miss Baker?” she asks, as she continues fiddling with the books on top of her table. It’s my first time to visit her office out of my own initiative. She seems to sense something is wrong with me.

  I lay my letter in front of her, saying, “I’ve now decided to resign and move on with my life. Please read the letter, and thank you for al
l your help. Could you write a reference for me please? I may not be able to collect it. So push it under my door, if I’m out.” I look at her as I get up, saying, “I’ve got lots to do, so I’d better leave you with this.” I look at her face, smile to the point where my eyelids crease saying, “Good bye, principal,” before shutting the door behind me.

  I return to my flat, pack my few necessities in a small suitcase, ready to leave the next day. I get up very early; have a wash, put on my jeans and t-shirt. I wear my jewellery and make-up. I carry my coat and my handbag, and walk to the road. I stand by the roadside to hitchhike.

  After a little while a car approaches. I stick out my hand and point my thumb down. The car stops. I go to the driver, who winds down his window.

  “I’m going to Queenstown, please!” I say loudly, still holding onto the handle of my suitcase.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to Aliwal North, lady,” he says.

  “That’s fine with me. I’ll continue hitch-hiking from there.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He puts my suitcase in the boot, while I open the front passenger door, and make myself comfortable on the seat. I shut the door, and he drives off.

  “Mhmm, I’m ‘smelling’ a lady,” the driver makes this comment while looking at me with romantic eyes. “Are you running away from your husband?”

  I wish he knows how I feel, and just shut up. Before I respond he asks again, “Where are you from and what are you doing in Queenstown?”

  “I live in this village, and I’m going away for a break.”

  He tries to engage me in a conversation, but I don’t feel like saying much.

  “Okay, I’d better give you your space. I think you need some.”

  Great! He’s got the message. I’m worried about being in Aliwal North. This is one of the areas reserved for Europeans, although there are some natives living in the townships. I’ve been here before.