Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  There are times when I wish I wouldn’t see the sun rises and sets again… these are ‘the dark moments’. However, I try to enjoy my job, working extremely hard. In some way, it’s like the same-old South Africa you know.…I miss you.

  Love, Betty x

  After reading my letter, I seal it in an envelope. Deep in thought about the current state of my life, I walk down to the Post Office. I buy a stamp for forty cents, and get an airmail sticker. The cashier is very kind to accept it over the counter. Imagining Greg’s excitement when receiving my letter, I return home.

  I live a peaceful life with everyone, daily. I have experienced many of life’s ups and downs. I’m determined to do whatever I can to improve the level of my education and knowledge, generally. In my spare time, I read my reference letter, to encourage myself. My eyes fill up with tears, making it impossible to see and read the text. I’m tired of wiping them off. I continue reading, until tears drop on the paper, smudging it.

  In my imagination, Greg’s face flashes before me. Betty, what are you doing here? I ask myself. When will you follow your heart, and go to be with Greg in England? Shaking my head, I remember the fact that this is impossible to do from South Africa.

  I am thinking about many things: Skoonfontein, my family and my future. I may be separated from them, but my life goes on! I can feel such happiness within me.

  from Betty’s journal, 14th July 1973

  Chapter 9

  The Tribunal

  December 1972

  Early in the morning, I open the front door to get out to the city for a job search, as my temporary job at Ben Schoeman has finished. I walk down the street towards the number 187 bus stop. Staggering, I struggle to stay balanced due to the strong wind. I trip on something hard and fall over; landing with both knees and hands on the ground. My handbag drops off my shoulder.

  “Ouch!” I lie there for a while before getting up slowly, and collecting my handbag. Brushing my hands and bending over to look at the cut below my right knee, I get a tissue from my handbag to clean the wound dripping with blood. I bind my handkerchief around the wound to stop the blood-flow and turn around and look back, wondering what made me fall. I see a tied blue carrier bag, probably with concrete inside. I recognise the letters OK, the name of a big supermarket on the high street. That’s what I tripped on.

  This is not surprising: litter is scattered everywhere, and fly-tipping seems to be the norm in this area. Rats run around in daylight feeling good after feeding from rotten, smelly food in overflowing rubbish bins. Some dry yellowish and brown leaves are cluttering the gullies. Others are scattered all over the streets and pavements.

  I force my way forward, finding it difficult, and struggling to breathe. With cross winds blowing so strongly, it’s hard for me to remain upright. I manage to balance, defying the wind blowing me sideways. At a distance, I see a cloud of dust appearing to be touching the sky. Blown papers are flying about, polluting the atmosphere. My eyes are sandy and reddish from constant rubbing and trying to remove the sand grains. ‘Huh, this is Windhoek,’ I moan to myself. The literal translation of Windhoek is ‘windy corner’.

  I arrive at the bus-stop and join the end of the long queue. It’s rather noisy, with various people chatting among themselves in their vernacular. I can hardly understand a word they’re saying. Is it Damara, Khoisan, Portuguese or Tswana? I wonder. Listening again, I still can’t tell, but conclude it’s definitely not Afrikaans.

  After a short while, the pain from my knee subsides, but leaves me with a slight limp. The empty bus pulls into our stand for number 187. People rush in, but the queue is moving slowly. I keep my fingers crossed, hoping to get on even if I don’t get a seat: I’d be happy to stand all the way. Now, there’s only one other passenger in front of me. Just as he puts his foot on the lower step, the driver shouts, “The bus is full!” immediately slamming the bus door, and beginning to pull away.

  “Please, I’m late for work!” shouts this man, banging the door. The driver ignores him completely, and drives off. I look at his face, feeling bad - as though it had happened to me. The bus soon disappears into the main road, and out of my sight.

  “It’s useless trying to plead with these drivers,” I say, comforting him.

  “He’s rude, and doesn’t care about other people,” replies this man, panting heavily. “He is disrespectful,” he adds, waving his hand away from his body. Oh, shame, the door nearly trapped him! This could have been worse, I thought.

  I wait patiently, listening to the many grumbling passengers left behind. They are concerned about getting to work late, and having to face their bosses. Others are worried about getting the sack. I appear to be the only person to be at least comfortable. If only they could know I was the worse off; but who could tell?

  Soon another bus pulls into the stand. As the door flings open, a man appears from my right hand side, suddenly, and pushes himself through into the door.

  “Stop!” someone shouts from the back. I hold onto the bus to stop myself from falling over. People start pushing to the front, trying to go in first. This behaviour annoys me; however I let them have their way.

  “Hey, mate, go back to the end of the queue!” shouts the driver, in vain. This man completely ignores him, and walks straight to the backseat, takes out a cigarette and smokes.

  I get in, and sit by the window, watch the passengers, as they walk in, filling the vacant seats. I’m very impressed by a woman, wearing an outfit looking like a bride’s wedding gown, and a headscarf, shaped like horns. I discover later that she belongs to a Herero ethnic group. The passengers are quiet in comparison to South Africa - perhaps it’s their culture, I think.

  After travelling for about five miles, we arrive at the terminus. Feeling low and lacking enthusiasm, I drag my feet, walking out towards the main street. I continue to walk slowly, window-shopping until I reach the outskirts. Suddenly, I remember my teacher, Mr Parker saying, “People judge us by our appearance and character.”

  This thought pricks my conscience, helping me regain confidence. Walking elegantly, ignoring my bruised knees, I go into a café for a drink, hoping to find someone to talk to. I place my order for a cup of tea at the counter, before sitting at the back table facing the entrance.

  One of the waitresses comes around to the table next to mine to collect the tray with used plates, cups and cutlery.

  “Are you all right there, love?” she asks, wiping the table with a damp cloth.

  “Yeah, I’m okay, thanks – just looking for work at the moment.”

  “What kind of work?” she asks with interest.

  “Any work would do for now,” I reply, not caring to hide my desperation.

  “Well, perhaps you could help me?”

  “Yes, please, that would be great,” I reply frankly, taking another small sip of my tea to ensure it lasts.

  The lady disappears into the back, and returns shortly with her manager, John De Klerk. A tall European man, about six foot two, with a very strong Afrikaans accent, pulls out the chair at my table to sit down directly opposite me.

  “Hello,” he says in Afrikaans, looking straight into my eyes.

  “Good morning, Sir,” I reply in English, looking straight back at him.

  “So, you’re an English-speaker; that’s good for my business.” He switches over to English. “Katie says you’re looking for a job. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Sir, that’s true.”

  “What job are you after, exactly?” asks Mr De Klerk. Before I respond he asks the next question. “What’s your experience, or speciality?”

  “I’m an experienced qualified primary school teacher.”

  “I can offer you a job as a cashier. How’s that?”

  “I’ll take it, thank you.”

  “When can you start?” he asks, getting out of the chair, walking across to the counter to speak to the cashier. As he returns, I’m ready with the answer.

  “Tomorrow, Sir,” I respond hast
ily, grinning and looking to impress him.

  “You should be able to pick up the nitty-gritty of the job pretty well. Everybody is helpful here; the key is looking after our customers, ensuring they return. Report at half past seven for an eight o’clock start, okay? I’ll have your uniform ready by then,” he says, before disappearing through the back door of the café into the kitchen.

  Breathing gently with relief, I look outside through the big window, watching the people passing by. Despair grips me, as I think of the job I’ve just accepted. I must get on with it, regardless of the risk involved in defending the cash machine during robberies, and my lack of experience in this line of work. My cup is almost empty. I drink the last drop, get up and look across the tables, making eye-contact and giving a slight wave to my future colleagues, before leaving. They wave back, smiling.

  I wander about in the city before returning to the bus terminus for my bus back home.

  The terminus is quite crowded with shoppers and buses. My thoughts are flooded with my strong desire to continue working as an English teacher here in South West Africa until I get the opportunity to follow my heart and live with Greg, wherever possible. Even so, for now, teaching seems too difficult to accomplish – it’s a dream, but one that I hope will come true, just like at Ben Schoeman. At the moment, I must hold on to my cashier job, and earn money to pay my basic living expenses.

  I have exciting news at least. I get off the bus, and walk slowly this time towards my home. “It’s a job,” I say, convincing myself. I quickly do my little jobs and go to bed for an early night. I’m unable to sleep for most of the night due to anxiety about the job that I’m about to embark on. I must have drifted into sleep because I wake up from a strange dream, crying, and realise it’s time to get ready for work.

  I haven’t got much time to ponder over the dream. I prepare myself and walk to the bus-stop. I’m the first passenger, ready to board the next bus that arrives. The bus is almost empty at this hour of the morning, so I manage to get myself a seat, and have a nice, comfortable journey. As the bus approaches the stop before the terminus, my heart starts to pound heavily. I sense discomfort as I rise up, ready to move towards the door. The bus stops, and I jump out. Stretching my body, I open my mouth, yawning. Tiredness due to lack of sleep engulfs my body, as I walk towards the café.

  I push the door, assuming it’s already open. Realising it is locked I knock on the glass-door behind the burglar bars. I don’t get a response. I walk around to see if there’s another entrance to the building, but the café is shut and I wait outside, leaning by the wall. The other workers soon arrive simultaneously. We converse until Mr De Klerk arrives in his grey Mercedes Benz.

  “Goeie more,” he says, or ‘Good morning,’ in English, opening the burglar bars and the door to let us all in. We respond in chorus, “Good morning, Sir.”

  “Betty Baker, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Will you come over to the office to collect your uniform?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I follow him through a long and dark corridor, until outside the building. We squeeze through a narrow passage into another building. His office is here. He puts his key in to open it and then, with his knee gives a little push, to release the jammed door. “Go in,” he says. I do as told, but stand by the door, leaning on the wall. He turns on the light, and walk straight towards his desk, humming. He beckons me to, “come around”.

  I do, until I stand in front of his desk. He opens another door of the storeroom, and comes back to his desk. When he walks past me this time, he pats my shoulders. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” he says.

  I hold my breath in fear, not knowing how to respond on this occasion. He gives me a new brown skirt, a similarly-coloured cap, and a cream shirt in a transparent plastic bag.

  “You can try them on,” he says.

  Not in your presence, I think to myself. I stand still for a while, holding my uniform in my hand, indicating that he should go out.

  He gets my non-verbal message, and quickly walks out. I put them on, and they are the right fit. I then make my way out to the kitchen to work alongside Marta, our supervisor, who trains me on the cash machine. We do all the jobs, mopping the floors, cleaning the windows, and preparing the teas and meals, before the customers begin to arrive. My first day goes well, and I gladly continue working for Mr De Klerk.

  Some days are worse than others, though. One day, Mr Beans, the principal of the Ben Schoeman Primere Skool where I taught temporarily, walks in. He comes straight to the counter to place his order and recognises me. Amazed, he says, “Betty Baker, is this you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m working temporarily, until I hear whether there’s a vacancy at your school.” We engage in a friendly conversation for some time.

  When no one is looking, I give him a piece of paper confirming my contact details. He promises to be in touch with me as soon as possible. I don’t know what he’s thinking as he leaves the café.

  A few weeks pass, and I do not hear from him.

  ‘Oh well, that’s just one of those things I have to accept and put up with,’ I say to myself, pondering about teaching in comparison to the cashier job. Some people do fail to keep to their promises, don’t they? That’s normal. It’s not because of ignorance, but because of unforeseen circumstances. I eventually forget about Mr Beans.

  Six months later, John hands me a telephone message to contact Mr Beans urgently. I guess what this is all about, and I’m right. He has offered me a teaching opportunity at Ben Schoeman Primere Skool again, because the country is going through a tremendous teacher shortage. Perhaps within a year I can upgrade my qualification issued by the Department of Bantu Education in South Africa.

  Now, I have the teaching job I aspired to. From Monday to Friday, I leave my rented home at 7.00 a.m. for school, and return around 2.30 p.m. I work very hard to impress my management team, parents and children. All appears well.

  Suddenly, one Friday afternoon, Mr Beans summons me to his office, handing me a letter terminating my service at the school. The letter refers to a recent change of the law regarding teachers trained out of the country. So, in total shock, I receive this letter, and bid farewell to my colleagues, wondering what’s going to happen to me next.

  A few months later

  I pick up a newspaper from the Library, and Arthur Benson Infant School has advertised a temporary post for six months. Not deterred by my previous experience, I apply for it. Surprisingly, I’m called for an interview in the following week. After explaining the circumstances regarding the South African teachers’ qualification, I’m accepted on condition that I enrol on the upgrading programme administered by the Star Academy.

  Mrs Magdalene Arno is assigned to mentor and then assess me, to determine my suitability for a permanent licence to teach in any administration in this country.

  I’ve almost reached the end of my assessment period, although several things have gone wrong. Mrs Arno has not been talking to me; she writes comments and hands me the sheet. I feel she is unpleasant towards me. I put up with this treatment as it is not my usual nature to complain. I’m easy-going, and accept positive criticism willingly.

  Nevertheless, at this point I’ve submitted my concerns regarding how she handled my assessment as outlined by the Academy’s policies. I’ve done this, knowing my dad would have said, “Leave it, Betty, and just move on.”

  I can vividly remember the incident my dad referred to, when we lived in Skoonfontein. Baas Jimmie’s friend’s son hurt my finger. The Baas was unable to help me, and then I later told my dad.

  Here, I am in a similar situation, using the Star Academy’s Complaints’ Procedure against their own representative. It comforts me to know these democratic policies exist.

  Mrs Arno says that she needs to re-assess me constantly, together with her colleague. Once I’ve passed all re-assessments, I can then be assessed further to meet the requireme
nts of the country’s Board of Education before I can be granted a licence to teach.

  I prepare my last Year One Dance lesson thoroughly for observation - adapting the activities from the lessons the school already use from their ‘Dance Scheme’. As dance is my favourite subject, and I have done special training in Physical Education, I am relaxed.

  Mrs Arno walks in carrying her clip-board as usual, and sits at the desk I reserved for her, where she has a good view of all the thirty children in the hall. My folder with the lesson plan, in three parts, warm-up, play three tracks, and do movements, and cool-down, is on this desk, open for her.

  After changing into their PE kits, the children walk on all fours into the field with multi-coloured rubber mats scattered all over the floor. Each child stands on their mat, waiting for my instructions:

  “Stand up with a straight back, and listen to my story about ‘the toy shop’.” I play the tape. “The toys are sad, because the shop is dusty and clumsy. Show me a sad face. The toys are asleep on the shelf. Curl up on the floor. Now, stretch and march, like a toy soldier. When the music changes, show me a happy face. Copy me as I show you the movements the toys can make. Gallop, like a horse, into space and changing your direction.”

  I notice Belinda sitting down, and not participating. As I get next to her, she starts vomiting. I get everybody to sit down, while I deal with this emergency. I send one of the children to the office with a message that I need someone to come to the playground immediately, because Belinda is sick.

  That disturbs the progression of my lesson, as some children appear unstable. The secretary collects her, leaving me to continue with the lesson: