Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  That’s the train I’m waiting for. Soon, it arrives. I board this train, sitting by the window again. All the passengers from the train that has broken down also come in, filling every vacant seat. The doors shut, and the train departs slowly towards the north. All the passengers are quiet. This is unusual to me. It’s difficult to tell whether anyone is looking at me or not. They are all of European origin. I sit confidently, pretending to know my destination. I look outside through the window as the train departs from the station.

  Having travelled through the dense sprawl of North London the train passes through embankments with thick bushes towards Skipton. I guess people are quiet due to tiredness from work. The landscape becomes fascinating. There are green fields, stone-built farm buildings, and some farm animals grazing in the fields, just like in South Africa. A village appears in the distance. I really admire the countryside.

  The atmosphere in my compartment appears tense, and no one chats. I wish someone would speak to me so that I can establish how far away Skipton is. The train arrives at the next station, and more people get off. I pass the time looking through the window, admiring the blue sky. The train goes through the tunnel, making my ears pop. I look at the passengers, estimating their ages to be between 20 and 35. I wonder where the older folks are.

  The sky darkens, and clouds seem to be gathering rain. I rehearse ‘Skipton’ in my mind. The train drives over a small bridge, passing deserted old buildings, and some more villages. It seems to be heading for the horizon. The journey is never-ending.

  I must have fallen asleep for a while. I wake up as the guard announces the next station but it’s not Skipton. Many passengers have left. On my right-hand side and behind me, I see many vacant seats, and I’m a bit frightened. However, I continue looking outside. Farms exist in England, after all, I think, as I see many fields with stone walls round their outside. This must be hard work, I guess, to build them all.

  “The next station is Skipton. This train terminates here. Please take all your belongings with you,” the guard announces.

  My heart begins to beat faster. I start having mixed feelings, a mixture of excitement and fear. My hands sweat, and my body feels hot with butterflies in my tummy. I wonder if Greg will be at the station to meet me, or will I have to take a taxi?

  Whatever happens to me doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve followed my heart to look for Greg, the man I fell in love with, some years ago. The train stops. I take my massive suitcase, travelling bag and handbag, and get off the train, following the ‘way-out’ signs – something we don’t have in South Africa.

  Many passengers rush out of the station. Walking slowly, I admire the station itself, with its attractive baskets hanging from the rafters. I walk past an old market wheelbarrow tied to a pillar also full of flowers. Finally, I’ve reached Skipton - but where is Gregory? I sigh, stopping my rumbling tummy.

  Greg recalls

  My journey to happiness is a walk to the unknown. It’s now about 4 years since my forced return from South Africa. I’m at Skipton railway station. In a world of my own, I wander forward towards the platforms. As I look around, my eyes catch a beautiful apparition. It is as if I’m in a dream, and nothing else exists.

  In fact, without doubt, she is the most exquisite creation of womanhood I’ve ever chanced upon. I look across, admiring her hourglass figure. Her head lifts up, and we make eye-contact. It’s as though I’m on a conveyor belt. In a moment, I’m pulled towards her. I have no control of myself. I ask her, with my hands fidgeting, “Excuse me. I hope I’m not getting this wrong, are you Betty Baker?” She looks at me, and smiles.

  “Yes, I’m Betty, Betty Baker,” she replies, with her calm, tender voice. We haven’t seen each other for many years, although we have recently exchanged letters and pictures.

  The bright sunlight from out of the station illuminates the outline of her sensuous figure, as she stares sat me magnificently, like a goddess of Greek legend. Her lips stay apart. My heart pounds, and my blood rushes through all parts of my body. I hug her, whispering, “Betty, you’re mine – you’re my woman, the one I love. I waited for you!” I pull her closer to me, giving her a good kiss.

  “No, not here, please,” whispers Betty, pushing me gently away from her.

  “Don’t be worried, about the people passing by,” I reassure her. Some passengers rush onto the platform to board the train. The train cleaners probably overhear us, and give me a smile.

  I look at her from head to toe, preparing what to say next. I catch her fabulous smile. Her brown eyes roll over to look at me, and her long brown curly hair cascades at the back.

  “Greg, my darling, Gregory!” Betty shouts, appearing very excited. She is so loud that it suddenly goes quiet. The British are a very reserved people in comparison. “My Angel!” she says, throwing her arms around my shoulders. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I move closer, holding her tightly towards me for a long time, just like the day I left her in South Africa in tears, badly heartbroken because the 1949 Mixed Marriages Act 55 and the Immorality Act 23 (as amended in 1957) prevented me from loving her.

  “Here you are, standing in front of me, looking so pretty! My Betty,” I say, excitedly, looking directly in her eyes. “I have a lot to share with you. I guess we both have loads to catch up on,” I continue.

  “Yes, definitely,” she replies in a soft tone, the one I’m familiar with.

  Betty recalls

  I look at Greg. He grips my attention: I can’t take my eyes off him again. That’s my Gregory. He is wearing jeans torn at the knees, and a greenish t-shirt, his usual casual style. He looks similar to how he was in South Africa. His eyes are the same as those engraved in my memories - the eyes, with long eyelashes, bushy eyebrows and a well-trimmed beard. All this allays my fears instantly.

  I’ve known him since I was in my late teens and he was in his early twenties. I want to hear more from him about his background. Who is he, exactly? What does he find attractive in me? This can happen when we are relaxed, in a good atmosphere. I know he is in love with me.

  We walk together, heading towards the town centre, with everybody seeing us. No one seems bothered here. We turn to the right, and go straight into the alleyway. We go over the bridge, walking towards the residential area. On this side of Skipton town, the houses are terraced, built on the slope with stones. Chimneys protrude through the roofs. The streets are bare; no cars, or people passing by. I wonder why? We pass a cinema; the word, ‘cinema’, is written in big, red letters just above the door. My mind is engaged deeply with these thoughts; sadly I miss what Greg says. He notices this, stands still, and stops talking. I am not sure what to do.

  “Sorry, Greg, my luggage is very heavy; do we have a long way to go?” Greg must have noticed that I’m struggling.

  He looks at me, saying, “No, we don’t have a long way to go. My home is over there.” He is pointing further away. He is right; it’s not a long way from the station, but I feel uncomfortable; my feet hurt from wearing high-heeled shoes all day. I try to ignore the pain. They are my Sunday best, and I’ve worn them to impress Greg. My ear lobes hurt from the weight of my new earrings. I tolerate this discomfort too. We talk all the way, stopping for a drink at a café.

  “What would you like to drink, sweetheart?”

  “What’s available?” I ask Greg.

  “Cappuccino, latte, espresso, ground coffee, or what?” he says.

  “Mmmh,” I say, not sure which coffee to choose. He notices this and says, “Could you tell the waiter what we want, while I use the toilet?” These names sound unfamiliar to me. I’m not keen on asking the difference, so I confidently make my choice. “Espresso…yes, espresso, please.”

  Greg returns, and we continue talking as we wait for our drinks. The waiter brings very small cups with strong coffee. I look at Greg and laugh. I take a sip to taste it.

  “Ugh, it’s awful! I can’t drink this. Could we ask for hot water to dilute it?”

  “Certainly,” says
Greg, raising his hand to attract the waiter’s attention. The waiter comes over to our table straight away. Greg asks for an extra cup, and water. The waiter disappears into the kitchen, returning with a jar of hot water.

  “Thanks, mate,” says Greg. I halve my coffee, reach out to the jar, and dilute it. I take another sip. There is no difference.

  “No, sorry I can’t drink it still,” I say, pushing it away from me.

  “Not to worry - try the latte,” suggests Greg, desperate to cheer me up.

  He goes to the counter, orders, and pays. The waiter – an English man - possibly a Yorkshireman - brings it on a tray. “Thank you,” I say, and show no surprise. I drink my coffee, and it is nice. I’m getting to grips with non-racist England. We finish our drinks and leave.

  Greg puts his hand around my back, offering me assurance. He couldn’t do this in South Africa. I feel a bit uncomfortable as I’m also very exhausted. I beg Greg to take me straight home.

  We soon arrive at Greg’s home where he had lived with his mum all his life. I go in and sit down in the living room.

  “Betty, this was my mum’s house, and now it’s mine,” says Greg bluntly. I take a deep breath of relief that he has got a good house to live in, but I still sense something is not right. Instantly, I scan through the whole darkish, living room, with tall, wallpaper-decorated walls. A long brown settee with three cushions is positioned in front of the gas fireplace. The carpet matching the blue patterns of the wallpaper looks old, with some holes. A massive gilded mirror hangs on the wall to the left side of the fireplace. An old, dusty piano stands behind the door with ornaments displayed on it. Opposite, there’s a bookshelf filled with all sorts of books. They are arranged neatly; I see adventures, books on sports, diet and religion, and on the wall hangs a big black-and-white portrait - that is his mum. She is wearing a white shirt with a Chinese collar, and is wearing pearl studs. She has long brown hair resting on her shoulders, and a fringe on her forehead. The wooden frame of the picture is thick, and the glass is full of dust. The picture looks old, as if it was taken before the Second World War.

  I sit on the sofa, which is covered with a cream throw, facing the door leading to the dining room. A big table covered in a cream cloth and surrounded by eight chairs is visible. Thick curtains which match the carpets are closed, making the room darker.

  “Yes, I like it,” I say with appreciation.

  “What?” asks Greg. I say nothing for a while, just scanning the house. He sits next to me, and puts his arms around my neck, saying, “I love you so much; don’t worry, we will be all right.”

  I nod, saying, “Okay,” and then smile.

  He continues, “I want you to be happy.”

  It is for the first time, as far as I can remember, that I have had so much hope. I want to share my past life, but I do not know where or how to start. I can feel I am close to breaking, but I do not want to spoil this moment. So, I ask, Greg, “What news have you got?”

  As he begins to speak about his family, I notice a change in his appearance. Sad memories of the past engraved in his mind come to the fore, causing his gorgeous smile to fade. Greg says, “My mum returned to live in this house after my dad had an affair with Annie. Do you remember her?”

  “Yes, your stepmother. She was a nice lady, wasn’t she?”

  “I don’t know much about that. I lived happily with my mum for so many years,” he says. His voice slurs, slowing down as his eyes water. I wonder what I’m about to hear. I can guess, and it’s heart-breaking.

  I’m careful not to interrupt him. My eyes go all over the living room, searching for clues. There is no sign of a woman living here. Greg is unaware of my fluctuating mind. He clears his throat and continues, “I told my mum about you, and our South African encounter. I showed her your photo, and told her you were the woman I was planning to marry.”

  “What were her views about you marrying me?” I ask.

  “Firstly, she doubted our relationship would last. And then she asked many questions, probably to test my determination: are there no English women to marry? Will I cope with mixed racial children? Would I tolerate ‘stares’ from people, who might be unfamiliar or disapprove of mixed-race relationships?”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I answered all her questions positively. I realised that my mum was less well-informed about people of other races. I showed her the picture I drew when I was fourteen-years-old. Remember Betty, that time I also had no clue about the African continent.”

  Greg disappears upstairs onto the landing, and brings a big frame with my picture next to the drawing he is talking about.

  “My mum looked at my drawing alongside this photo you sent me from South West Africa. She confirmed that you were the woman I drew.” I look at both pictures in surprise.

  “How could this have been?” I ask, still staring at both pictures. I confirm their likeness. “Well,” I say, amazed by such a coincidence. “This looks like me!” I’m excited, and relieved, still holding the pictures.

  “In the end my mum was pleased that I had found the woman I love. She was persuaded we’d get on well, and she blessed us.”

  Struggling to talk, holding back tears, Greg frowns. There is an instant silence. This drags on; his heart definitely aches at the thought of his mum. I wait for him to continue his explanation. I can’t stand seeing him cry, but he remains quiet.

  “So, your mum was a Christian?”

  “Sort of - in this country we don’t normally discuss religious views.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” I say, wondering what is wrong in discussing Faith. I do not pursue this topic. This could be his cultural views, I thought.

  “Where is your mum now?” I ask, sympathetically, refraining from jumping to a conclusion about death. She might have remarried, or abandoned him. There’s a silence again, and then Greg continues:

  “She prolonged her life, tolerated the pains, refusing to let go. However, on this particular day, she reached a decision. ‘Gregory, call the ambulance,’ she pleaded. I reached out with urgency to the phone, and dialled 999.

  “Sorrow gripped me. I felt her pains. My throat dried up, and I swallowed my saliva, holding back my tears. I gave them our address, and some directions to our house. ‘Hurry up, please!’ I said, before hanging up. I rushed upstairs to be by my mum’s side.

  “She seemed to be asleep: her eyes were shut. As I sat down on her bed, her eyes opened gradually. ‘Gregory,’ she called. ‘Mum – speak: I’m listening.’ ‘Look after yourself. I love you.’ It didn’t take long. I heard the ambulance sirens. I peeped through the bedroom window. The blue emergency lights were flashing as the ambulance pulled into our drive way. Two paramedics rushed in, passing me by the door into my mum’s bedroom. They put her on a drip, and carried her downstairs on a stretcher to the ambulance. They rushed her to the hospital. I followed, waiting for news. The doctors admitted her into the Intensive Care Unit, and she lost consciousness. I visited her daily. She couldn’t recognise me; I spent almost every day sitting by her bedside, holding onto her hand for two months.

  “The specialists tried their best to save her life, but the cancer had already spread throughout much of her body. They couldn’t do any more for her.” Greg struggles to keep up the momentum of his account. His pauses interrupt the flow of speech so often. However, he demonstrates his bravery, by continuing, “The hospital arranged a transfer to a hospice, but I wasn’t keen on that. ‘I’d rather die in my own house,’ - that was my mum’s wish. She always said that, while she could speak. This was the best thing for me to do for her. I requested her to be discharged, when it became clear that she wouldn’t recover. The ambulance dropped her back home with her medication to ease the pain. Her doctor and nurses paid her regular visits so she still received good care. Sometimes she was in severe pain: I could sense it. I gave her various prescribed pain relief tablets.”

  I look at Greg, sharing his grief. I want to ask him to st
op talking; I can anticipate what he is about to say next, and I don’t want to hear the sad ending. But I do not want to offend him by interrupting. So I just let him talk.

  “At midday, that Sunday, her Vicar visited, and gave her Holy Communion. I held her hand and supported her neck as she swallowed the last drop of wine. Her upper lip twitched. Her eyes opened, and gradually closed. Her chest moved as she breathed in and out. She died peacefully in her sleep that night.” Greg looks up, keeps quiet for a little while, and then says in his tearful and shaky voice, “It was cancer.”

  Suddenly, Greg’s face appears red. He puts his hand around my shoulders, pulling me towards him for comfort. He looks dreadful; this talk seems to have triggered memories he had buried in his mind. I share his grief and close my eyes in response. He apologises for the distress he might have caused, emphasising that he didn’t mean to upset me. I watch him cry like a baby, non-stop. I understand, feel sorry for him, as he tries to recollect the details of those events.

  Greg says, “I never grieved properly for my mum. A lot of things were going on in those days. Her death left a deep hole in my heart. She was a good woman. And I love her.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear this, Greg,” I say, soothing his right hand gently, and brushing a tear from his cheek with a tissue. I roll over, giving him a comforting hug. He starts to be emotional, and cries again. I listen to him. I want to hear everything.

  I refrain from telling him anything about my past struggles since he left me in South Africa. This might be too much for him to bear. He isn’t ready for it, I can tell.

  “Not to worry, Betty, I’m okay now. I have you. Isn’t that right, darling?”

  We hug each other for some time. I put on my flat sandals, and we go for the tour of this big four-bedroom house. In my mind, I record the changes it needs: new wallpaper, fitted kitchen unit and bathroom, brand new carpets and sofas. I’ll be happy to have these done as I don’t expect Greg, the bachelor, to do much.