Starlight in the Ring

by H. N. Quinnen

  Greg prepares me a bath. I get in and soak my body before he joins me for a further conversation. I feel very tired, nearly falling asleep. I jump out of the bath, dry myself and go to Greg’s bedroom. I take out my clean bed sheets from my suitcase and make up the bed. I spray around, giving the room a fresh smell. We go to bed, and sleep for the whole night together for the very first time.

  The following morning, Greg and I have breakfast. Later that day, we visit his neighbours. They are a friendly bunch, and are pleased that I’m here at last to keep him away from the pub every night. Then he takes me to Skipton town. It’s small, but interesting for shopping.

  We walk to the park just to relax. I look at the green lawns and beautiful flowers:

  “Sweet, it’s appropriate for us to sit on that bench, isn’t it?” I ask just to please myself, and despise the old days when I couldn’t even enter the park gates in South Africa.

  “Come on, we’re in England. We can go anywhere we want together,” Greg says, putting his arms around my waist.

  As we arrive at the park, the memory of European couples sitting on the benches in Burgersdorp enjoying the sunshine in beautiful parks with green lawns and colourful flowers, like roses and bougainvillea, flashes back to my mind.

  I remember the sign that could have been on that park if we were in South Africa: Europeans Only – ‘Slegs Blankes’, in Afrikaans. I dismiss my thoughts decisively, look at Greg and smile. By this time, we are inside the park. We sit on the bench.

  Again, I think briefly about the Apartheid Laws aimed at restricting the natives. I realise that’s what they meant. As if Greg is reading my mind, he clings onto my hand, saying, “I’ll never let you go again.”

  We talk about many things, sharing joyful tears, and releasing frustration built up over many years. As we cry, we try engaging in serious conversation, discussing beliefs. Ours are similar in many ways. So many surprises are unveiled: Greg and I share a birthday – the 20th of December. Greg holds me very close to himself, and gives me a deep and soothing kiss. I feel frightened again.

  “No!” I shout, trying to free myself from him.

  “Darling, we’re safe here, believe me. Will you give me a kiss, please?”

  I still feel uneasy. It’s hard to believe what I hear.

  “Could we go and sit somewhere privately instead, please?” I ask, politely.

  Greg replies, “Okay, let’s go to the café for a drink, Betty.”

  “Thank you.”

  We walk hand-in-hand to a café, talking all the way. Greg appears so thrilled when I welcome his suggestion of coffee. We order our tea and scones and are relaxed. We enjoy them as we sit together, talking for a while. We both discover that we like adventure holidays; Greg promises to go camping with me, and we can explore caves. He doesn’t know how much he has brought excitement into my life. We walk back home, and a few weeks pass.

  * * *

  Greg works in a firm, five days a week from 9.00 a.m. to 5.00 p.m., and earns enough money to give us a comfortable life. He likes surprising me with gifts. On this particular Friday, he returns home about 3.30 pm.

  “Greg, anything wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “So, how come you’re home this time?”

  “I just need some time to sort things out,” he says going into the cupboard, below the stairs. He takes out the tent in a bag to the living room. And then returns to bring more stuff out; sleeping bags, gas cooker, water bottle and a big box with plastic plates and cups.

  “We’re camping this week end?”

  “Yeah, we need to get out of here - just for a break,” he says looking at the heap of things covering the sitting room floor. We both carry the first lot to the car; and I continue doing this, while he is loading everything.

  Greg drives us to the Dovedale campsite in Derbyshire. We talk all the way, while admiring the landscape. We arrive and quickly pitch our tent together. After off-loading everything, we make cups of tea, and then go for a walk along the banks of the river. The evening is cool. We come to a big rock called Lover’s Leap and stand there for a little while talking.

  And then, Greg kneels in front of me saying, “Betty, will you marry me?”

  Living in North Yorkshire

  After the wedding we manage to live quite a lavish kind of lifestyle, because we have enough money coming in, and we don’t have a mortgage to pay. The insurance paid off the house balance when Greg’s mum died. We only pay insurance cover for our house, car and the utility bills. As Greg talks me about his responsibilities, there is a brief silence every now and then, perhaps he is giving me an opportunity to respond, and I am careful not to interrupt him. I almost smile, forgetting the old days in South Africa, when I felt, life was horrible. I cover those images, with the new ones, letting my face beam.

  Later the following year

  Greg leaves me alone in the house all day, and I soon get bored. We arrange that I meet him in town for lunch and I love this to begin with but, later, I can’t keep up with it.

  “Love, I’m bored doing nothing all day. I should be working and bringing home more money for us. I’d like to go back to teaching. Do you think I should apply to teach here?”

  “Honey, why don’t you go back to college and get a British qualification?”

  “But I’m a qualified teacher, you know that.”

  “Yeah, but it’s from South Africa.”

  “So, what’s the problem with that?”

  “We don’t recognise their qualifications. I’m sorry if no one told you this,” says Greg.

  “‘Qualifications’ – again?” I exclaim. “Could you get me a prospectus? I’ll do a degree course then.”

  “Of course. I’ll pop into College after work.”

  Greg remembers to bring me the prospectus, and I call up for the application forms. Soon, they arrive through the post, and Greg helps me to complete them. Weeks pass, and I almost forget about it. Then I receive admission confirmation. I’m enrolled at St David’s College of Education to do my Higher Education Degree. Greg pays my university fees.

  Betty returns to College

  In September, I embark on the Bachelor’s Degree course. I find it hard in the beginning, and I have to do lots of reading to catch up. I have to read more than other students in my class to familiarise myself with the education system and literature. I like all my tutors; they are kind and supportive, and the same applies to my classmates. We go out on fun trips, and have dinners together.

  We do presentations in our class. Out of fifteen primary school teachers in my class, fourteen are English, and I’m the only native South African. When I set foot into our lecture room it feels a bit strange being in the minority. With time, I hope to get over this feeling.

  One of our lovely tutors, Mrs Vivian Fowler, seems to understand my situation, and gives me more attention. She instructs the class to conduct team presentations, but as I have been through a different education system that no one knows or understands, I have to do mine on my own.

  I’m happy with this arrangement, although at first I think it’s a joke. “How on earth can Mrs Fowler expect me to stand in front my classmates and deliver a paper? I can’t believe this,” I say to myself, releasing my anxiety. Two days pass without me planning for this presentation.

  As I walk into a lecture, Mrs Fowler asks, “Betty, how are you getting on with your presentation?”

  “I don’t think I can do it at this point,” I reply.

  “Come and see me after the lecture so that I can give you some resources,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I respond, although I’m not really happy about meeting her. I feel more anxious and tearful. I excuse myself, and go to the toilet. By the time I reach the door, I’m sobbing. I shut the door, and cry for a while.

  Then, I wipe my face, refresh my make-up, and regain my composure. I say to myself, ‘I will do it.’ At the end of the lecture, I go to see Vivian in her office, and she gives me resources t
o help me prepare for my presentation.

  I complete my planning, and show her it. The presentation day comes, but we run out of time so I have to do mine the following day.

  I’m reasonably comfortable with my presentation, using the overhead projector to give some visual aids. I use an illustration to explain the concept of a broad and balanced curriculum. As I draw a model on the acetate sheet, to explain the importance of providing the learners with the whole curriculum, suddenly, my classmates clap their hands in appreciation of what I’ve said. I’m pleased with myself. From this day onwards, I continue with my course confidently, and graduate successfully.

  Sophie, our first-born, is born before the graduation. I take a break of two years bringing her up. As I have no pressing need to work, I return to university full-time to do my Postgraduate Degree in Education.

  Wayne, our son, is born a year later. Greg is proud to be a dad of two, but now we are a family of four, Greg’s salary needs topping up. One evening after tea, I ask Greg if I can look for work, to top up his income.

  “Of course you are free to look for work,” he says, and then asks, “What work do you want to do?”

  “I’m keen on pursuing teaching. Now that I hold British qualifications, and I am familiar with the system, I should get in easily – teachers are always needed.”

  “You have all my blessings – go ahead,” says Greg, disappearing into our bedroom to sleep.

  Betty’s job search

  I get up early the next day, and by 10.00 a.m. I’m on the phone enquiring about jobs from the Department of Education. The secretary asks in her Yorkshire accent which I find a bit difficult to understand, “Are you a qualified teacher?”

  “What, sorry?”

  “Are you qualified to teach here?” she repeats.

  “Teacher, yes, I’m a teacher.”

  There is a silence, as I try to figure out what she says. She realises this.

  “Do you have qualified teacher status?” She speaks slowly and clearly this time.

  “Yes, I’m qualified,” I reply.

  “For primary or secondary?”

  “For both.”

  “What’s your D-of-E number?”

  “D-of-E number?” I remain quiet for a moment as I try to work out this abbreviation without success. Eventually, I ask, “What’s that, please?”

  “The number you get, when you qualify as a teacher. You need our qualified teacher status to teach here. It’s like a kind of licence.” Her patience is running out, I can tell from her tone of voice.

  “I don’t have it. I wasn’t given one.”

  “You can’t teach here without it.”

  “But I’ve just graduated here.”

  “You still need your British teaching qualification from the Department of Education.”

  “How do I get it?” I ask her, frankly.

  “Go to the institution where you trained and ask them.”

  “Okay. Thank you for your help,” I say with my flat and lifeless voice, putting the phone down. I have tears in my eyes. I doubt if I heard her correctly. I feel very strange in my body. I know I am crying, inside, and I walk aimlessly in the house, unblocking my nose with a handkerchief that is wet from my tears. A sharp pain grips me in my stomach. I sense that History is repeating itself. Holding tight onto a cushion on the sofa for comfort, I cry. The more I cry, the worse the pain increases. In the end I am crying, but with no tears coming out of my eyes.

  I realise later that this isn’t as easy as she makes it out to be. She could have said she is referring to initial teacher training, and for me, I hold the South African Certificate, that is not recognised here by law.

  * * *

  I make my way to St David’s College to ask for this qualification and number. I enter the School of Education building that I left some time ago. A friendly receptionist receives me and, while speaking to her, one of my ex-tutors passes by. I’m pleased to see him, and I hope he will remember me and be sympathetic, knowing the amount of work I did. I’m very wrong. “I’m afraid your degrees don’t give you qualified status and the number you need. They are courses for teachers having the status already,” he says.

  “Why did you take me in then, when I applied?”

  “You provided your South African teachers’ qualifications, so you met all the entry requirements for that year.”

  “I’m looking for teaching work. What can I do to get this recognition?”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you. We have new guidelines from the government.”

  And off he goes on his way.

  “Excuse me, Mr Wilkes!” I run behind him, calling his name, hoping to regain his attention. He appears to be slowing down, as he hears my footsteps. I narrow the distance, calling gently, “Mr Wilkes, could I have a word, please? I need your help!” Helpless, he looks at me over his right shoulder and continues down this long corridor, until he is about to disappear behind the double doors, leaving me puzzled to the point of breaking. A lady, probably a teaching colleague or other staff member, comes towards us through the dual doors. Tommy stops to talk to her. I stand a bit too far to his right for him to notice me. Without saying a word more to me, he rushes off again.

  It’s ‘the Government Directive’ again! I think, standing still and confused. My eyes flood with tears, making it difficult for me to see my way; I wipe my eyes gently with the back of my hand as I watch his back in a blue shirt vanish behind a set of double doors.

  Pain grips me as I walk slowly towards the door, thinking about the money that we spent on my training. I remember the discomfort, sleepless nights and frustration during the courses. So, I apply to be a teaching assistant. To my disappointment, this never works out: all my attempts are unsuccessful.

  After many enquiries, I speak to someone who explains how the English educational system operates. In no time, I get a temporary teaching post at Summer Hill Primary School, where I hope to be supported through the recognised initial teacher-training programme.

  Greg returns home after work on that day. I meet him at the door, “Good news?” he asks me, patting my face, looking at my eyes.

  “Yes - thanks for asking. I have a temporary contract at Summer Hill Primary School.”

  “Wow, well done! When are you starting?”

  “On Friday. I will collect my books, and everything I need, and prepare to start properly on Monday.”

  Betty remembers October 1978

  Summer Hill Primary School is about five miles away from Skipton. It’s a small school, and the governing body, my management, colleagues and other school staff are excellent, supportive and welcoming. The whole environment is generally friendly, although I still feel a bit isolated. As I teach here, I shall be doing my initial teacher training.

  The parents drop their kids in the morning and rush off to work. After speaking to them in the playground, I quickly establish that they will be happy to drop their kids at 8.30 a.m. and above all realise that would give the children an extra twenty-five minutes of reading for enjoyment before the school starts. I discuss this venture with my headmistress, Mrs Melody Brent.

  Every morning I stand by the entrance at 8.30 a.m. to receive the children. I do this voluntarily, just to give them more time for support. Children enjoy interacting with their parents during this reading time.

  I’ve brought a new culture to this school. The children’s love for reading and writing develops gradually. Most children in my class are now making good academic progress. They desert the play-corner, and it finally closes. The children choose other areas for learning, like the writing table and the reading corner.

  I introduce a new concept in the class of ‘learning for a purpose’. The children often say, “We come to school to learn.” And all the children look forward to playtime, when they play games together in the playground.

  I quickly learn that some children have no one to help them with homework, as parents are at work. I send home the work to reinforce what I’ve taught. I
work in partnership with the parents, and encourage them to be involved in their children’s learning, especially the lone parents, who work all day.

  As the learning culture is growing, I set up the ‘extra work corner’ for all children who finish the set activities. They are free to choose from the activities suitable for all abilities. My children enjoy making their own books or cards, and doing worksheets. Other stimulating areas are for listening and storytelling. We also establish the ‘Quiet and Thinking’ area. Our phrase, or slogan is, ‘We’ve got to catch up’. My children enjoy this, and I sometimes hear them tell it to their parents. I’ve witnessed happy and motivated children. My children enjoy ‘buddy reading’ the most, as well as reading to me. What a wonderful experience I have to give to the children - to direct their minds to learning for pleasure while they are still young and easily directed.

  Disruptions are reduced until I have very few. The parents trust me; I tell them the truth about their children’s academic performance, and we work together to improve their performance where necessary. I point them in the right direction, and parents appreciate this. They are just children who need my care and support. I take full responsibility for their future while in my hands. I receive excellent reports from the parents through the Management Team. The Team visits my class and observes my teaching. I create an environment which is highly conducive to learning. My displays are vibrant, and enhance learning.

  The Management makes me the Head of Art. I hear many stories from the parents outside school hours. I remember meeting one of the parents in the market square. He said, “Mrs Davies, you know Sarandip surprised me. We don’t eat pork in our family. However, as I had to rush back to work, I bought him some cold meat from the fish and chip shop. He said, “But dad, I can’t eat this. It has pork. Can’t you read, p-o-rk?” We had a laugh.