My school received recognition for being the most improved school in the area, and the governing body informed me of their appreciation of my service to this school.
Betty’s contract ends
On Friday afternoon, during my ‘non-contact period’, I’m sitting in the staff room drinking a cup of tea while planning lessons for the following week. The door opens and Mrs Brent walks in, appearing sad. Today she is dressed in her brown suit, and is wearing a pearl necklace that matches her ear-rings.
“Betty, I’d like to see you in my office,” she says, slamming the door behind her.
Fine! I think as I get up, following her. I feel butterflies in my tummy. I start thinking, what have I done wrong? But can think of nothing. We arrive at her office and she shuts the door behind us.
Sitting at the table opposite me, she says, “Betty, since I have known you, your work has been excellent, and your character exemplary. However, legally, you can only teach under certain conditions.” She declares this emphatically.
“Yes,” I say, nodding my head gently, waiting for her to continue.
“Since your initial teacher training is from South Africa, your current post with us is actually classified as ‘unqualified teacher’ or ‘overseas qualified teacher’. I hope you remember that you are, in fact, employed on a temporary basis. I’m sorry to inform you that the authority has recently instructed me of my duty in respect to your appointment. I have now found a British trained teacher for the post you hold. However, I could help by employing you as a teaching assistant, and remunerate you accordingly. I have this letter prepared for you,” she says, stretching her arm and dropping a white envelope in front of me. “You can read it now if you like.”
I gradually raise my eyes to look at her face. I cannot find what I am looking for - sympathy. Surely, she has made up her mind, I think, staring at her eyes. I look at this envelope, and shake my head, saying, “No.” Whether this utterance was audible, or in my mind, I cannot remember. My eyes are blurred. For a little while, there is a silence, as I contemplate my next move. I swallow, and then clear my throat. I get up, push the chair under the table, straighten my dress with both hands, and pick up my letter in its white sealed envelope. My tears want to come out, but I don’t want to cry in front of Mrs Brent - why should I make her happy? My head starts throbbing. I drop my letter into my handbag, turn around, open the door, and shut it behind me. I walk past the receptionist, who is smiling, and I respond with a lively grin. I stagger all the way to the staffroom, trying to see the way through my flooded eyes. I push the door, and it flings to the inside. I sit down at the table, tilt my head forward, resting it on the table while pressing down with my middle fingers on the veins that spurt a wave of pain into my head. Fortunately, there is no one in the staffroom. So I let my tears flow freely from my eyes, letting them soak into my tissues. I replace each one with a dry one, as long as this is necessary. After a while, I calm down. I open my letter, which reads –
Dear Mrs Davies,
Your letter of appointment sent to you by this local education authority, made it clear your appointment is temporary, because your qualification is unrecognised here. People with your qualifications can teach, but only under certain conditions.
It was hoped you would complete the initial training programme while with us. However, as this has not happened yet, this places us under a duty to establish whether a suitable teacher is available, by advertising from time to time the post you occupy. So, your employment will terminate when a teacher who qualifies is appointed. I cannot avoid my duty in law, and this letter serves as a notice that we must advertise your post.
We are very grateful for your service to this school. We will make it our great effort to be of service to you, in preparing for your uncertain future. Please be assured the above decision arises due to our duty to conform to the regulations. It should not be interpreted as reflecting on the quality of your service.
With all good wishes,
Mrs Melody Brent
Headmistress,
Summer Hill Primary School
7th November 1977
Immediately, I fold the letter and put it back in the envelope, and then drop it in my handbag. I remind myself that sometimes, things can get worse in life, generally. My stomach rumbles; I dismiss this strange feeling, by allowing my brain to engage in deep thoughts again. I think about my childhood, living with my parents in Skoonfontein; I think about my life in Swakopmund when I could not find Thomas, and Caroline took me into her home. I think about my wedding: life is not that bad after all. Episodes of good and bad times come and go. I could have given up long ago - but I made a decision not to. This episode is also going to pass, probably very soon. I think about what is best for me to do. I decide to go back to college to do the recognised initial teacher training. I get up, sling my handbag and drive home. All the way home, I think about what Greg will say about this new set-back.
He has to spend more money on my training again. Knowing him very well, he won’t deny me the opportunity to achieve my ambitions. I collect our children on my way home, and try to dismiss my troubled thoughts by doing the chores until Greg returns from work. Greg arrives and finds me in the kitchen.
“Hi, Betty, did you have a good day?” He always greets me this way when he returns home.
“Not really,” I say, giving him the letter.
He reads it silently, and asks, “What are you going to do then?”
“I guess, I must apply to go back to do the same teacher training I did donkey’s years ago. Anyway, as a Commonwealth citizen, this shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve. I should get someone to support me.”
A month later
“Greg, this is becoming ridiculous!” I scream as I go through the college’s course structure.
“What is it, Betty?” he asks.
“This College won’t accept my mathematics qualification from South Africa.”
“Why is that?” asks Greg, staring at me until his forehead creases. And then shakes his head.
“They say it is below the British standards.”
“Fair enough, Betty, they are telling you the truth. You should accept that, and improve on it.”
“So, this is what Lottie and Nancy meant about the Bantu Education system?” Surely, I am unable to embark on the British Initial Teacher Training under these circumstances? No College or University will enrol me. So, I ask the College to defer to my registration, to allow me time to take the British O-Level Maths Examination. St David’s College kindly postpones my studies for another year, while I register at St Theresa College to study Maths in the evening. During this period, I hand in my notice at Summer Hill Primary School.
St Theresa College is far away from home; this makes it difficult for me to drive our car to get there. The train is quicker; I prefer using it rather than having to drive through the traffic jams in busy roads, during rush hour, to reach the College before the class starts at 6.00 pm, every Wednesday. So, as soon as I hear the bell ring for the end of the school day, I walk my class quickly to the ‘Dismissal Area’ in the school-ground, and then run to the bus stop for about half an hour, to board a bus to Keighley train station. I then board the train, which is usually full with commuters. I finish my journey with a fast walk, for ten minutes to St Theresa College.
I like Miss Peterson, our Maths lecturer: she is very friendly. I like everything about her, her tiny voice, her lesson delivery, and the jokes she makes during the lesson. I often laugh out loudly. She helps me to remember those equations I learned many years ago, and I also learn some advanced trigonometry.
The syllabus is revised so often that, unless you’re actually teaching secondary school maths, it’s easy to forget things, and get behind. I continue attending the classes. Greg contributes a great share in bringing up our children. Sophie has just turned five, and Wayne will be four years in March, next year. My little girl is very tall for her age. She has dark brown, long hair, and sandy eye
s, resembling her grandma on her dad’s side. Her face is round and plump - a bit like my mum’s. She likes playing with her toys, and hugging the baby. Wayne, who was born prematurely with me at eight months gone, is rather fragile, and reserved. He is the spitting image of Greg - very light-skinned, with a sharp nose, brown eyes and curly hair. Like most babies, he cries, displaying a sharp temper tantrum, when he is hungry or uncomfortable. I see this as his strength. I hardly see them some days. Sometimes, I return from college at midnight due to train delays to find them asleep. Very early in the morning, Greg drops the kids at the child-minder, who walks them to school. After school, they go straight to the child-minder, Katleen, who walks them to school, as a ‘Social Enterprise Business’. She lives half a mile away from school and has a licence to run a ‘Walking Bus Scheme’ to and from school, from Monday to Friday in her home. She is so kind to all the parents, always wearing a smile, and she doesn’t mind having them there on Saturdays, ‘giving mums and dads a bit of a break, while off work’. We call her Katie.
The man with a balaclava
It’s in the evening after lectures. It’s freezing outside after a snowy day. I say goodnight to my classmates, and walk out of the college premises onto the footpath, cutting through the bushes on my way to the railway station. Suddenly, I hear footsteps from behind me. Frightened to look back, I increase my pace until I start running. The more I run the closer sound of the footsteps sounds behind me. Am I being chased? I wonder as I increase my speed. I look back to see who is running behind me. He looks more like a young man, but he’s all covered up and wearing a balaclava, so I can’t see his face.
I run through the bush as fast as I can, looking backwards every so often. The distance between us narrows. I feel a stitch in my chest. Struggling to run, I reduce my speed and resort to walking, still panting heavily. At this point, the sound of the footsteps seems to have disappeared. As I turn into the main road, I can see the station lights at a distance, but that doesn’t help me by any means. I run again, crossing the road. I hear the footsteps like before. I look back, and this person follows me across the road. The road is unusually quiet – no cars or people in sight. That’s it; I’m done. ‘Anything can happen now,’ I say internally.
He gets closer and closer. I stand still, expecting the worst.
“Hi, you’re fast, man,” he says, breathing heavily. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you. Have you dropped anything?” I put my freezing hands into my coat pocket, searching.
“Yes, my red purse, with my rail ticket!” I raise my voice in shock, still struggling to breathe.
“Here you are, love,” he says, handing it over to me. Immediately, joy fills my heart as I look up at the face covered with a balaclava.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” I say, still panting and regretting being suspicious of him. He turns around and walks back, leaving me alone. I stand there for a while, shocked. He disappears into the bushes.
“Aah, some people are kind and helpful here.”
I arrive at the station and go straight to the waiting room. It’s cold, so I move closer to the heater, placing my feet over it. There is an announcement about train delays. I sit there for another thirty minutes, waiting. “Ouch!” I burn myself, having dozed over the heater.
I hear other trains come and go, but not mine. There’s a second announcement, “The train to Skipton is delayed by 40 minutes.” I sit there feeling very hurt from my burn. My train arrives, and there’s hardly anyone on board tonight. I begin to cry.
I get home after midnight, freezing to my bones, feeling frustrated, and guilty at neglecting my family. I put myself to bed, and turn out the light, hoping to sleep: I don’t. I spend the next three hours of the early morning tossing and turning, thinking about many things: my love for my Maths lessons, my happy family, and my parents in South Africa. And then the Apartheid Laws that brought about the system of Bantu Education for the South African natives, that is notorious worldwide for being narrow, and thereby carrying a ‘stigma’. I realise, regardless of how hard I try, correcting all the damage the Bantu Education Curriculum caused will be hard to achieve. I begin to cry again until I fall asleep.
Greg suggests that I should go on a holiday – I deserve a break. This time I chose South Africa.
I have enjoyed teaching with Betty. She is enthusiastic and willing to take on board advice and this in turn results in good working practice. Miss Baker has also demonstrated an ability to teach across the primary age range. She demonstrated sound effective planning in the lessons I observed. Her assessment and record keeping goes beyond the school’s requirement, and provides a useful tool for her to address the many different needs of the children she teaches. Her manner and delivery of lessons are calm, considered and focused, and she is readily able to give feedback to develop each child within her class.
As the Deputy Head Teacher, I’ve worked alongside Betty addressing challenging behaviour and curriculum issues. I am very pleased with the progress individual children make, and the ideas she suggests for helping our children. It is clear from her practice that she demonstrates a sound knowledge of the curriculum. She can create a stimulating and effective learning environment through interactive displays, and the organisation of her classroom.
Betty works well with all her colleagues and the parents. She shows consideration to all, and this is reflected in the positive feedback I receive from the parents of the children she teaches. The children make progress both emotionally and educationally. Please contact me if you need further information about her.
John Smuts
Deputy Headmaster
Summer Hill Primary School
7th November, 1979
Chapter 11
Big Decision
November 1980
Ihave just returned with British Airways from holidays in South Africa. It presented some happy opportunities for me to be with my family and friends again. However, it’s nice to be back with Greg and the kids. At Heathrow Airport I move from the immigration clearance counter for International Passengers, through the automatic sliding doors, following the slow queue behind other passengers, pushing buggies, luggage trolleys, and pulling their suitcases. Across, on the Arrivals Meeting Area, many people are waiting.
Some are carrying babies and others are holding up name-cards. As soon as I approach, Sophie shouts out loud, “Mummy!” and runs towards me, leaving Greg holding onto a card written, ‘Mummy, welcome back – we missed you!’ It goes quiet for a little while, before people start chatting again.
Holding onto my hand-luggage with my left hand, I let go the handle of my suitcase I am holding with my right, open my arm widely, bend my knees to hug her tightly, and kiss her. We walk towards Greg and Wayne, who is strapped on his pushchair. Behind the card, Greg has a surprise for me – a white rose. With my heart bubbling with joy, I kiss Wayne, and then look up at Greg, who is beaming with a smile. He gives me the rose. I bring it to my nose.
“Mmh, it smells fresh!” I say, looking at his eyes. I feel his hand on my back, as he pulls me towards him. Our lips meet, and we give each other a good kiss.
“Did you have a good trip, darling?” he asks, reaching out to the handle of my suitcase.
“It was great - although tiring, as you know it. Is everything all right?”
But after the happy reunion my mind is soon pre-occupied with my desire to obtain the teacher status recognition and continue working. Following the successful completion of my Mathematics course, I’m now ready to proceed with the upgrading of my initial teacher qualification at St David’s College.
I submit my mathematics certificate to St David’s College, expressing my intention to resume the course. A tutor contacts me, and we briefly discuss the training programme due to begin. Towards the end of the second month of my course, things start going wrong. It becomes impossible to complete the training. Continuity becomes difficult when the member of staff who has taught me leaves the College, and new ones take
over, as this required a repetition of the work already covered.
I get very desperate seeking a solution to sort this matter out once and for all. So, I speak to Greg and ask his opinion.
“Betty, the route you are considering is not easy,” Greg warns.
“Don’t worry, honey,” I say. “I will argue my case again. I need to prove to others that the qualification I hold deserves recognition.”
“Who cares, Betty? How many people are out there, with good qualifications, and no jobs?”
“Get lost, Greg - that’s enough!” Furious, and filled with a burning sensation, I look at Greg with my eyes soaked in tears. I walk away from him in a rage, and throw myself on the bed, crying. But I later return to Greg and show him my reference letter.
“Read this, please. Who wouldn’t like a good teacher like me in their school?”
“So, what? There are many other good teachers out there.” Greg sagely confirms what I already know.
This discussion provokes me. I look at Greg, thinking, can’t he see my point of view in all this? I’m trying to raise the awareness of the stigma attached to the Bantu education system. I want the whole world to see that it is upgradable.
While in deep thought about my situation, I hear a knock at the door. I peep through the security hole, and recognise the postman. I open the door, receive a big envelope, and then sign for it. It’s from Abdul Hassan, my solicitor in London. I open the envelope with enthusiasm. It contains the copies of my academic records, and the rest of the documents are details of my enrolment. There’s a lot to go through. I’m curious, but I feel anxious at the same time. I believe there is enough information here to support my case, should I decide to seek legal advice. I weigh the pros and cons of taking this route.
Starlight in the Ring Page 23
