Starlight in the Ring (12 page)

He puts his arms around my shoulders, staring deeply into my eyes. I can hear his heart beating loudly as he presses himself onto my chest.

“I’d like to know you better, darling,” he says, in his kind of soft, resonant voice. He moves his face closer to mine. Our lips touch. His deep breath accelerates. He kisses me, and I close my eyes tightly, enjoying the warmth within Mark’s arms. “I love you, Betty. I love you very much,” he says. “We must meet here again tomorrow, in the afternoon – don’t you think so?”

I agree. Mark pulls me to himself again, and kisses me deeply, the ‘passionate’ kind this time around. Allowing my eyes to close,
I kiss him passionately too.

The old rusty Mercedes Benz car becomes our meeting spot. We meet up regularly. Whenever I hear his whistling, I go outside and head towards the old car. Our bond is natural, and we continue to spend a lot of time together.

Betty, I’ve always found her attractive. I like the colour of her skin, her figure, hair, and height. She has everything a young man would wish for in a young woman. She is bright and can engage in a conversation. What more do I want? Nothing really. But, I have one problem; I don’t think my parents will want me to love her. In that case, what will I do? Challenge them to give me reasonable reasons? Of course it’s the laws. I don’t think I care any more of what might happen to me. I’m in it now, and I love her – I love Betty.

I return from the Big House, after helping my mum serve morning coffee and breakfast. Feeling rather tired, I drag myself into the bedroom I share with Rita. Surprisingly, her bed is stripped – no blankets, no sheets. I look into our wardrobe, and her clothes aren’t there. I look for her pair of shoes – they are missing. I search my parents’ bedroom, and pass through the dining room to the kitchen, looking for clues – but nothing. Where is Rita?

No one said anything about Rita going away. I’ve lived with her most of my life. My parents fostered her, and that’s all I know. I walked the long journeys to school with her most days. She defended me when I faced criticism from grown-ups and teasing from my schoolmates. She stopped my friends from hitting me. She lent me her clothes, and even carried me on her
back, saving me from being pricked by thorns, when I had no shoes to wear.

Could she have decided to run away? But why would she? How could she not tell me? Perhaps, she’s gone to another farm to find work.
That’s not like her though,
I console myself. She hardly does any housework, rarely cooks dinner and supper or washes up, never chops firewood or drives the cattle to the river to drink. She’s always in bed claiming to be ill, but not ill enough to see the doctor. I sit down feeling hurt.

The knock on the door distracts me. It’s Theodora, Mark’s mum. She gives me a letter in a big brown envelope. Eager to see what’s inside, I open it immediately, and continue walking towards my bedroom.

“Great! I’m accepted at Benson Vale Teacher Training College! I’m going to train as a primary school teacher!” This is a two year course, but it’s a long haul. So I’m not overly excited about this because I know this qualification is for working in specific areas, teaching the native children only. This gives me little pleasure, but I can’t do anything about it for now. It’s still an opportunity to help others succeed. Just then, my mum comes into my bedroom.

“Mummy, where’s Rita?” I ask, my voice trembling, trying to hide my true feelings.

She replies moodily, “This is not the right time to ask me, Betty. Have you fed the chickens, and is everything all right?”

I pretend not to hear what she says, and rush to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. My mum will never open her bag and give me anything until she has drunk ‘tea from my own house’, she always says.

While I’m serving her hot tea, I hear a whistle, and I recognise the tune. I know this song,
Goei nag, Goei nag, slaap my kleindjie
– Good night, Good night, sleep my young one. “It’s my dad,” I say happily. “Maybe, he’s popping in for a short break from work.” Joyfully, I run back into the corridor to the kitchen situated
towards the back of our house to fetch an empty cup to pour him tea while it’s hot. I don’t want to be sent back to reheat it. I get the cup, and put the saucer beneath to take to my dad, the man I love. As I rush through the kitchen door, trying to get there before the tea gets cold, the cup flies over the saucer. Fearfully, I stretch my knee forward to prevent it from dropping on the floor. I can’t drop it – my parents will be mad. I try to stop it from falling but it’s too late to save it. It breaks, scattering into pieces everywhere. I quickly put down the saucer and pick up the broken china pieces before anyone sees this disaster.

I open the back door quietly, and walk a few steps to the back garden. I hold the bigger piece of china in my right hand, and aim to throw it, so that it lands far away, where no one will ever find it. As it leaves my hand, it cuts my index finger deeply.

The blood spurts out, triggering a severe pain. I stand still, pressing the cut hard to stop the bleeding and to suppress the pain, looking around to see if anyone sees me. I can’t make a big fuss out of this; otherwise I’ll get myself in trouble with my mum. So, I quickly go back inside, put a plaster on the deep bleeding cut, pretending nothing has happened.

I serve them both the tea, and then sit down. I tell them that I’ve got a place to train as a teacher, and that my course starts in two days. My mum shouts, “Oh, thank you, thank you, Lord!” She goes on and on, not realising I’m in pain.

“Well done, Betty,” says my dad. Feeling the intensity of the pain from the cut, I quickly disappear into my bedroom. Later, I begin to prepare for my journey to the Teachers’ College.

The next morning, I carry my belongings to the bus stop. Rita isn’t there to help me, and kiss me good-bye. I’m sad about this, and anxious about leaving home again, and not seeing Mark for some time. I guess Rita might have returned to her parents or found a better shelter for herself. I don’t have a long time to wait – the bus soon arrives. I buy my ticket, board the bus and find a vacant seat. The engine revs loudly as the bus pulls off gently. I
look out through the window as we vanish into the winding dirt roads, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Sitting quietly on the bus, I think about being a teacher. I have mixed feelings – why do I have to learn this Bantu education syllabus that I know is specific for those teaching the natives? What else could I do if I refuse it? Nothing – I’ll end up doing menial work, or having no job to go to at all. In spite of all this, I will do my course.

I arrive at the college, and soon settle down well. The classes start, and I establish myself into the college routines. Days, weeks and months pass without hearing from Mark. I miss him so much that it hurts. My expectation for a letter from him never fades. I wish to receive a letter from him to relieve my emptiness. Refusing to allow this situation to distress me, I choose to believe and trust him. It’s amazing what the mind is capable of doing. As the amount of work I have to do increases, and we have tests to prepare for, I have less time to think about Mark. I hope the Law will be more understanding, and allow us to engage in a fulfilling relationship. But where will this lead to? Will he marry me? I just don’t know.

It’s been announced that we are due to go out to local primary schools for teaching practice. I’m excited to be a teacher for the first time. I prepare my twenty lessons for the week, and Mrs Liver, my tutor, approves of them. By the end of the week, I’m ready to teach. Will I beat them, like other teachers do? No, trainees aren’t allowed to use corporal punishment. I should make my lessons interesting, to inspire them to learn, rather than beat them.

On Monday morning, the school bus arrives to take us to our allocated schools. I go in, take the front seat, and read a novel entitled
I am David.
This is a story about a boy who could not smile. A prison guard helps him to escape from a concentration camp in Eastern Europe through Italy and Greece to Denmark. Whenever I have spare time, I love to read books. I need to know
more about the world, and I hope that one day I’ll be able to share my exact feelings with someone, here, or perhaps even abroad.

The bus pulls out of the driveway onto the main dirt road. We head towards the town, passing over the bridge with the river flowing gently beneath. It’s a long way before we get to my school. I try to concentrate on my book, finding it interesting, and I’m drawn in. I feel a tear escape my eye. I cry discreetly, covering my eyes with a handkerchief, and gently rubbing my cheeks to avoid removing my makeup. I distract myself by looking at the roadside. The bus slows to drop off the first lot, and then it’s my turn. Feeling low from the story I’ve just read, I gather my stuff and wait for my stop.

I get off the bus and walk to the school: it’s a reasonable distance from the town. I report to the principal’s office. He takes me to a Standard One class to meet the teacher, and introduces me to the children. After the Assembly, I teach Mathematics and English, and the morning goes on very well.

At lunchtime, I go down town to buy myself more reading materials. It’s a lovely hot afternoon: the sky is blue, with birds flapping their wings in the air, and I can hear them singing on the trees. I enter the supermarket that sells books and newspapers, and buy
The Daily Dispatch,
and a grammar book. On my way back, I take a different route, passing by the Sparrow Laer Primere Skool, meaning Lower Primary School, which is for Europeans only. It’s a shortcut, and will give me more time to rest before the afternoon session starts.

As I walk past, I see children in the playground. I stand and watch them through the five foot tall barbed-wire fence with razor blade trimming that surrounds the school. It’s very well secured indeed.

Some children are playing on the swings; others are sliding down slides; another small group is going up and down the seesaw. The rest are playing tennis, netball, hula-hoops, volley
ball, cricket and other ball games. Opposite the playgrounds are outdoor swimming pools. Some boys jump in and disappear under the water for a while. I see their heads above the water, and then they disappear again, and come out at the other end. I shouldn’t hang on the fence for too long. An adult, perhaps one of their teachers appears, gesturing at me from a distance to go away. I don’t move. She takes a few steps towards me. I resist and she shouts, “Hey, ‘kaffir’!” (meaning ‘unbeliever’, or ‘a derogatory name for the native’), then gives a signal again for me to ‘go away’.

She speaks to one of the children, who beckon to another, and they both run into the building. I’m afraid she might be sending a child to their principal to call the police and cause trouble for me. I rush away then turn and look at her as she walks towards the school buildings. I wish I was a European child, just so I was able to enjoy their privileges.

I walk along the roadside to my school. It’s still lunch-time and some children are sitting in the shade under the trees narrating stories. I come closer to listen. The stories vary in length, but all have a moral. The story-teller ends by asking,

“What is the moral of this story? And what can you learn from it?” Story-telling is allocated time in the curriculum because of its benefit to the children. It precedes creative writing. It seems that the children like it so much that they continue sharing stories at playtime.

Other children are sitting on the ground playing the ‘Puca’ game. They have dug a round shallow pit on the ground and put twelve stones in. They take turns to throw a stone up and, while it’s in the air, take all the small stones out of the pit, and then catch the falling stone. The stone goes up once more and then they push the rest back into the pit keeping one. They then continue until all the stones are out of this pit. When they fail to get the right number in, they’re out and the next child takes over. The children seem to be enjoying this game as they
talk and laugh.

Another group of children are playing a game called ‘Round-us’. There are two teams, the Fielding Team and the Playing Team, and four goal posts with a circle in the middle. Two girls are throwing an improvised ball made of old stockings and fabric over to each other, while the rest of the opponents run into the goal posts. The two girls try to throw the ball at those who run between the goal posts. Those who are touched have to go out, but if one of the players scores twenty-four, they all shout, “Twenty-four!” and run into the circle and the game starts again. However, if they are all touched, the game is over and they swap sides. I stand there watching them for a while.

They play happily, enjoying school life.

Some boys and girls are playing ‘Touch’. A child chases and touches someone. That one does the same to the others, and the game goes on. Another game I find fascinating is the ‘ball’ game. Children are in two teams, A and B, separated by a line drawn on the ground. A child from team B rolls the ball and calls a name of the child from team A. The named child runs, kicks the ball as far away as possible, runs and touches the line, and then goes back to the starting point. While running, they throw a ball at them; if they are hit, they’re out; if not, they score a goal.

In the classrooms, other children are playing with their homemade skipping ropes which are made from grass. They sing the song ‘Cat Chases a Mouse’; they hop three times, and then go out. The cat mews. They hop once and go out.

Other children are playing a game in pairs. I move closer to see them keeping a rhythm with clapping hands and patting knees. They all speak in a chorus, “1, 2, 3 – 4, 3 - 4 up, up, 3-4, 3-4 down, down, 3-4, 3-4 left side 3-4, 3-4, right side, hurray!” The games are beautiful, with children playing together all by themselves with no teachers or adults around.

I carry on up to my classroom and sit down to reflect on what I’ve seen. The bell rings, the children walk in, and I continue to
teach, appreciating the creativeness which I’ve just observed. This part of the country is similar to Skoonfontein. I remember my childhood days. The school finishes, and I board the bus back to the hostel. It’s noisier this time and we all chat together, sharing and laughing about our first teaching experience. The rest of the week goes well, and we later find that we’ve all got good grades for our teaching practice.