Starlight in the Ring (13 page)

I’m home for the Christmas holidays. I’m looking forward to spending time with my boyfriend, Mark.

“Mum, would you like some help in the Big House tomorrow?”

“Of course, Betty. It makes my life easier when you’re there. Be ready for 8 o’clock, then.”

At 7.30 a.m., I’m ready, and having porridge for breakfast. After drinking coffee, I wait in the living room for my mum. We walk together to the Big House and she knocks on the door. Missus takes her time to welcome us in. She goes through a long list of today’s jobs – “Washing the windows, scrubbing and polishing the floors until they shine. You know what I mean Gladys, don’t you?”

“Yes, Missus, you want everything spotless.”

I stand there, looking at her, smiling and nodding frequently, wondering how she expects my mum to complete all that hard work. It’s good that I came along to help her.

I start cleaning all the bedrooms, including Mark’s, while he’s outside taking the dog for a walk and deliberately ignoring me. I am thinking. Baas Jimmie is having visitors for barbecue today. The whole family will be sitting outside together, so I’m unlikely to see Mark. I really miss him.

My love for him has grown stronger over the year. He is definitely opposed to the Apartheid Laws, and is a genuine
socialist. But he can’t show this because this would ‘disgrace’ his entire family; his dad warned him, he told me this. I also know that Baas Jimmie would never cope with that kind of life. He is one of the respected European Farmers, expected to uphold the South African laws. I hope they never find out. I work between the house and the garden preparing salads, collecting and replacing clean utensils. I hear loud talking, and ignore them.

I return to our house, leaving my mum to finish the last of the day’s chores. Through our front window, I can see the visitors’ cars pulling out gradually one by one. I’m contented, suppressing my feelings of love. At least, Mark has seen me around.

It’s summertime, and light outside.
Perhaps Mark will go for a walk past our house, and I can see him?
I feel my tummy rumble as I think of him. I miss him loads. I keep looking through the window until I see the last car drive off.

Suddenly, Mark comes out and walks towards the sheds. He returns shortly and walks towards the back of our house. I conclude he’s out to meet me in the old car. Usually, he whistles loudly as he walks past our house. I wait for a while and then sneak out discreetly.

I hear the whistle, and believe that Mark is calling me. My heart leaps with joy. I feel fulfilled and confident. I’m wearing my black trousers and white top which I got from Mark’s mum. I walk out quietly behind our house passing the stables and the kraal towards the fields, where the old cars are. I can’t see Mark from the distance, but I know he is waiting for me inside the ancient rusty car, our usual meeting spot.

We should be all right tonight. Baas Jimmie and Missus should be in bed earlier after the heavy alcohol drinking with their guests. They won’t notice that Mark is still out. And he’s a grown
man, for goodness’ sake: they should leave him to follow his own mind.

I reach the old car, and Mark is lying on his back waiting for me, with the car door slightly open. As he hears my footsteps, he sits up.

“Betty!” he shouts, opening his arms to cuddle me.

“Mark!” I say, throwing myself into his opened arms, satisfied. We hold each other tightly for a while before we begin to kiss and talk. He gives me a good kiss – the type of kiss I enjoy most. I later stare into his eyes, making sense of every word he says.
I still love him,
I think to myself:
he’s amazing!

He tells me about their visitors – his family friends and his uncle. We talk about life generally and I ask him many questions about the European culture. What happens if his family discovers our affair? Should I fall pregnant, what will he do? What if we decide to live together permanently and, therefore, have to marry? What do we do if I’m put in prison for breaking the
Mixed Marriages Law, Act 55 of 1949
which prohibits us from marrying?

Mark is mature and independent in his thinking. He allays all my fears, and commands me not to worry because he doesn’t.

“Betty, be courageous for your beliefs,” he says. I regain my courage and assure myself; I’m in love with my small Baas Mark. He is such good company.

I touch his soft, silky hair, moving my hand gradually around his head. We hold each other, and kiss, cheeks, lips, and everywhere. He confesses how much he loves me. There’s less talk and more action, groaning out of pleasure. Mark becomes so ready that I want to make him happy. As he is about to go further, I hear a shout, “Mark!” and recognise his father’s loud aggressive voice.

“Mark, please listen,” I say softly, trembling in fear. Our bodies are so entwined together that Mark feels I’m engulfed in terrible fright. I cling onto him tightly anticipating the end of my precious life. Mark ignores me and continues with kisses.

“Betty!” I recognise my mum’s voice.

“Mark, we’re in trouble. They’re looking for us. What shall we do?” I ask, panicking. I clasp my arms around him. I could hear his heart beating as he breathes heavily.

“Nothing, Betty, we’re fine. Don’t be afraid. Just relax please, darling. Stay quiet, please,” says Mark, sticking his head out of the back window, listening carefully.

Feeling a bit weak, and sweating, I sit up and look at our home. As the sun has set, the atmosphere is darker, making it almost impossible to see clearly at a distance. All I can see are three figures coming towards us. Without doubt, I am assured that we’re caught – that’s Mark’s mum and dad, and my mum.

After a moment of excruciating silence, Mark says, “Betty, let’s go.” I remain still. “C’mon, get up!” he says firmly, pulling my hand.

Bravely, we both get out of the old rusty car and walk straight towards them, hand in hand. We get closer to them, about one hundred metres. Mark is about to branch into the direction of the Big House, so he changes his position to hug and kiss me, “Goodnight, my Betty.”

Then, I hear,
Bang! Bang!

“Betty!” Mark cries out loudly in anguish. “Betty, hold me,” he repeats, his body pushing me backwards. I grab him trying to hold his heavy body upright without success. He slides sideways, drops on the ground and the blood spurts out from his forehead where the bullet penetrated him. His eyes roll over involuntarily, and I realise Mark could die.

“No, Mark, don’t leave me!” I wail hysterically in shock and frustration. I look at his chest. He is alive, and seems to be struggling to breathe. His eyes close and open again. “I love you, Betty.” Those words were clear.

I hear my mum screaming, “No, Baas” and then cries in despair, “My God, oh my God!” Whether his mum screamed or not, I can’t tell. At that moment, there was only fast movement and commotion.

“He’s killed him!”

Jimmie, holding his shotgun in his hand, comes running to the scene. The whisky effect might have vanished as he realises what he has done. He drops his shot gun on the ground, calling in distress, “Mark, Mark!” He shakes his body. There is no response. “Wake up!” He kneels down over Mark.

I feel a harsh grip on my hand; it’s my mum. “Go!” she says, whispering. As I turn around to walk away, my mum following behind me, I hear Jimmie wailing terribly, “Mark, my only son! It’s me, your dad… No, my son; you will live…Jesus!”

I think my mum realises I’m not walking fast enough; I’m weak, shocked and confused. So, she grabs my hand more firmly, as she overtakes me whispering, “Betty, we’ve got to leave this farm, now! We can’t stay here for another night. Hurry up!” Mum appears to be in her worst state of mind. Still confused, attempting to make sense of what has happened, I reduce my speed and ultimately drag myself behind my mother. She gets annoyed. Looking back at me, she says,

“Hurry up, Betty! Snatch whatever you can! The police might be here soon. Baas may follow us to take out his anger and grief. He might want revenge. Quick!” We get home and alert dad.

“Benjamin, wake up! We must leave now!”

My dad opens his eyes, still drowsy from sleep. “Don’t be silly, where should we go?” he says, sitting up. “Gladys, sit down, what’s the matter?”

My dad tries to understand what’s happening; my mum is not giving the full explanation. She’s rushing around saying, “We’ll talk on the way. Baas had a lot of whisky. He was very drunk. He couldn’t have done that.”

“Done what? Speak to me – I need to know.” But my dad still follows us to the main road.

With extreme difficulty, Mum tries to explain the details of what happened. “I loved him, like my own son. I brought him up!” she screams.

Dad cannot come to terms with what has happened. There’s just chaos. “What is it?” he keeps asking, as if he has lost his mind.

“Baas Jimmie pulled the trigger, pointing at the kids,” says Mum. “They were in the wrong place together – Betty and Mark.”

“Where is Mark now?”

“I doubt if he’ll survive. I don’t know. We had to rush away out of fear that he would want revenge on us.”

“I don’t think he knew what he was doing – too much alcohol. I know Baas Jimmie; he is the good Baas.”

“Mum, we left Mark breathing,” I confirm.

“No, no, no!” In his shock, that’s all my dad can say. “We must go away now!” he grabs some bags and leads the way. The tension gets worse, as each one of us grieves in our own way.

My dad makes repeated groaning noises, and murmurs, “Why? Why did you allow it, Lord?” My mum cries openly, constantly wiping off tears with the apron she’s wearing. My head is throbbing, and my eyes are blinded with tears, making it hard for me to keep up the pace. I feel a deep pain in my heart – a pain of loss and regret – and the internal ache in me increases with every second. I feel the emptiness that accompanies the thought that Mark Douglas will probably be gone forever. I’ll never see him again, or feel his gentle touch. I will miss him. My eyes flood with tears, and I bottle them up by squeezing my eyes and lips tightly together.
No, Mark will not die,
I console myself.

I walk between my parents for a little while, carrying my suitcase on my head. My dad’s long legs allow him to stride, leaving both my mum and me behind. He realises this, and looks back shouting, “Hurry up!”

I keep up with him for a little while, and then the distance between us starts to increase, gradually. Feeling exhausted, I run a bit. I can’t keep the pace; I drag my feet, panting heavily. My heart thumps loudly. I think I am going to faint. I put my right
hand on my chest to suppress the pain coming from within. I look back to see how far my mama is behind me. The atmosphere is dark, with a cold breeze cutting through; I can see a figure following, and I know it’s her. I put my suitcase down, sit on it, waiting for her.

As she arrives, she can hardly breathe. Her body weight contributes to her struggling to rush, and worse of all the shock and hurt. My dad waits for us. I hope we shall all rest, to allow both my mum and I to regain strength, for this journey seems to be long and draining.

“We must hurry up. Our lives are in danger,” he says, carrying on.

“Dad, please, let us wait a bit; Mum is out of breath.” He slows down; we walk together, but not for long.

For a time, I walk deliberately slowly, hoping Jimmie will catch up with us, enact his revenge and kill me. I don’t care anymore. This seems a better option than having to face guilt and loneliness all my life. It’s hard fumbling in the dark on such a bad road with deep potholes. The grass is so tall in some areas that we are unable to walk faster. I take a few steps forward and peep backwards.

I try to reason all this.
Will Baas and his wife follow us or try to save Mark, by rushing him to the hospital? Is Mark dead? If not, how will he be in the future? Will he still be the man he was?
Finally, I think,
whether Mark lives or dies, I’ll never know.

We have a long walk until we reach the main road towards Burgersdorp. We get to the T-junction and turn right. The road is quiet at this time of the night. Walking between my mum and dad in such a pitch-black night with no street light to bring a glimpse of light is hard indeed. I wonder where we’re going but no one tells me. My mum talks to herself, muttering “you’ve got us into this trouble.”

“They’re following us,” says Dad. Mum turns and looks backward at the same time as me. I see the moving lights from a
distance. As we approach a small bridge, Dad shouts, “Get in under here!” I go in first with Mum following. We’re all panting and no one talks. I hear the sound of the cars driving above us on the road.

They have not discovered us; at least, we’re safe for the night. We all fall asleep and the sound of cars wakes me up early the next day. With no water to wash or drink, and food to eat, we continue our journey to nowhere. We pass many farms on route until we come to a side road with a bridge. We go in to hide again.

Dad leaves us for hours while he tries to trace his cousin who lives at Kanevlak village nearby. He returns to collect us with Uncle Ben who is limping because of a gold mining accident in Johannesburg which took place many years ago. He got trapped underground for a week when his mine collapsed. We go to his house and he welcomes us in, making us feel at home.

Over time, we settle well again. Dad starts making red bricks to sell and his business develops gradually, until he has orders waiting. He employs Ruben and Stutterheim to help him meet the demand. They work long hours daily, just like at Skoonfontein farm.

I mourn the loss of my boyfriend, Mark, for months with outbursts in between. One day I think he died from the bullet shot and other times, I doubt myself and think he could have survived. Perhaps the help he needed came on time and he’s in the hospital. Whatever happened that evening doesn’t matter to me anymore; the fact is, I’ve been so deeply hurt ever since I heard that bullet shot, Mark calling my name and I couldn’t help him, the pool of blood and Baas Jimmie’s wailing.

Having nobody to comfort me, I cry until I am dried out of tears to shed. These are my darkest moments which only I could feel. I couldn’t say, “Goodbye” to the boy I love. If he died and is buried, I may never lay a wreath, put a rose or stone on his grave. If he died, his headstone will be engraved,
Mark Douglas, born on
21 June 1948 and died on the 20
^th
December 1967
and a scripture. Perhaps, I’d visit him one day in their family cemetery – his last resting place.