Starlight in the Ring (17 page)

Baas Jimmie remains quiet for about a second. “No, your honour,” he replies, looking up at him while sitting down.

The judge allows a short break, while summing up all the deliberations. The court resumes, and he then says:

“Jimmie Douglas, you have let yourself down. You have let your family down. You have let your community down. You are an extremely dangerous person to the community, and yourself. If you couldn’t spare your own innocent family; you don’t deserve a life within your community. You must stay in prison indefinitely, and you will not be considered for parole until you have served at least forty years.”

The court is dismissed, and Mark walks out of the courtroom, through ‘their door’ with his relatives and friends. Baas Jimmie is escorted to a cell, I imagine similar to the one the man in the stable was sent to, with a low brick stand, a mattress, a water tap and a toilet bucket, where he is going to spend his term in isolation, unless his condition is reviewed.

I push through the natives from around Skoonfontein Farm, who are walking towards ‘our door’; I want to speak to Mark outside, and comfort him. The people are moving slowly, as some try to speak to each other – expressing their sadness, and getting their sorrows off their chests…

“Hey, this is the hardest sentence Judge Retief has passed to a non-native in my life time!” exclaims an elderly farmworker sympathetically, taking out his pipe from the sachet. He fills it with tobacco before sitting on a big stone to smoke, coughing constantly. He is trying to come to terms with the latest news from Skoonfontein Farm.

“I’ve never slept well since I heard about this incident,” says another woman, wrapping a shawl around her shoulder.

“I’ve known Jimmie, since he was a young man; I can’t believe he could turn out to be so dangerous.”

“Seeing him on the dock breaks my heart,” says another woman wiping off her tears with a white handkerchief, before burying her face into it crying like a baby.

“I miss them. Skoonfontein has never been the same without the Douglas family,” says another man called Stuurman, sobbing, wiping tears off his blood-red, swollen eyes.

Hoping to draw Mark’s attention to me, I push forward to get myself outside quickly; the lingering crowd is blocking my way. Fortunately, I manage to squeeze through and reach the door. From a distance, I can see Mark, walking among other Europeans towards a car parked by the road side. “Mark,” I shout. He doesn’t respond to my call. My heart sinks as I continue to shout, “Mark, Mark!” but he shows no sign of hearing me.

There is a heavy police presence, and many reporters around. I manage to squeeze through this crowd, pushing my way past all the natives, until I reach the police line. The police stand almost directly between me and the European people there, making it difficult to walk past them to where Mark is standing by his car. I force my way between the police, slipping through and running towards the car. The reporters are holding up their cameras taking photos for their story coverage. There is some commotion as the police are blocking my way. I call him even more loudly, hoping to get his attention this time, “Mark!” It doesn’t work. I push forward harder to break the police line.

“Arrest her!” another police officer shouts.

“Mark Douglas!” I scream harder again, waving my arm, but in vain. Knowing Mark’s tender heart, I know he is worried about his dad, and thinking about his mum, and perhaps me too. He can’t have forgotten me, I know for sure. His heart must be torn apart – the ache from the loss of his mum, his dad in prison, and torn apart from me. What a disaster!

He must be crying, unable to notice me. My eyes are right on
him.

“Let me speak to Mark, please!” I plead with the police once more. One officer completely ignores me. Mark gradually opens the back door of his car while speaking to another man next to him.

“Mark, please wait for me!” My voice is blunt from screaming; I’m panting heavily from struggling to break through one more time.

“Mark, it’s me, Betty Baker!”

Mark puts his foot in the car, slides his body gently inside, and shuts the door. I’m now just five metres away from him.

“No, Mark, please wait!” I scream, drawing the attention of the Press. I cry out loudly from the top of my voice, with my back bent and my face buried in my hands. A police officer holds my right hand, leading me to the police van in the car park. The back door is flung open.

“Get in!” the officer says. Anyone watching me might think I am losing my mind. No one can ever understand the pain I am feeling at that moment, except those who have had a similar experience. The van stops at the police station. An officer, who was sitting in the passenger seat, opens the door, and says:

“Get out!” I comply. He says, “Go home now. Do not cause any trouble again.”

I
return to Benson Vale Teacher Training College to complete my course. Being a teacher would certainly make my parents proud; I’ll be the first in our family to go beyond Standard Six and hold a profession. Skoonfontein Farm has never produced a school teacher: so, I’ll be leading the way. It is renowned for having ‘out-of-school-children’, or school drop-outs. I hope the farm labourers’ community will one day know about my achievements. This thought comforts and encourages me.

I work very hard, getting the best grades in all my subjects. Music is my favourite. Is it because the music tutor is friendly? The music period is on Friday before lunch. I sing first soprano in the college-choir. I like ‘The Hallelujah Chorus’ from the Messiah; we also sing ‘The Goslings’.

My worst subject is cursive handwriting. Oh my God, I struggle with this! My letters are uneven. I just can’t get the right
letter size. On this day, I watch Mrs Stone through the corner of my left eye, walking between the rows checking on every trainee’s chalkboard, ensuring the correct handwriting movement. Suddenly, Mollie gets a smack on her head. I turn around as she drops the white chalk and duster to shield herself with her hands.

Mrs Stone places each foot with delicate precision; therefore, it’s impossible to hear her footsteps. I’m aware she’s moving closer to me. I haven’t written much. I write a sentence, glance to see how far she is, and then erase it. My heart is pounding loudly, and my hands are sweating profusely. I’m afraid of this woman.

Conscious of her presence behind me, I smell her perfume. My right hand shivers slightly - I stop writing. As the vibration of my hand increases, the piece of chalk slips through my fingers onto the floor. I quickly bend over to pick it up, expecting the beating on the back of my head. I start writing another word. I quickly erase it again, because it just doesn’t look right. I pause, until I feel a relatively slight tap on my shoulder.

“Betty, come here,” says Mrs Stone softly, beckoning me to follow her towards the back of the classroom. I guess I’m in trouble. Looking at her face, I gauge her moods. I shiver from fright, the palm of my hand still sweating. I pretend to be brushing off fluff from my uniform, but actually dry my hands. It’s impossible to anticipate her next move. Just in case she flicks, something common with her, I take one step backwards, leaving a reasonable gap between us - should I have to run away.

She picks up her handbag, puts her hand in it, searching. I wonder what all this is about. I don’t dare to ask. She takes out a bunch of keys. Handing them to me, she says, “It’s better for you to go and clean my house. Empty all the bins, and in my bedroom you’ll find my washing basket of dirty clothes: wash them all.”

“Yes, Mrs Stone,” I say, receiving the keys, beaming with a smile. My tutor is doing me a big favour, sending me to clean her house during this period. I don’t only miss learning the chalkboard
writing skill, but the smacking that comes with it. She returns to her home after school, and finds her house spotless.

“You’ve done a great job, Betty, thank you. You’re better off as a cleaner,” she says, sitting down on a sofa, ready to have a cup of tea.

Cleaner?
I ask myself in my mind, but with my eyes wider open than usual, looking at her and smiling. I hope she won’t read my mind or notice my surprised look; I can’t dare disagree with a teacher and get myself in trouble.

Anyway, the school term draws closer. We’ve covered most of the syllabus. I take my final external examinations, but it’s impossible to predict the results, as marking will be done in Pretoria. Shortly, after that, I return to Uncle Ben’s house, my new home. I wait patiently for the results to arrive. I integrate well with this family. Recognising and respecting that it’s not my home, I make an effort to do all the chores to impress them.

My Aunty Lisa is really pleased with me. “Betty never rests,” she says. “She is constantly up and about.”

“Betty!” I hear Aunty calling me.

“Yes, Aunty. Is everything all right with you? Would you like a cup of tea, or anything?”

“No, dear,” she replies calmly. “I’m just wondering what you are doing. What are you up to? Take a break, will you?”

“Okay, Aunty, I’ll rest a bit - if you say so.”

Straightaway, I drag my feet into my bedroom, feeling extremely exhausted: I’m so grateful to my aunt. I can’t complain - this is not my home. We desperately need their shelter at the moment. I wonder if Aunty would ever discover my true feelings. I am drowsy, and doze off to sleep.

Two weeks later, my uncle calls me from the doorway, carrying a brown, officially-stamped envelope. Immediately, I sense that it
contains my results. Unsure of how best to react, I force a cold smile, hoping my uncle will give me the envelope and leave. This doesn’t happen. He is curious, and wants me to open the envelope in front of him. Instead of putting it down, he holds onto it saying, “This is yours, Betty. Open it, and let’s have the good news.”

“No, go away!” I command, holding tightly onto the envelope, drawing it towards my chest. I suspect it’s my results. “Please, leave me alone, Uncle,” I plead once more. Reluctantly, he lets go before dragging his feet, slowly moving away. However, he stops, looks back, and then carries on.

I wait for him to disappear, before opening it, in case it’s bad news. He returns and refuses to move this time around. “Let’s hear the good news, Betty,” he says. I can’t get away with holding onto it any longer. I’m inquisitive too. So, I open my letter, ready to face whatever I find.

I scream loudly, “Yes, Jesus!” and start jumping up and down; a beam of a smile covers my face. Uncle Ben grabs the letter in my hands, and reads it aloud. “Overall – passed. Good, Betty!” he says, walking out towards their house. I follow him.

“She’s made it, Lisa! Gladys and Benjamin have given birth to a teacher!” He passes on my results to my dad.

After looking at the report, he says, nodding vigorously, “Yes, she’s through.” That’s all my dad could say, expressing his joy and appreciation.

“Excuse me, Papa, what’s the matter?” my mum asks, looking at him in dismay. She pauses, kneading the bread-dough, and then stands up. This is becoming serious.

“Betty has finished training – that’s what I’m saying, Gladys.”

“Betty is really a qualified teacher now? Thank you, Lord!” my mama shouts, waving her hands above her head. I stand silently, wondering if she’s aware of her actions.

“Mama, yes this is true. I’ve qualified. Calm down now.” I bend over to pick up my letter from the floor, and read it again.
Opening it with excitement, I receive the long-awaited good news. I’ve definitely passed, and have been appointed to teach at Mount View Primary School – named after this remote village far away from home, in this way
‘serving my natives according to the 1953 Bantu Education Act 47’.
I sigh with great relief.

Finally, I’m leaving this home, to spend my independent adult life away from my family. On the following days, I start preparing my stuff, thrilled about the unknown I’m embarking on.

My heart pounding joyously, I pack my clothes in my metal trunk. I choose a single bed and blankets to take. Aunty Lisa cooks chicken, bakes cakes, scones and bread. She’s charitable, offering me curtains, pots, cutlery, plates and dishes. Have I taken everything I need? Standing by the door, I wonder. “Oh, I need a bucket.” I remember, and then rush to the kitchen to get one.

Starting a new career and life where I’d never been, where nobody knows me, is extremely interesting. I’ll soon be called ‘Mistress’ or ‘Miss’. I’ll live in my own home by myself. I am going to be the ‘Baas,’ doing what pleases me, whenever I choose. That’s the best of all.

I wouldn’t be reprimanded for returning home late after seeing my friends. I sense my maximum freedom. “Yes, it’s here!” I can’t get over it. I’m very excited because I’m stepping into my destiny, with my mind flooded with future prospects of success. However, I still wonder if I can accomplish my goals in this country.

“Betty!” my dad shouts impatiently, banging my bedroom door.

“Dad,” I reply, wondering what might have upset him this evening.