Starlight in the Ring (18 page)

“Come here, Betty!” I take some time putting on my cardigan and shoes. He becomes irritable, having to wait longer. “Hurry up, will you?” he says aggressively, in his usual rough voice.
That’s his character, I know it. Dad speaks that way. He might have acquired this attitude unknowingly from Baas Jimmie. That’s how he addressed my dad, sometimes even calling him, ‘Boy’.

I’ve not finished packing yet. However, I leave everything for a while, to hear what my dad has in mind. I go into their bedroom, lean on the wall by the door, just in case things go wrong, and I have to run out. This happens often, when Dad gets into a rage. He doesn’t argue with children.

“I’ve hired Mr Hurst to take us to Mount View tomorrow morning,” he says. “We leave very early - about five o’clock. Put all your stuff by the door, so that we can get it out easily, without disturbing everybody.”

“Okay, Dad,” I reply cheerfully, leaving him behind in peace. ‘Good heavens! Did he have to be so rough, while disclosing such pleasurable news?’ I grumble, but ensuring no one hears me.

I move my stuff close to the door as Dad advises. I go to sleep, feeling very tired. I can hardly sleep. Eventually, I hear the cockerels crow, and realise it’s morning. It’s too early to prepare the morning coffee for the grown-ups. After about an hour of lying down thinking, I get up and have a bath outside behind the house. I then serve the morning coffee. Within a short period of time, I get dressed, ready to go off to Mount View. Just then, I hear the car park outside, and I peep through the window.

I hurry to my parents’ room, and knock at the door saying, “Dad, Mr Hurst is here.” Surprisingly, my dad is also almost ready. “All right, tell him I’ll be there in a second. Open the door; let him in, and make him comfortable.”

I open the door. “Good morning, Sir,” I say, gently stretching my hand towards him.

“Hello, Betty, are you all ready? We’ve got a very long way to go,” he says, hastily. My dad, dressed in his pin-striped, navy blue suit with a matching shirt and tie, joins us. He excitedly shakes his hand, giving him a hug to his left and right. My dad
offers him a cup of tea.

He’s desperate to get on the road, and refuses to have it. Through my dad’s persuasion, he accepts the offer in the end. They both load the van, quickly. I go back in for a final check. I nearly bump into my mum. She is waiting at the door entrance.

I can’t tell whether she is coming out or remaining there to wave us good-bye.

I turn around to see if she is following me. At that moment, her hand is pressing hard on the handkerchief, covering her eyes. My mum’s crying. I return to the house, opening my arms widely to embrace her. With tears rushing down my cheeks, removing my face powder, I say, “Mama, don’t cry.” I feel her grip behind my back.

“Look after yourself, Betty,” she sobs. “God will be with you.”

I walk forward, wiping the tears off my face, resisting looking back until I get into the van. I sit in front between my dad and Mr Hurst. He puts in the ignition key, turning it to start the engine. He engages the first gear, revs the engine, and the van slowly pulls off. My glassy eyes, overflowing with tears, are on my mum. Her left hand is on her eyes, and the right hand is waving goodbye.

Feeling sorry for my mum, I bow my head down, crying like a baby, as Mr Hurst drives up the hill joining the dirt road. After a while, I wipe off my face until I am completely dry. They both restrain themselves from interfering between mother and daughter, leaving it to me to sort out. I gasp as if I’m choking for a while.

The scenery distracts my attention. I keep looking at the road side, measuring the distance between the telephone poles, by counting, one, two, three…, before passing the next one.

The journey starts in silence, and then my dad and Mr Hurst talk about the importance of having cars. They discuss life in the olden days, when South Africa was under British rule in the 1900s. They are quiet for a while. My dad remarks on the
picturesque landscape. My thoughts are still with my mum. Seeing her crying is difficult for me to bear. She is a strong woman, and I know she will be fine. My heart sinks, and my eyes fill with tears, as I suppress sadness, having to leave my mum in that state.

The journey is long and tiring - all day and all night. We stop to refuel at the petrol stations, and to stretch our legs. Some of the main roads are made up with tarmac, and the minor gravel roads are winding around the high mountains. I’m frightened of what can happen, should Mr Hurst make a driving mistake: there will be little chance for us to survive, if the car crashes.

We get onto the long dirt winding road, and there are no buildings in sight. The road soon narrows, so that only one car can pass at a time. We wait for the speeding oncoming car. “This road is very dangerous.” I make this comment, to ensure Mr Hurst is awake and aware.

“Of course, people drive at their own risk here,” he says.

“The state of this road has always been appalling – for decades,” my dad adds, appearing angry.

“No one really cares, I suppose,” says Mr Hurst, seemingly irritated.

Eventually, the darkness begins to turn into greyish white, leaving the atmosphere clearer and lighter. A thick rolling mist swirls around the main road. I can hardly see ahead. Mr Hurst is doing his very best, ensuring our safety. It’s dawn. I feel a sense of relief as we reach our destination – Mount View village where my independent, adult life journey begins. Mr Hurst, utterly exhausted, stops his van, winding his window down.

My dad jumps out and knocks at the house by the roadside to ask for the home of the village headman.

“Knock, knock, is there anyone here?” he asks, gently tapping the door. There is no response. He knocks again. “Hello!” he shouts louder, trying to wake up the people.

A man’s voice, in a strange accent, asks from inside, “Who are
you, this time of the day?”

“I’m Mr Baker. I’ve brought you a teacher from far away. Her name is Betty Baker. She is my daughter.” The door shuts in my dad’s face. He bangs it repeatedly again.

The top part of the door opens slightly. The man speaks to my dad for a long time. Covered in a blanket, he comes with my dad, who’s wearing a big smile by now, to give Mr Hurst directions to the teachers’ quarters. He seems relieved, now that he knows exactly where to take me. Mr Hurst yawns, puts the key into the ignition, and starts the van. We drive for about three more miles to the teachers’ quarters.

I take a deep breath, easing stress. At last, we’ve reached my destination. The van stops in front of the studio flat reserved for me. We offload my belongings. My dad and Mr Hurst, yawning, say ‘good-bye’ before driving off, waving until the van disappears onto the winding dirt road between the bushes. They have a long, unsafe journey back home.

I soon settle down, and embark on my teaching career. I write my weekly lesson plans at the weekends, and do any marking during the week. I’ve got lots of work to do. My colleagues are all friendly. Some Saturday afternoons we get together for barbecues. I learn the regional dialect, and soon communicate effectively with the local people and parents of the children in my school.

It’s Friday, at lunch-break; I’ve just received a note from my colleague, Martha, inviting me to her home. She’s throwing a party the next night. I’m not excited about this: I feel something is missing in my life. At first, I don’t know what this is. I feel lonely, yet I’m among friendly and happy people. There’s a strong emptiness within me. I’m tearful, yet I have no specific reason for this. Am I homesick, I wonder? No, I can’t miss living
in my uncle’s home. I have no home. I am missing Mark Douglas.

I do my planning for the next week as usual. The days pass faster, and I am busy the whole week. Friday, I finish earlier and go home. My colleagues visit me for a cup of tea. We sit outside talking and laughing at the week’s events. They tell me about the culture in this area, and invite me to visit the local shop to open an account.

About ten o’clock one Saturday morning, I walk to the shop with Ralph Waters, one of my colleagues. He tells me briefly about the shopkeeper, Mr Arthur Davies, a European man in his sixties, who settled in this village after the Second World War. He refuses to leave, because, “This is my home,” he says. It’s about two miles away from our residence.

As we approach this big old building with high walls, I can see the villagers going towards the entrance, and others coming out of the shop. We continue and enter this busy shop, with customers talking loudly to each other. We stand at the end of the counter, waiting to be served. Teachers are respected here. The shopkeeper comes around to get an item for a customer.

“Hello, Baas Davies,” Ralph says, with great respect. Baas Davies looks up, and replies, “Hello, Ralph,” but ignores me, as if I don’t exist. He continues serving his customers. I stand there feeling very bad. I occupy my thoughts by looking around this dark shop, with lots of things hanging on the wall and ceiling, almost obstructing the light. I look at the unpolished wooden floor and high counter. It’s impossible for me to rest my hands on it, for a bit of comfort.

Baas Davies is a giant of about six foot tall, bald, with a few thin greyish hairs remaining, clean-shaven with a moustache, and a massive hanging belly. He’s wearing brown shorts, and a cream shirt rolled up to his elbows. Due to his body weight, the buttons seem to be about to tear. His breathing is very loud, as if he’s running short of breath.

His assistant, perhaps his wife, is sitting on the chair behind
the cash machine on the other side of this counter. I can only see clearly her brunette hair tied up in the middle of her head. I tiptoe to have a better view of her. She’s of European origin. Her face is slightly wrinkled, with long eyelashes, and she wears red lipstick; her make-up suits her face. She appears lovely for her age.

Baas Davies is occupied, serving the customers, bringing the goods to the machine for payment, before passing them over to his customers – all natives. Noisy customers continue to walk in and out of the shop.

“It is a very busy day,” I say to Ralph, trying to hint that we’ve been waiting for a long time, and I can’t accept this.

“Sorry Betty, this shop’s always busy. It is the only shop available to serve all the villages around here.”

“Uhuh.”

“People travel from far to come here to do their shopping,” says Ralph. “Don’t worry; he will come to serve us. I’m one of his best customers. I can take anything I need on account, and pay at the end of the month. He trusts me.”

“He also trusts you not to go away, isn’t it? And he continues serving people, who have just come in after us,” I say, sadly.

“Shush,” says Ralph, looking extremely disappointed. “I’m sorry. He should consider the customers who came first.”

We stand there waiting for about twenty more minutes. At last, Baas Davies comes over to our side as it gets quieter.

“Yes, Ralph, my friend, what can I do for you today?” he asks, frankly, packing goods on the shelves.

“Baas, please meet Miss Betty Baker, a new teacher at my school. She comes from the west. She’s just finished college.”

“What have you brought us, young lady?” Baas asks, without paying too much attention to me.

“Nothing, Baas,” I reply, smiling.

“Betty may want to open an account, and pay you at the end of the month, like us, if that’s all right Baas?”

“Yes, of course - I’m here to make money.” He turns and looks at me, and says, “Let me know when you’re ready to open an account, young Betty. Come and meet my wife, Annie, also.” So, we walk towards the cashier.

“Love, we have a new customer, a teacher in Ralph’s school. Apparently she comes from the west. I’ve agreed to give her an account.” And then he walks away.

Missus Davies smiles, with nothing to say. I guess she’s shy. Ralph makes his shopping on account. I pay cash for mine. On the way back home, Ralph defends Baas for keeping us waiting. He manages to convince me, saying, “Be patient Betty; they are nice people. You’ll soon get used to them, and crack jokes, just like me.”

I continue coming to the shop on my own for my groceries, but I don’t open an account. I pay cash for all my shopping. This doesn’t bother Baas. He still gets his money, and his business is booming with no competition.

On Thursday after work, I walk into the shop to buy some milk. I wait for my turn to be served. Baas Davies comes over to me. “Yes, young Betty, what can I do for you today?” he asks politely, looking at me.

“Could I have fresh milk, butter, bread and simba crisps please?” I place my order respectfully. He takes my items to the cash machine.

There’s a young European man today serving. I give him the money. He takes it and stares at me. “It’s my first time to see you here. Where are you from?” he says, in a fluent English accent.

“I’m Betty Baker, the new teacher from the west.”

“How do you find it here? Are you having a good time?” he asks politely, and with great enthusiasm.

“It’s all right,” I reply, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

“You’ve got a lovely voice,” he says. Before I can say something in reply, Baas comes around, and perhaps tells him off for holding other customers up. At that moment, I collect my
change and walk out of the shop.

After walking for about half a mile, I hear the running footsteps behind me. I turn around and realise it’s the small Baas that served me. I check my shopping bag, thinking I might have left something behind. I notice my butter isn’t there. He’s got it in his hand. By the time he meets me, he is panting, as if he is about to pass out. I stop.

“Hi, young Betty,” he says, still panting heavily.

“Good afternoon,” I reply. “Oh, did I leave my butter behind?”

“Yes, I saw it after you had gone. We had to get my mum on the cash machine, while I tried to get it back to you.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you,” I say feeling rather shy. We’ve been standing together for some time, talking. But what can I do? He is chatting to me, and holding onto my butter. I start walking slowly, hoping that he will realise, I’m feeling rather awkward -
give me my butter and go away.
I’m wrong. He is so relaxed; instead, he tries to engage me in a boring conversation.