Starlight in the Ring (19 page)

“Young Betty - I hope you don’t mind me calling you ‘young’?”

“Not at all,” I reply.

He stares at me, saying nothing.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, trying to appear to be in a hurry, just to get him off my back.

“Come on, love! Could you please wait a bit? I’d like to talk to you. I’ve not met someone like you here.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t stop for long; we are breaking the law.”

“What law are we breaking? Bloody hell!” he explodes.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, taking more steps forward, trembling in fear.

“I’m Gregory Davies. I live in England. I’m visiting my dad, and his second wife, Annie.”

“All right, it’s nice meeting you. Could I have my butter, please? And I’d better go, before we get into trouble.” He passes
it to me, but continues to walk by my side.

“I’ll come to the shop again. Please go back now - your dad might be worried.”

“Promise me, you’ll come to the shop again,” he says.

“Yes, I will,” I say, trying to get rid of him swiftly.

Gregory looks at me. He seems to be more interested, but how can that be? Doesn’t he know the laws here in South Africa? I dismiss my thoughts about Gregory, and walk back to my home. I don’t tell my colleagues I had a chat with Baas Davies’ son. I hope no one will ever know. I occupy my mind remembering my happy days with Mark.

I go to the shop again after two weeks to get myself some groceries. As I walk into the shop entrance, I look at the cash machine to see if Gregory is there, and I quickly join the queue. I catch his eyes looking at me. Today, Missus is serving the customers.

I look at her pale skin, with red lipstick. She has blue eyes, with her slinky hair tied in a pony-tail today. She is moving swiftly. Baas Davies is also in the shop, unpacking goods from cardboard boxes, as well as serving the customers.

By the time I get to the machine, Gregory has vanished. I’m not bothered about him. I come out of the shop carrying my groceries in my bag. I look up and see him sitting on an old tractor plough by the road side. As I walk past him, he gets up.

“Hi, young Betty - it’s nice to see you again. Thank you for coming.”

“Hello, Gregory,” I say, stretching my right hand towards him. He grabs it, and doesn’t let it go.

“How do you do, Sir?” I ask hoping to impress him with my well-spoken English.

“You can call me ‘Greg’ from this day forwards. That’s how I’m known.”

“Known where?”

“Right here in South Africa, and in England, my home.”

“Oh.”

“That’s where most of my family and friends live.”

“Greg – okay - this sounds better.” I rehearse calling him by his name. “You’d better call me ‘Betty’, or ‘Bet’ - whatever.”

“Betty, Bet, whatever.” He bounces his right hand; presumably hoping to make sense of what he heard me say. “I’ve got something to tell you,” he continues, looking straight at me. “The first day we met, I didn’t want to take my eyes off you. This is unusual for me. I’m a traveller, meeting lots of people. You are special. I’m attracted to you. I love you or shall I say I fancy you.” He pulls me towards himself. “This is true! I love you.”

“No, you can’t love me,” I say, remembering Mark’s incident, slightly pushing him away from me. “We’re not allowed, I’m sorry.”

Fear grips me. Is this real? Doesn’t he know that Europeans are restricted to loving within their own race and no other? I don’t dismiss he might be sincere like Mark Douglas, my boyfriend.

I try to gauge Greg’s emotions, wondering if he’s just attracted to me sexually, or is he considering a long-term relationship, leading to marriage? I can’t tell. I ask him many questions, hoping to discover the motive behind his proposal of love. I’m unsuccessful. No, I can’t be in love with him; if I am, I’ll be hurting myself, because he cannot marry me – it’s illegal. Moreover, I wouldn’t cope with a similar relationship like the one with Mark. I still have room for Mark in my heart.

I stand still in front of him, looking at his gorgeous eyes.

He lifts his hand up, and pats my face. “Betty. You’re pretty. I love your eyes, I love the colour of your skin, I love everything about you, I love you, believe me,” he says.

I find myself drawn towards Greg, and believing him, but I ask him to ‘go away’, to save both of us from trouble.

“Baby, don’t be afraid - trust me,” he says, and then bends over and kisses me on my forehead. I push him away.

“I’m better off trusting stones than people!” I exclaim. He stops. I pick up my shopping bag and walk slowly towards my home, concerned lest someone has seen us. I may get in trouble for breaking the Immorality Act.

Wow, I like this girl. She’s the kind of person I’d like to be with. She smiles every so often. Mmh, oh well let’s see. Gosh, my dad – what will he say? And Annie? Do I care? Do I have to? This is my life, and what I do is for my future. Yes, I want Betty.
I love her.

Weeks pass without my going to the shop. Instead I send children to buy my groceries. I’m avoiding meeting Greg. I remember the episode with Mark every so often. This still disturbs me. I have constant outbursts of emotion, whenever I recall the events of that bloody night. Months pass.

Suddenly, I begin to think about Greg all the time. He says he loves me. So, why don’t I tell him that I love him too? I know about the
Immorality Law Act 21 of 1950
that was amended in 1957. Greg and I can’t be in love. This law is enforced; we can’t get away with it. Greg will have to understand and dismiss his feelings. Can I suppress my feelings for him?

No, no, I’m attracted to him as well, now. I love his muscular, athletically-built body, his blonde hair, hazel eyes, well-proportioned lips, and all – yes, everything about him. His casual dressing style and cool walk are something I just can’t get over. I want to see him so often. Even a glance of him from a distance satisfies me.

I go to the shop. As soon as I walk in, I get Greg’s eye contact, and then he walks out. We stand outside the shop for a very long time talking.

“Bet, I can’t help it. I’m really in love with you, from my heart,” he says.

“Will you marry me, then?” I ask him, testing his motives. “Promise me, please,” I suggest hoping to hear more assertions from him. Greg looks at me. I wonder what he is thinking.

“Betty, could you ask my dad, to give you a part-time Saturday job, please?”

“Why should I? I’m happy with my job.”

“So that you can come to our house, and we will have a good time together without causing suspicion. People will think you’re at home because you work for us. No one will know, not even my dad and step-mother.”

“This is not convincing, Greg, a teacher doing housework on Saturdays. Who will believe this?”

“Can you say you want to top up your earnings, or something along those lines?”

“I think people will be suspicious of me getting this part-time job, in your father’s shop.”

I need time to think carefully about this. I must be convinced first, before I make others believe me. I can’t deceive myself: I love him. However, I have a duty to uphold the laws - Dad told me. If I don’t obey the laws, I might go to prison. And I don’t want that.

Anyway, I go to the shop and discuss weekend employment opportunities with Baas Davies.

“Come to meet ‘Missus’, (meaning his wife), next Saturday,” he suggests.

I go to the shop to finalise the work arrangement for Saturdays. I know this will give Greg and me an opportunity to be together privately, to build our relationship. Missus agrees to have me in, thus giving Getty, the support worker, a day off.

“Come to me in the shop at eight o’clock in the morning. I’ll tell you everything that needs doing.”

“Yes, Missus.” My heart leaps with joy.

The first Saturday, Missus leaves Greg and her husband in the shop and takes me around, showing me the house and the jobs that I’ll do most Saturdays. We go into the kitchen; I have to wash up the dishes, scrub the floors and cook them supper. In the laundry, I have to check the washing baskets, hand-wash the clothes, linen, and underwear. I must ensure clothes are ironed and returned to the wardrobes. I must change the sheets on all the beds.

“Greg will also be around to show you things until you’re familiar with the routines,” she says.

“Yes, Missus,” I agree, confidently.

I get on with the jobs straightaway. By midday, I am running out of breath from tiredness. I keep going anyway, to avoid being proven incapable, and lose my golden time with Gregory. I finish after five o’clock, and pass by the shop to let them know I’m leaving, and hand over the keys. The shop closes at half past five, so they usually count the money, balancing their books, ready to close until the next Monday. Sunday is a holy day. The shop stays closed.

The following Saturdays are easier, because Greg comes around to help me, so that we have plenty of quality time, ‘messing about’ together.

“Betty!” I hear Greg calling me from outside. I go out to him, sitting in the veranda, with a bottle of coke and two glasses on the table. “Will you join me, please?” he says, pulling the chair next to him.

I sit down with my hands clasped on the table, and my eyes constantly looking at the small gate, imagining Baas or Missus coming through. He can’t see my thoughts, so he nibbles on my lips. We can’t be there for as long as we wish, I’m aware. So, after finishing my drink I get up saying, “I better do all the jobs, so that this opportunity remains open for us, Greg.” Giving me another kiss, and a squeeze, he says, “Okay, I see you next week.” Our secret friendship grows stronger, but most importantly the
‘chemistry’ between us is unbearable, considering the fear we have of being caught committing the crime. It becomes sad to both of us to see the day ending. We can only see each other the next Saturday. Annie leaves many jobs. This impinges on our special time.

News spreads quickly; someone might have reported us. On Tuesday afternoon, Harold, one of my colleagues, pops into my door, saying, “Hi Betty – just a warning – stop long talks with Baas’s son at the shop; there is a rumour going around about you and him.” And then walks away. I think to myself,
so the police are aware of us. We are targets of their observation.
The security forces are suspicious, and need to gather more evidence for us to be charged in court.

I go to the shop as usual. This particular Saturday, we work quickly; there is less to be done. In the afternoon, instead of chilling in the garden, we go to the garage. It seems reasonable to be anywhere after finishing the jobs.

We talk, laugh, touch and kiss, just like lovers do. Greg pulls down his trousers. Panting heavily, he pulls me towards him, holding me tightly. I can feel him. Just as I’m about to give in, my God, I hear a row outside. Through the window, I see a police officer in uniform running towards the garage door, shouting, “Police, open the door!” A bang follows, probably a kick. I hear dogs barking. I’m not sure whether it’s the family dogs, or police dogs.

Immediately, I jump up, shoving myself between the car and the rough concrete wall of the garage to reach the door. I sustain some bruises on my left arm, and I’m bleeding. Ignoring the pain in my arm, concerned about my predicament, I peep through the tiny opening of the garage door. There is no need for me to be scared, I remind myself. I rush back to Greg, who appears cool, leaning over the car bonnet still holding onto his pants.

“Here they are; we’re in trouble,” I whisper to Greg firmly, but careful not to blame him. “Gregory, please jump out of that
window!” I am panicking. My tummy rumbles, but I ignore it. My heart thumping loudly, and my body shaking, struggling to breathe, I call him again, “Greg!”

“Hmm!” he replies. He is very sluggish to move. God knows which stage he is at!

“Greg, please jump out. Hurry!” I whisper again, but this time pointing to the opposite window. I open it widely, grab his hand, and help him out and down. I watch him landing safely on the ground with both feet.

The garage door rattles, opening to the outside, just on time. Mr Davies and one of the police officers appear, asking, “Betty! Where’s Gregory?” They scream almost at the same time.

“He may be in his bedroom, or in the kitchen. I don’t know. Have you called him?” I reply, stuttering nervously. I feel my heart beating faster. I worry. They might arrest me. I look above his head, trying to hide guilt.

“What are you doing here, Betty? Tell me the truth,” the police officer says. My arm throbbing with pain, I stand still, ignoring the burning sensation, staring at them.

“I’m cleaning the car, Sir. I’ve finished my normal jobs, and I have spare time left, so, I thought it is right for me to come over here, and clean the car, to make up for my hours,” I say with my trembling voice, expecting anything.

As they all squeeze through to reach where I’m standing, I feel uncomfortable and start walking around the car, to avoid colliding with them, until I come out of the garage. They search for clues, but find none as they disturbed us before we got too far. Greg, with his eyes wide open, comes around towards me, with the police officer following him. Did he remember to do the zip of his trousers? Oh well, he should be fine. His white t-shirt, with England writing across his chest, is hanging over his crotch.

“Mr Davies,” says the police officer, taking a document out of his car. “By law, Betty and Gregory aren’t allowed to be together privately. Our intelligence is accurate. They are accused of having
a sexual relationship. Do you know anything about this?”

“No,” Mr Davies replies reluctantly, shaking his head side-ways. There is a silence before Mr Davies speaks again.

“You know very well, sergeant; I can’t allow that to happen here. No, not in my home, not anywhere - over my dead body! We don’t mix, absolutely,” confirms Mr Davies, raising his voice, gesturing with his right hand.

“Well, I’m giving both of them a written caution. Should we catch them in compromising circumstances, we will have enough court evidence for a prosecution. Be aware, we will be gathering this. Gregory, read here,” he passes on the notes. Greg grabs them, and moves his eyes from left to right, reading silently. “When you are happy with the content, sign it,” says the police officer. Then he turns around saying, “Betty, read this warning aloud, making sense of every word you are uttering. You will be judged by it.”