Starlight in the Ring (26 page)

“Betty Baker, could you explain this?” Miss Swiss asks.

I look at them again, saying nothing. I’ve decided not to defend myself anymore. It’s pointless: they have already made their decision. They keep saying ‘we’, and I wonder who I am dealing with, here.

“Miss Baker suggests that the Academy’s investigation was biased, and that the procedures used were time-consuming and ineffective. But we dealt with this case in accordance with our procedures; Baker caused many delays.” Miss Swiss raises her voice at this point.

These words ring strongly in my ears. It hurts to observe that this panel assumes I blamed the Academy for my own mistakes.

Mr De Beer then takes over the lead. “We have summarised the case earlier in these proceedings. I note that the Star Academy does appear to have complied with the processes it set out. We have not seen evidence of bias in the decision made by the Academy’s panels. Just like Mrs Arno, all panel members are connected, in one way or another, to the Academy, but they are all unknown to Baker. This was good, to ensure that our services are not challenged.”

I keep looking at my watch, wondering when they will finish. This is not what I expected, just to obtain an outline of what the Star Academy said. I realise the fairness I’m seeking is far from being achieved. This has been a futile exercise. I draw my own conclusion that my interaction with the Star Academy was an unfortunate incident.

“We have considered all the evidence of complaints set out. We consider the final decision of the Star Academy to be fair and reasonable in all circumstances, and do not find your case to be justified. We, therefore, make no recommendations,” concludes Mr De Beer.

“Do you have any other comment, Betty Baker?” Mr Van Vuuren asks.

I remain silent; and then Mr Van Vuuren utters his final remark: “The Star Academy, and Mrs Arno, in particular, must receive an Award in recognition of their excellent services this year. Make a note of that, Miss Swiss.” And he brings the hearing to a close.

“They deserve it, definitely,” agrees Miss Swiss, beaming with a smile while putting the documents together into her briefcase.

I look at them for a while with tearful eyes, and then say loudly and clearly, “I thank you all for providing this opportunity to hear my case. Thank you all for your precious time.”

They look at each other. I receive no response this time
around. I can tell nothing I said could influence them to change their minds. Bargaining with them is practically impossible, and a waste of my valuable time. I need help to adjust to this predicament I find myself in, without further trauma and unnecessary pain.

I rise up and open the door. Before I leave, I give them another look – a friendly one, perhaps one they will remember for as long as they live.

I release my internal pain as I walk towards the staircase. I look down, and the drops of my tears leave an invisible trail that only I know of. It’s good that human tears are colourless, I think to myself. I distract my mind as I think about Greg, his love and promises.

I walk down to the bus station, singing my favourite songs to myself. This continues as I wait for the bus. It arrives after ten minutes, and I board to look for a seat. Usually, I sit in front unless all of the seats are full. Today, I leave the vacant front seats to sit at the back, hoping not to meet familiar people. I get off and walk home.
Betty Baker, you should not cry again,
I say to myself.

I reach my front door, turn the key and go in. I throw my handbag on the floor, and go straight to the mirror to look at my face. With my eyes red and swollen from crying, I realise I still have hope for a better future, but somewhere else. Life is wonderful! I must enjoy it with Gregory, from now.

T
he aeroplane lands at Heathrow Airport at 7.30 a.m. I get out and follow the other passengers boarding the bus to the terminal exit. I join the queue to the passport control, and get cleared. Finally, Gregory had arranged the visa. I collect my luggage and follow the directions to the underground station to catch the tube to Euston railway station. From there I will get my connection to Leeds. At Leeds railway station, there are many trains to Skipton, my final destination.

At Euston station, there’s a little wait before the 10.35 a.m. train pulls into platform 13. This gives me time to walk around, cooling my nerves. I imagine what it is going to be like, meeting Greg after all these years. I have some concerns.
Will he recognise me? How is his appearance now? Am I really physically attracted to him, as I was six years ago? What will happen if I find him less attractive or vice versa? That would be a dilemma. No… a disaster!
I
smile, walking through the gates to platform 13.

Suddenly, the train approaches, and the doors open. Before I board, I check the name on its side to confirm it’s the right train for Leeds. Yes, that’s it. Feeling relaxed and encouraged, I sit next to the window to have a clear view. More passengers get on the train, taking all the available seats. The train departs exactly at 10.35 a.m. from Euston station. It is packed; some passengers are sitting on their luggage, just by the entrance. I’m fortunate to get a seat; I think to myself, as the train is speeding, heading towards the north of England.

I look at a little old lady with grey hair who is sitting next to me. She is so short that her feet cannot reach the floor. I glance at her secretly every so often, hoping she will speak to me. She doesn’t. She is coughing constantly, and her heavy breathing makes a loud sound as if she is snoring. She appears uncomfortable, as she blows her nose.

Suddenly, there is an announcement, “Attention, passengers. The shop selling refreshments is now open at the end of carriage B. Please make your way to the front of the train, if you want to buy cold and hot drinks and snacks.” I wish to have a hot drink, but due to my tiredness, I give this a miss.

After a while the train stops. It has reached the first station. Passengers get out as others come in. I dismiss my thoughts of having someone to talk to and resist the feeling of having a nap. I stay awake and enjoy my journey to Leeds.

I get off and go straight to the Enquiries desk to ask for train times and the platform for Skipton. I’m conscious of time. I want to travel on the next train, but queues are very long. I explore an opportunity to push in order to get served quickly. I see other passengers joining from the back. Feeling embarrassed, I wait patiently for my turn. I’ve been reciting my question mentally already, so I ask him, “What platform is the next train to Skipton, please?” The man looks at the time and, without looking at me, he says, “In 10 minutes. Platform 2b, love. Next please!”

Saddened by his attitude, I hurry to the platform. To my disappointment, the first carriage is full of passengers. Struggling to carry my heavy luggage, I continue walking up to the end of the train. All the carriages are overflowing. ‘What shall I do?’ I ask myself. ‘Shall I push in, and keep standing all the way? How far do I have to go? I don’t know.’ I stand still, unable to decide.

I look to my left and see a metal bench similar to those I used to see when I was a child. My thoughts bounce back to early-childhood memories. I wonder if African natives are allowed to sit on those benches.

A feeling of utter despair overwhelms me. I drop my heavy suitcase, and sit down on the bench. For about ten minutes, the train is stationary. Appearing to be bored, some passengers are gazing through the windows. It’s worth waiting for the next train, I decide. I would be unable to stand all the way because my feet are throbbing due to tiredness from travelling all night.

I hear an announcement, “The 13.45 train to Skipton is delayed by approximately fifteen minutes.” This delay doesn’t worry me. I’m waiting for another train anyway. I hear another announcement. “The engine of the first train has broken down. Please board the next train.”

That’s the train I’m waiting for. Soon, it arrives. I board this train, sitting by the window again. All the passengers from the train that has broken down also come in, filling every vacant seat. The doors shut, and the train departs slowly towards the north. All the passengers are quiet. This is unusual to me. It’s difficult to tell whether anyone is looking at me or not. They are all of European origin. I sit confidently, pretending to know my destination. I look outside through the window as the train departs from the station.

Having travelled through the dense sprawl of North London the train passes through embankments with thick bushes towards Skipton. I guess people are quiet due to tiredness from work. The landscape becomes fascinating. There are green fields,
stone-built farm buildings, and some farm animals grazing in the fields, just like in South Africa. A village appears in the distance. I really admire the countryside.

The atmosphere in my compartment appears tense, and no one chats. I wish someone would speak to me so that I can establish how far away Skipton is. The train arrives at the next station, and more people get off. I pass the time looking through the window, admiring the blue sky. The train goes through the tunnel, making my ears pop. I look at the passengers, estimating their ages to be between 20 and 35. I wonder where the older folks are.

The sky darkens, and clouds seem to be gathering rain. I rehearse ‘Skipton’ in my mind. The train drives over a small bridge, passing deserted old buildings, and some more villages. It seems to be heading for the horizon. The journey is never-ending.

I must have fallen asleep for a while. I wake up as the guard announces the next station but it’s not Skipton. Many passengers have left. On my right-hand side and behind me, I see many vacant seats, and I’m a bit frightened. However, I continue looking outside. Farms exist in England, after all, I think, as I see many fields with stone walls round their outside. This must be hard work, I guess, to build them all.

“The next station is Skipton. This train terminates here. Please take all your belongings with you,” the guard announces.

My heart begins to beat faster. I start having mixed feelings, a mixture of excitement and fear. My hands sweat, and my body feels hot with butterflies in my tummy. I wonder if Greg will be at the station to meet me, or will I have to take a taxi?

Whatever happens to me doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve followed my heart to look for Greg, the man I fell in love with, some years ago. The train stops. I take my massive suitcase, travelling bag and handbag, and get off the train, following the ‘way-out’ signs – something we don’t have in South Africa.

Many passengers rush out of the station. Walking slowly, I admire the station itself, with its attractive baskets hanging from the rafters. I walk past an old market wheelbarrow tied to a pillar also full of flowers. Finally, I’ve reached Skipton - but where is Gregory? I sigh, stopping my rumbling tummy.

My journey to happiness is a walk to the unknown. It’s now about 4 years since my forced return from South Africa. I’m at Skipton railway station. In a world of my own, I wander forward towards the platforms. As I look around, my eyes catch a beautiful apparition. It is as if I’m in a dream, and nothing else exists.

In fact, without doubt, she is the most exquisite creation of womanhood I’ve ever chanced upon. I look across, admiring her hourglass figure. Her head lifts up, and we make eye-contact. It’s as though I’m on a conveyor belt. In a moment, I’m pulled towards her. I have no control of myself. I ask her, with my hands fidgeting, “Excuse me. I hope I’m not getting this wrong, are you Betty Baker?” She looks at me, and smiles.

“Yes, I’m Betty, Betty Baker,” she replies, with her calm, tender voice. We haven’t seen each other for many years, although we have recently exchanged letters and pictures.

The bright sunlight from out of the station illuminates the outline of her sensuous figure, as she stares sat me magnificently, like a goddess of Greek legend. Her lips stay apart. My heart pounds, and my blood rushes through all parts of my body. I hug her, whispering, “Betty, you’re mine – you’re my woman, the one I love. I waited for you!” I pull her closer to me, giving her a good kiss.

“No, not here, please,” whispers Betty, pushing me gently away from her.

“Don’t be worried, about the people passing by,” I reassure her. Some passengers rush onto the platform to board the train.
The train cleaners probably overhear us, and give me a smile.

I look at her from head to toe, preparing what to say next. I catch her fabulous smile. Her brown eyes roll over to look at me, and her long brown curly hair cascades at the back.

“Greg, my darling, Gregory!” Betty shouts, appearing very excited. She is so loud that it suddenly goes quiet. The British are a very reserved people in comparison. “My Angel!” she says, throwing her arms around my shoulders. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I move closer, holding her tightly towards me for a long time, just like the day I left her in South Africa in tears, badly heartbroken because the
1949 Mixed Marriages Act 55
and the
Immorality Act 23 (as amended in 1957)
prevented me from loving her.

“Here you are, standing in front of me, looking so pretty! My Betty,” I say, excitedly, looking directly in her eyes. “I have a lot to share with you. I guess we both have loads to catch up on,” I continue.

“Yes, definitely,” she replies in a soft tone, the one I’m familiar with.

I look at Greg. He grips my attention: I can’t take my eyes off him again. That’s my Gregory. He is wearing jeans torn at the knees, and a greenish t-shirt, his usual casual style. He looks similar to how he was in South Africa. His eyes are the same as those engraved in my memories - the eyes, with long eyelashes, bushy eyebrows and a well-trimmed beard. All this allays my fears instantly.

I’ve known him since I was in my late teens and he was in his early twenties. I want to hear more from him about his background. Who is he, exactly? What does he find attractive in me? This can happen when we are relaxed, in a good atmosphere. I know he is in love with me.