Starlight in the Ring (7 page)

The waking-up bell rings at 5.00 a.m., the next day. I sit up, and one of the prefects starts singing the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’ I join in. Some prefects walk around between the beds looking for ‘offenders’ - those who aren’t sitting
up and singing during prayers.

As we sing, ‘Amen’, I jump out of bed quickly, and rush outside to collect my water, which I hid in the nearby bushes. We aren’t allowed to keep it inside the dormitories. I can’t delay getting out, in case someone steals my water. I get to the bathroom to wash myself. Good gracious, I have space - but the bathroom starts filling up as I’m about to leave.

I return to the dormitory to make up my bed. I ensure the four corners are pointed, and the bed is not descending in the middle. This is very difficult to do with my hay-mattress, but I manage well in the end. All the beds are covered with white bedspreads, or white sheets.

I put on my new school uniform – a white shirt, a pleated gym-dress, a gold tie with black stripes, and a gold girdle around my waist. I wear my black and gold striped jacket, black socks and shoes with laces. I go outside to brush my teeth. Prefects are watching every move in this quiet and tense environment.

At 6.00 a.m. the lining-up bell rings, and I go outside ready for breakfast. Everyone is quiet. You could hear a penny drop. The whistle goes, and the students walk all the way, down the slope, jumping over the furrows to the dining hall. The prefects are walking by our sides carrying notebooks and pens, recording offenders’ names whenever necessary.

The dining hall is a very old, unused stable, built with stones. I walk in. Before sitting down, I put my dish and mug on the table. Everyone does the same. Our tables are long wooden sheets placed on triangular prism stands. When everybody is in, again one of the prefects starts to sing the thanks giving song. I close my eyes and sing:

“I thank you, for the food we eat

I thank you, for the world so sweet.

I thank you, for the birds that sing.

I thank you Lord for everything.

Amen.”

We all sit down. The waiters come in, some carrying buckets of cornmeal porridge and hot water with sugar. Others are carrying trays with brown bread. This is done very fast. The prefect bangs the table, giving a signal to go outside to line up again. This meal is enough to keep me full until dinnertime at about 3.00 p.m.

The lining-up bell for going to school goes. I join the queue, a very long one, although we are standing in pairs. The prefects inspect if shoes are shining, and we are in full uniform. Breaking all these rules is a punishable offence. I am not very good at shining my shoes. However, will she notice?

I watch her walking slowly towards me. I hold my breath hoping she will walk past. I’m wrong. She stops by me.

“What’s your name?”

“Betty,” I reply, my legs and voice shaking.

“Speak louder, girl – what’s your name?”

“Betty Baker, sister,” I say, raising my voice. I remember the warning – not to be cheeky. She writes my name in the Punishment Book. We walk quietly all the way to school. Then the prefect shouts, “Dismiss!”

We hang about the school grounds waiting for the bell to ring. Some children are completing their holiday-work, while others lean against the wall chatting.

“Betty, you should use old stockings to shine your shoes,” Dora advises me.

“Okay, thanks – I didn’t know that,” I reply, with my voice still trembling.

The bell rings for the start of the school session. We all go to the Assembly. Mr Jerry Water, the Principal, comes out of his office carrying a Bible, and reads, “St Matthew Chapter 5 from verse 3 to 10:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven….

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children
of God.” Then he sings, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

We all join in until we sing, “Amen.”

He says, “I’d like to welcome all the new students here to Butterworth High School. I hope you will enjoy your studies, work hard, and achieve your education. The teachers are here to teach you, and you have come to learn. We have rules, and you must obey them. Your class-teachers will call you. Follow them to your classroom; and have a good day!”

I listen carefully for my name to be called. When hearing, “Betty Baker,” I walk quickly to our line to join my classmates. Our class-teacher leads us to our classroom. I sit quietly at the front desk. The old students bring the exercise-books and textbooks for those who have paid their book-fees in full. Baas paid my dad in advance. So, my family will be receiving a reduced income, while paying back the loan. I get all the books required for Form One.

I look across to my right-hand side. A girl is sitting alone at her desk, a bit further away from me. I approach her.

“Hey, why don’t you bring your books over here, and sit next to me,” I say, confidently.

“Yes, thank you, I could do,” she says, picking up her ‘bookcase’ and moving to sit next to me. She quickly opens it to get a book out.

“What’s your name?” I ask her, my voice loud in my eagerness to make friends

“Charlotte,” she answers softly, but fidgeting with her book as she asks. “What’s yours?”

“Betty Baker.”

“So, where do you come from?” I ask her firmly, looking at her face hoping to get her full attention. This works out. She turns slightly looking at my eyes.

“My home is at Soweto Township in Johannesburg. And what about you?”

“I come from Skoonfontein Farm near Burgersdorp – Baas
Jimmie’s.”

We talk for some time, getting to know each other better. I get on well with her. I’m happy that I now have a friend, and by the end of the day, I call her ‘Lottie’. The bell rings for home time. We walk together all the way. Lottie tells me all about her family - that they work for the Europeans.

I’m interested in her talk, as we have similarities. I had thought those who work for the Europeans in cities have a better life than the farm-workers do. I want to hear more. I have many questions for Lottie, but I need to wait. We have time anyway.

Lottie and I always look out for each other. We fetch water from the river, hand-wash and iron our clothes together.

“Lottie, I’m sleeping by you tonight,” I say.

“All right, Betty,” she agrees happily. I return to my dormitory, change into my pyjamas, and go to Lottie’s dormitory. Whispering under the blankets, she tells me about her family life - her parents and the treatment they receive from their bosses.

One of the incidents that strikes me is about what happened to her family one morning. She keeps quiet for a little while; I encourage her to tell me about it.

“My mum was doing domestic work for the Europeans, who lived in a very Big House with a garage and servants’ quarters at the back. I was in the servants’ quarters. My dad was helping the Baas’ son, Graham, repair one of their cars.”

“Uh huh,” I say, nodding my head to prove that I am listening.

“My dad was inside the car, taking instructions from Graham under the front bonnet, when he heard him say, ‘Brake!’ He pulled up the hand brake. When Graham said, ‘Okay,’ Dad then released it. My dad later told my family that he heard Graham say, ‘Okay.’ Therefore, he released the brake. Unfortunately, the car rolled forward.”

“What happened then?” I ask.

“My dad pulled the handbrake, just on time as it was about to crush his head.”

“Oh!” I say, imagining the situation.

“Graham was very angry. He got out from under the car, opened the boot, took out a black rubber whip, and flogged my dad, who was already out of the car, standing by the boot.”

I sigh, finding it difficult to deal with what Lottie’s family had gone through. I now realise this practice is happening in Johannesburg too.

Lottie appears to be struggling to breathe, and she starts sobbing, a single tear slides down her cheek, and then she cries loudly.

“What did your dad do then?” I ask, feeling sorry for this family.

“He stood still, shielding his body with his arms, until he realised Graham was hitting him continuously. That’s when he cried loudly. Graham’s dad rushed out of the house, and his son was still beating my dad. ‘Graham, stop it!’ he shouted. He stopped and returned the whip to the boot. His dad patted him on his shoulders, as if he was saying, ‘Well done, son.’ That’s when my dad grabbed his jacket and walked back to our Soweto home. I followed him, as he walked briskly all the way. When we arrived at our Soweto home, my dad was still crying silently, saying repeatedly, ‘Never, never to be treated like this in my life again.’”

“Lottie, I don’t like to hear this. So, people in the townships also experience such a horrible life too?”

“Yes, Betty. But it can’t continue like this; somebody should do something, to stop it.”

“Mmh, I know; some of our heroes have tried, and died. We should always remember them. They died for our cause. Others are still fighting.”

“Betty, what’s our role in this?”

“What do you think, Lottie? We may not be able to reverse the past.”

“You’re right, Betty. But we could work to change our future, so that all South Africans live together peacefully. We must do this.”

“Of course, Lottie,” I agree, feeling the wetness of tears in my eyes. I can’t control myself. I cry alongside Lottie. We talk, comforting each other until we both fall asleep.

Saturdays are ‘Manuals Days’. After breakfast, we all go to the hall. The prefects read names from their Offenders’ Books, while the Matron is standing in front with her whip. There are various means of punishment. Some children’s punishment is beating, cleaning the surroundings, bathrooms, toilets, scrubbing dormitory and hall floors, or sometimes two of the punishments together. So, the school doesn’t employ cleaners here.

On this particular Saturday, I am not lucky enough: the prefect calls my name, and reads my offences. “Betty Baker: unpolished shoes, sleeping during studies, and late for supper.” The matron says, “Five lashes and cleaning the surroundings.” I walk forward boldly, stretching the palm of my hand. She gives me five lashes. I don’t cry this time. I just go outside to collect the tools - wheelbarrow, spades and rakes. Three other girls join me. We sing as we clean up the surroundings, and then return the tools after that.

I enjoy my studies. Lottie and I make friends with Nancy Castle. She comes from Guguletu Township in Cape Town. I feel great to have friends who come from the townships near the cities. We stick and study together. We’re only allowed to go home during school holidays at Easter in April, winter in June and summer in December. Other opportunities for going home are possible when we owe books, school fees or boarding fees: I
don’t have these chances. My dad pays my fees on time from his advances. Baas Jimmie is very helpful in this way. God bless him.

I’ve been at Butterworth High School for some time, and have adapted well. As a responsible adult, I’ve learned to endure the pain inflicted during punishment. Some days are better than others: we do enjoy ourselves.

This Saturday evening, there’s some entertainment going on - a Beauty Contest. I’m not asked to compete, as certain height is required. Lottie and Nancy are in it. The competition starts at 7.00 p.m. with live music. It all goes quiet, and then fifteen contestants walk in, smartly dressed in short bright-red attires. All the girls are wearing high-heeled shoes, and glittery jewellery. They are almost the same height - a lot taller than I am – perhaps that’s why I wasn’t selected to participate. I stop my thoughts from drifting away from this activity.

The first girl appears, and we all clap hands for her. Other children stand up to get a clear view of all the contestants, as they parade in the hall. They all walk, and stop, each with a different pose. Spectators are asked to encourage them with another round of applause. They are all beautiful, I think, but my eyes are on my friends, Lottie and Nancy. I want them to win. It’s Nancy’s turn.

She comes out wearing a big smile, and having an authoritative walk. She poses in all the corners, and then disappears into the dressing room. Other girls also reappear to parade. Then Lottie walks out confidently in an unusual style in comparison to Nancy; she walks, swerving her shoulders to the centre of the hall, kisses her hand, show the audience a ‘big five’ before waving to all of us, including the judges at their table. She has a big crowd cheering her up. We are invited to dance while the judges are deliberating. The city girls do various dances, and are
better than me. I copy them as if I’m a dancer. The music stops after some time, and everybody is asked to take their seats. This is the end of the Beauty Pageant. The judge announces the winners. He says, “Number three is …Brenda Date.”

She gets up, walks happily to the front, and with a massive smile to receive her prize.

“Number two two is…Doris Burnham.” She wears her sweet smile, and walks to the front to receive her prize also. The announcer takes his time to call Number One. Then he goes. In my heart I hope it’s going to be Lottie.

“Number one is…” and keeps quiet as if he doesn’t know the winner. And then he calls, “Darlene Granville.” She receives a big round of applause, as she walks to the front, keeping up with the musical rhythm, to receive her prize.

I look at my friends sympathetically, wondering how they feel, and what I could do for them. I get up, run to the front and give both a hug. This seems to give them some comfort. “You should be proud of yourselves for trying,” I say, kissing them on the cheeks. They smile at me.

“Good, Nancy,” I say confidently. They both look at me, as if they say, “Not really, Betty.” I continue saying, “enter the competition again next year, you might win? If at first you don’t succeed, try again.” I recall one of my favourite mottoes.

Whether they listened and got the courage, I can’t tell. They disappear into the dressing room to change, while I wait for them, thinking of how to cheer them up. It’s bad to lose, but if you don’t get involved you don’t win or lose. We walk back to our dormitories, laughing at the funny stuff during the parade.