Starlight in the Ring (2 page)

There’s stillness, before it’s interrupted by a small muffled sneeze. This bit disturbs me. I feel unease. As I hold in my breath, clenching my teeth, my tummy rumbles, and then aches. I feel anxious, and the butterflies flare up more violently, as I remember the
Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act 1949.
This law prohibits the marriage of Europeans to anyone of other races living in South Africa. The groom, knowing the harshness of the regime, from where I had made my escape, reassures me in his soft voice, “You’re in England now, my darling. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe.” I sigh gently, releasing the breath I’ve been holding in.

Reverend Fleming, looking at us, repeats.

“Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

He keeps quiet for about a second, giving us the opportunity to respond. He repeats the last bit, adding,
“or else hereafter hold his peace.”

I hear a loud burst of applause from the congregation.

“With this in mind Sir, I ask you to repeat after me,” he says. “I do solemnly declare that I know not, of any lawful impediment, why I may not be joined in matrimony to Betty Baker.” Reverend Fleming asks me to repeat the same statement.

Clearly, confidently and audibly, looking at my fiancé, I say the words after him. “I do solemnly declare that I know not, of any lawful impediment, why I may not be joined in matrimony to this man.”

Then the Reverend Harris bows his head, praying fervently, leading the congregation:

“Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love Thee, and worthily magnify Thy holy Name, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

I add an additional line of prayer, in my mind:
Pardon all those who prevented us from enjoying our marriage-life years ago. Give me the power to forgive them too. Amen.

I look up at my fiancé, and imagine the thoughts passing behind his hazel eyes. I guess he is thinking about the Apartheid Law that prohibited us marrying while we were in South Africa. I look at him smiling, and wonder if this is a genuine smile.

Sadly, my family isn’t here to witness this remarkable day. How could they be present? They have no legal right to leave the country. They don’t have a passport. Should they wish to hold a Bantustan passport - a slim booklet with a green cover, permitting free movement within other South African homelands only - they might get it, if they apply based on their ancestors. However, it’s invalid for travelling outside the country; therefore, useless for attending my wedding.

My parents had lost their South African Citizenship, as I had done, when the government passed the
Bantu Homeland Citizens Act
in the 1970s. The United Nations declared sanctions against South Africa, because of these apartheid laws. So, European and other African countries have no ‘official’ relations with her and the homelands. This is sad for a country that was once a British colony. I divert my mind from these unhelpful thoughts.

Today is the one, unique day for me to enjoy the beauty of life. We can both make a commitment to love each other fearlessly,
and publicly promise to stay together forever.

Betty, forget South Africa, and move on,
I say to myself, trying to encourage myself. No, I can’t forget. My eyes water with tears.

It’s practically impossible, at the moment.
No, Betty, not today,
I say again, trying to stop my thoughts about the awfulness of my past. I blink rapidly several times, closing my eyes tightly for a few seconds before looking up to the vicar. Today is the day my dreams come true; I suddenly realise just how true this is, and finally smile.

Reverend Fleming speaks loudly from memory with his trembling voice, “One Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen says,
‘Love is patient and kind. It is not jealous or boastful. It is not arrogant and rude. It does not insist in its own way; it is not irritable or resentful. Love does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. It bears all things, hopes all things and endures all things. Love never ends.’”
I sense a pleasant atmosphere after hearing a burst of applause.

Vividly, I recall the events that led to my fiancé – now my bridegroom – returning to England, prior to his intended time. We take our vows, and Reverend Fleming proceeds:

“Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to live together in the estate of marriage? Will you love her, honour and keep her, and forsaking all others, be faithful to her so long as you both shall live?”

“Y-Yes – I will,” he replies, stammering, lowering both his shoulders to relieve tension, and looking into my brown eyes, with a wavering smile.

We’re both submerged in a vast ocean of an incredible love and deep physical passion that penetrates into our souls. I hear someone in the congregation giggling. He is not supposed to say ‘yes’ at this point: he’s obviously extremely excited.

Reverend Fleming turns to me asking, “Betty Baker, do you take this young man to be your lawful wedded husband? Will you live together in the estate of marriage? Will you love him, honour and keep him, and forsaking all others, be faithful to him
so long as you both shall live?”

“I will – Sir,” I reply, with respect for a clergyman, gazing into his face, my eyes taking in his strong jaw line and well-formed, straight nose. I’ve waited and travelled from very far just to be with him. I realise that I’m loud. We exchange the rings, saying, “With this ring I thee wed.”

“A very authoritative bridesmaid told me to do something customary in this country. She said that at this juncture I have the prerogative of saying they can kiss each other,” says Reverend Andrew.

We finally kiss each other before the congregation for the very first time. Our lips meet. The physical attraction is so powerful, as though the internal fireworks display is a full-on explosion. My knees shake in alarm; I push my husband gently away. I hear applause from the congregation; perhaps we’re inconsiderate towards our onlookers. The photographers take countless pictures, with numerous flashes everywhere. What a day! Life is wonderful.

Reverend Fleming is now excited, as he returns to the altar to encourage us, saying,

“For some people, it seems as if marriage is the contract of escapement, and then they start playing with time. No wonder it becomes boring for them. Unless there is growth in a continuing relationship, you can indeed become disenchanted easily. Treading water in any relationship is tedious in the extreme. A bonfire relationship is just the infancy of love, and the beginning of trust. You should say to each other, ‘Oh my darling, what a long way we’ve come! What a journey we’re determined to go on; growing and deepening our preciousness and togetherness.’”

“Yes, that’s true,” says my fiancé, nodding quickly and repeatedly in agreement.

“Shh!” I’m overcome by mixed feelings of joy and tiredness, and just want him to keep quiet.

It seems Reverend Fleming senses that he has no need of ‘preaching to the converted’. So, he quickly draws the sermon to an end with a blessing, inviting us to the rectangular table covered in a white tablecloth with a fresh vase of flowers on the right-hand side of the altar, to affirm our commitment by signing the marriage register. The bridesmaids also come along to offer their support.

While my husband signs the register, I look around, my heart bubbling with joy, admiring the rough stones sticking through the walls. To me, it’s a beautiful, unusual design.

We both finish signing, and then the witnesses add their signatures, as Melanie continues playing the organ. Issuing the certificate, the Reverend Fleming concludes the ceremony with, “Go forth and multiply.”

“What ‘multiplication’?” I exclaim, thinking he is referring to having many children. My husband pats my shoulders slightly, saying in his soft tender voice, “Hmm, don’t worry, darling.”

The procession leaves during the playing of another song. My husband and I come out to jubilation, applause and confetti throw. My new life starts. The ecstatic faces all around are a reflection of my own. We get into our car, and we’re driven to a beautiful park for photographs, before heading for the reception at the Golf Club.

Cars are already parked in the car park, behind the building. Some guests and friends are already seated, while others are having drinks in the bar, waiting for us to join them. We wait at the door for the DJ to start playing the music. This time we go into the hall dancing; some people stand up while clapping their hands. Most people are smiling. Perhaps they have never seen such a kind of dance, because it’s the South African beat. My husband and I love this rhythm immensely. We’ve had lots of practice. Sometimes he loses it, but soon he catches up. We dance until we reach our seats. The best man, Frank Warden, delivers his witty, but very sincere, speech.

Finally, he says, “Today has been a wonderful day for everyone here. This is truly an international gathering – not because the groom is European and the bride is African, but there are people from various parts of the world. People from England, Wales, Zimbabwe, South West Africa and other parts of Africa are here.” I hear a round of applause, and see the people waving their hands. Frank continues, “We have people from Asia, United States of America, Brazil, Ireland, Poland, Canada, Finland, China, Germany, Japan and Sweden, all coming together.”

“Yeah!” Another group shouts, clapping their hands. There is a sense of unity that shows us life’s possibilities. And then he proposes the toast.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses to the bride and groom!”

All raising their glasses, the guests say in a chorus, “To the bride and the groom!” The crowd, having filled this hall up to the door, start chatting among themselves. I look around, admiring this beautiful gathering. I like what I see – what appears to be a changing world, where humans live together, value each other, and race or origin are not a determinant of anything. That subject is not even mentioned here.

The servers bring in various delicious foods, including the foreign dishes, such as couscous, pizzas, samosas, wraps, rabbit and all sorts. I just can’t get over what I see – people from many different races sitting, eating and chatting freely together. We have our first dance of the evening together. Later, other people join us dancing to all kinds of music. We can’t stay longer. We soon vanish discreetly to prepare for our two-week honeymoon in Cyprus. Our flight departs from Heathrow Airport at 8.30 a.m. the next day.

I
t’s been very hot all morning at Skoonfontein Farm near Burgersdorp. As the afternoon approaches, clouds fill up the sky, darkening the atmosphere. I hear rumbling thunder, and then the lightning strikes. I can smell rain.

My mum had told me to watch out for those thick, dark clouds appearing over the mountains, as this indicates heavy rainfall or storms shortly. “When you see them, abandon what you do Betty, and get closer to shelter. Lightning is dangerous. It kills. You must be careful.”

She was the daughter of poor farm labourers, plunged into her miserable marriage to my dad after turning sixteen, wedded without her consent. She had just learned to write her name and surname, something she finds difficult to do these days, resorting to signing her signature with a thumb-print.

The farmers benefited from marriage between labourers living
nearby, to retain their skilled labour market. They wouldn’t entertain fornication by any means. My mum, blessed with worldly wisdom after finding herself in this awful predicament, crying for months, finally settled down, becoming a devoted wife to my dad. She had no choice.

She never knew she wouldn’t return to her own parents’ labouring farm that Saturday afternoon after visiting her aunt living on another farm. Ten strong men approached her randomly, grabbing her hands saying, “Come with us.” She resisted, struggling to break through. When she refused to walk properly, three men carried her on their shoulders. The other seven sang loudly, clapping hands, hindering her scream from being heard. They arrived at Skoonfontein about four o’clock in the afternoon. Her eyes were blood shot, swollen from crying.

Immediately, my granddad sent a messenger to my mother’s parents saying, “Don’t search for your daughter, Gladys. We’ve got her here. She’s now our son’s wife, Benjamin’s.” The messenger dropped them a bag of corn, sugar, tea and coffee, offering ‘dowry’ – the bride price - before vanishing hastily, leaving them in deep dismay.

My mama, quite timid and hunched up in obesity, is careless about her appearance. She gets so occupied with both her and ‘Baas’ Jimmie’s families, that sometimes she forgets my name. The farm-workers use this Afrikaans word, ‘Baas’ meaning ‘Boss’ to address all the European male farmers respectfully in situations like this.

She is an ambitious mother for her family, a sensible hard-worker, quite popular among other farm labourers with her humour expressed in a deep low rough voice. Although she is withdrawn, she makes herself available to younger women confiding in her for counsel.

Her appearance improves when she’s at work, because she is obliged to wear the clean uniform. This is contrary to when she’s home: there, she wears clothing made from the white flour sacks,
and my dad’s old jumpers.

She likes telling me both fascinating and dreadful stories about my maternal and paternal grandparents. These are mainly about their lives in the olden days. She also touches on those of other natives living near Burgersdorp and Aliwal North farms.