Starlight in the Ring (21 page)

“Remember to come and say good-bye before you return to England, Greg,” I say affectionately.

“Bet, I promise you I will come around to say good-bye.” I look up at him and smile.

Greg grabs my hand gently saying, “Betty, I’m sorry - I’ve got to go.” Holding back an ocean of tears, I cling on him.

“Promise, Greg, you’ll return to say good-bye - then I’ll let you go.” Tears start pouring down my cheek, and Greg’s cheeks.
We wipe them off.

“I promise you’ll see me soon again; that’s a deal,” Greg says and smiles, before kissing me goodnight. He puts on his coat, gloves and balaclava, opens the door, looks back, and hugs me, before disappearing into the dark village.

I start thinking about my journey. I need a free lift to Queenstown. From there, I can spend my money to buy a train ticket, perhaps just to get to De Aar or so. I’ll connect trains from there and stay in hiding behind luggage in the compartment, where no one can take notice of me. I’ll reach South West Africa. However, I have to wait for the right time, when trains are busy and everybody is excited about Christmas. With staff shortages, there should be the minimum of checks.

Greg visits me again, to say good-bye, as promised. He gives me two pieces of paper with addresses written on them. The first one says:

And the second reads:

I hold on to them, for safekeeping, and to put them in my handbag later. I look at Greg. He’s gorgeous. We come close, hug
and kiss each other. I feel the wetness on his cheeks, and notice he is crying. His cheeks are so red; I am crying too. We hold each other tightly as we kiss the very last good-bye. It’s a very difficult moment for both of us. My hope is that we shall meet again in England, because I believe there’s no racism there.

“Betty…” Greg calls looking at me expressionlessly.

“Mmmm…” I answer.

Rolling his eyes, and blinking every so often he says, “Rejoice, I love you.” Gradually, I tell my heart, ‘Let him go.’

I feel terribly alone. I miss Greg. I want to hear the sound of his voice, and talk to him for ever. I decide to go on that risky journey, following my heart and leaving the country. I write my letter of resignation:

To the School Committee

Firstly, I thank you for giving me the opportunity to teach at Mount View Primary School. I’ve enjoyed serving my fellow natives here, providing their children with the skills and education they require to be successful in life. I did my work to the best of my ability.

However, the time for me has come to move on, in search of the greener pastures elsewhere, for my children and I to graze on. This letter serves as my official document for immediate resignation from the teaching post I hold.

Yours faithfully,

Betty Baker

I can’t wait for the next day to submit my letter to the principal. Of course, this will be a surprise to everyone in the school. I knock at her door.

“Come in,” Mrs Grove says, immediately. I walk in, and pull the chair to sit opposite her. She puts down her spectacles, grins,
looking straight at my eyes. Feeling innocent, I look at her face, saying, “Hello, Mrs Grove.”

“Yes, Betty,” she says. She is wearing her usual navy blue jacket, that over a white shirt. Her pearl necklace matches her stud earrings. These blend in nicely with her bright red lipstick. Her grey hair is curled into a bun at the back of her head. She holds onto the frame of her spectacles with her left hand. “What can I do for you? Are you all right, Miss Baker?” she asks, as she continues fiddling with the books on top of her table. It’s my first time to visit her office out of my own initiative. She seems to sense something is wrong with me.

I lay my letter in front of her, saying, “I’ve now decided to resign and move on with my life. Please read the letter, and thank you for all your help. Could you write a reference for me please? I may not be able to collect it. So push it under my door, if I’m out.” I look at her as I get up, saying, “I’ve got lots to do, so I’d better leave you with this.” I look at her face, smile to the point where my eyelids crease saying, “Good bye, principal,” before shutting the door behind me.

I return to my flat, pack my few necessities in a small suitcase, ready to leave the next day. I get up very early; have a wash, put on my jeans and t-shirt. I wear my jewellery and make-up. I carry my coat and my handbag, and walk to the road. I stand by the roadside to hitchhike.

After a little while a car approaches. I stick out my hand and point my thumb down. The car stops. I go to the driver, who winds down his window.

“I’m going to Queenstown, please!” I say loudly, still holding onto the handle of my suitcase.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to Aliwal North, lady,” he says.

“That’s fine with me. I’ll continue hitch-hiking from there.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

He puts my suitcase in the boot, while I open the front passenger door, and make myself comfortable on the seat. I shut
the door, and he drives off.

“Mhmm, I’m ‘smelling’ a lady,” the driver makes this comment while looking at me with romantic eyes. “Are you running away from your husband?”

I wish he knows how I feel, and just shut up. Before I respond he asks again, “Where are you from and what are you doing in Queenstown?”

“I live in this village, and I’m going away for a break.”

He tries to engage me in a conversation, but I don’t feel like saying much.

“Okay, I’d better give you your space. I think you need some.”

Great! He’s got the message. I’m worried about being in Aliwal North. This is one of the areas reserved for Europeans, although there are some natives living in the townships. I’ve been here before.

Soon, we arrive in Aliwal North. He takes me up to the junction to Queenstown.

“That’s very kind of you, thank you very much,” I say, fumbling with my handbag as if reaching out for a fee.

“Not to worry about money - just take care of yourself, and have a good journey,” he says, getting into his car, blowing his horn before speeding off. I grab the handle of my suitcase, carrying it to the strategic position for the next lift.

I wait for a while, before the next car passes. I stick my hand out again, not realising it’s a European driver. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t stop anyway, for fear of breaching the
1953 Reservation of Separate Amenity Law.
They shouldn’t get themselves in trouble for kindness.

It’s difficult to tell the skin colours of the people in speeding cars until they drive past. However, I continue to stop every passing car. Many of them don’t stop. I regret hiking from this end. There may be fewer native cars passing this way. I start worrying, as I don’t want to miss the evening train to De Aar. I have no choice now, but to keep trying, stopping every car
driving past, hoping for the best.

A white Toyota van without canopy approaches. I stick my arm out, giving a stop signal. It slows down until it stops further away from me. Two passengers are sitting in front. I speak to the driver – a native.

“I’m going to Queenstown.”

“Sorry, lady, I’m full in front. Will you go on the back?”

“Yes, I don’t mind,” I reply. I swing my luggage over and then jump on the back of this van, sit in the middle facing backwards, to avoid crosswinds.

I’m in fact pleased, because no one will try chatting with me. Before he pulls off, I ask him to drop me off at the railway station. He agrees, and drives off. Sitting alone at the back of this van, my mind drifts into deep thoughts.
Will I ever see my parents again? Did I really try enough to find Mark?
My determination to leave South Africa is stronger than the losses I have to endure. Crosswinds blow strongly. I’m uncomfortable, and feel cold. To pass the time, I think more about Greg, and my hope for our future.

We arrive in Queenstown on time. The van stops at this busy railway station. The driver helps me out, and hands me my luggage.

“Have a good journey!” he says, without asking for money.

“Thank you. Bye-bye,” I say rushing to the ticket office to buy my ticket – third class. I go to the station shop to buy brown bread and some apples. I wait on the platform for the train to arrive. It’s on time.

I walk to the third class carriage, and get on board. The first class is reserved for Europeans only, second class for the natives, who can afford it. The poorer natives travel in third class compartments. I don’t mind this, because the arrival time is the same. I have a long journey to travel, and a risky one too.

After an overnight trip, we finally arrive in De Aar, for my connection to South West Africa. I go straight to the platform to
board my next train.

The train is full, just as I hoped for. On each side of the compartment there are three beds. I go up to the top bed, to sleep behind the passengers’ luggage. The train travels all day. I get up when I need the toilet at the end of the carriage. I stretch my legs a bit, looking through the train windows in the corridor. I can’t hang around for too long here. I don’t want the train-guard to see me. He might want to inspect my ticket that I don’t have. I read a book and my reference letter from Mrs Groves.

This is not bad; it should impress my future employers. It’s self-explanatory. I fold the letter, and put it safely in the side pocket of my suitcase. The temperatures are high; it’s scorching hot on the train. The train stops for a while.

Some passengers get off the train at Upington railway station, and new passengers join us. Among them, there is a young man, who is keen to talk to me. I quickly excuse myself, giving a good reason for wanting to sleep. He leaves me alone. I hear the ticket inspector calling for tickets. He opens our compartment, looks around saying in Afrikaans, “You all have your tickets here?”

“Ja, Baas,”
someone responds, before he shuts the door, walking down the tiny corridor to another compartment.

The train finally arrives at Windhoek station about 7.00 a.m., and I have one more connection to Swakopmund. I get off the train, but stay on the platform with other passengers in transit. I wish I didn’t have to wait here. Fortunately, my next train is also on time. So, I board my train, arriving at my destination in the afternoon.

I get off and go straight to the telephone booth to call Thomas Kruger. I dial the number. Before I even insert the coins, I get a recorded message saying, “This number is out of order, try again later.”

Hopelessly, I put my suitcase down and sit on it, watching the people passing by. Some young women hurry past me, and I recognise their accent to be that of South African natives. I go to
them.

“Hi, I’m Betty. I was wondering if you could help me.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I need to get to 175, Ludwig Straat, Pioneerspark. I’m visiting Thomas Kruger,” I say, showing them the address.

“Thomas Kruger, huh, my goodness – this sounds more like a ‘Boer’! Why do you want him?”

Before I respond, she interrupts me saying, “Come and stop with us if you want.”

I’m relieved, but tired. I stay positive. Gloria and Caroline help me carry my suitcase to the taxi rank. We drive out of the city for some time, reaching the native township. The houses are all small bungalows with two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom and a living room. The conditions seem bleak here, and some of the properties are run down. As we approach, I look with enthusiasm at the buildings, and there are many people outside. We get out of the taxi, and I follow them to their apartment.

Drains are bubbling, stinking sewerage is running everywhere above the ground. It is scorching hot. We jump over the filthy puddles, pushing between the people to get to our door. Some traders are selling different things, including meat and fish. The heat attracts flies, and they are buzzing everywhere.

“Donkey-gxanike!”
some traders are shouting in their native language.

I understand the first bit -
donkey,
so it’s easy to guess the other, as I could see the meat. Anyway, the girls confirm: it is donkey-meat. In her kindness, a certain lady offers me a piece of meat. I accept it, ignoring the unusual smell, and have a go at it. The taste is fine, though it could have done with thorough washing, as I can chew grains of sand in it.

People coming from the villages to work in the city live here. Some are homeless immigrants from other countries. Residents need an identification document to be allowed in – a similar situation like the South African townships. The natives here are
required to carry identification at all times to adhere to the
Natives Act Pass Laws.
Failure to show the pass when demanded by the police is deemed a criminal offence.

I can’t live here,
I think to myself. So, I stay with these women for about a week, and then I look around for proper accommodation. Soon, the girls introduce me to a man, who owns houses for rent. He is pleased to share the house that he lives in, sparing me the tiny bedroom situated by the main entrance, for a reasonable rent.

I’m so pleased with this excellent news. I hire a taxi to move my belongings - a suitcase and some carrier bags. I pay the full amount of rent in advance, to ensure that I secure the room. I ask Caroline and Gloria to stop over with me for the night. It’s been a very hot day, and I’m extremely exhausted. We stay outside, having some drinks. Again, I remind my friends saying, “Please don’t go away tonight. I don’t know this man yet.”

“Okay, don’t worry, love,” Caroline reassures me. “We’ll keep an eye on you.” I leave them outside chatting, and go straight to sleep.

I have no reason to be suspicious of my landlord. He appears old, obese, and uninterested. So, I go into my bedroom, quickly put on my blue, short summer nightdress, made of two layers of net. As I’m drained, I soon fall asleep.