Starlight in the Ring (30 page)

I
have just returned with British Airways from holidays in South Africa. It presented some happy opportunities for me to be with my family and friends again. However, it’s nice to be back with Greg and the kids. At Heathrow Airport I move from the immigration clearance counter for International Passengers, through the automatic sliding doors, following the slow queue behind other passengers, pushing buggies, luggage trolleys, and pulling their suitcases. Across, on the Arrivals Meeting Area, many people are waiting.

Some are carrying babies and others are holding up name-cards. As soon as I approach, Sophie shouts out loud, “Mummy!” and runs towards me, leaving Greg holding onto a card written, ‘Mummy, welcome back – we missed you!’ It goes quiet for a little while, before people start chatting again.

Holding onto my hand-luggage with my left hand, I let go the
handle of my suitcase I am holding with my right, open my arm widely, bend my knees to hug her tightly, and kiss her. We walk towards Greg and Wayne, who is strapped on his pushchair. Behind the card, Greg has a surprise for me – a white rose. With my heart bubbling with joy, I kiss Wayne, and then look up at Greg, who is beaming with a smile. He gives me the rose. I bring it to my nose.

“Mmh, it smells fresh!” I say, looking at his eyes. I feel his hand on my back, as he pulls me towards him. Our lips meet, and we give each other a good kiss.

“Did you have a good trip, darling?” he asks, reaching out to the handle of my suitcase.

“It was great - although tiring, as you know it. Is everything all right?”

But after the happy reunion my mind is soon pre-occupied with my desire to obtain the teacher status recognition and continue working. Following the successful completion of my Mathematics course, I’m now ready to proceed with the upgrading of my initial teacher qualification at St David’s College.

I submit my mathematics certificate to St David’s College, expressing my intention to resume the course. A tutor contacts me, and we briefly discuss the training programme due to begin. Towards the end of the second month of my course, things start going wrong. It becomes impossible to complete the training. Continuity becomes difficult when the member of staff who has taught me leaves the College, and new ones take over, as this required a repetition of the work already covered.

I get very desperate seeking a solution to sort this matter out once and for all. So, I speak to Greg and ask his opinion.

“Betty, the route you are considering is not easy,” Greg warns.

“Don’t worry, honey,” I say. “I will argue my case again. I need to prove to others that the qualification I hold deserves recognition.”

“Who cares, Betty? How many people are out there, with good qualifications, and no jobs?”

“Get lost, Greg - that’s enough!” Furious, and filled with a burning sensation, I look at Greg with my eyes soaked in tears. I walk away from him in a rage, and throw myself on the bed, crying. But I later return to Greg and show him my reference letter.

“Read this, please. Who wouldn’t like a good teacher like me in their school?”

“So, what? There are many other good teachers out there.” Greg sagely confirms what I already know.

This discussion provokes me. I look at Greg, thinking,
can’t he see my point of view in all this?
I’m trying to raise the awareness of the stigma attached to the Bantu education system. I want the whole world to see that it is upgradable.

While in deep thought about my situation, I hear a knock at the door. I peep through the security hole, and recognise the postman. I open the door, receive a big envelope, and then sign for it. It’s from Abdul Hassan, my solicitor in London. I open the envelope with enthusiasm. It contains the copies of my academic records, and the rest of the documents are details of my enrolment. There’s a lot to go through. I’m curious, but I feel anxious at the same time. I believe there is enough information here to support my case, should I decide to seek legal advice. I weigh the pros and cons of taking this route.

Then I decide not to pursue this matter, as I remember the South West African experience.

T
his time, I return to South West Africa for a short holiday. All the preparations are easier, as Greg takes a lead in doing the bookings, and also taking me to Heathrow airport. British Airways fly directly to Windhoek airport, in South West Africa. The flight lands at 10.45 am. I collect my luggage, and go to the arrivals, to meet, Mariaan, my friend. She has agreed to pick me up.

At about noon, I hear a tap on my shoulder. It’s her.

“Betty!”

“Mariaan, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“How’s your husband? And your children?”

Before I could respond, Mariaan asks many questions.

“No, stop.” I try to slow her down, so that we can get into a serious conversation. I’m dying to hear the news, since I left the city. Mariaan calms down, and we soon engage in a talk and have
a laugh about many things. She drives me to her home in Ludwigdorp.

“Betty, have you now given up on Mark?”

“I’m glad he appeared to have fully recovered from the events surrounding the murder. But, do I still love him? No, no, no.”

“How are things with Gregory?”

“My husband?”

“You married him?”

“Yeah, it was time – we’re in love.”

“I had wanted to speak to Mark, the last time I saw him, and this didn’t happen.”

“You’re right, a ‘Hello, Betty!’ or just a wave would have been nice.”

“Obviously, he saw me. Could anyone have specifically instructed him to ignore me? Maybe, yes; I don’t know.”

“It’s too late now, Betty you’re Greg’s wife – forget him.”

“Of course, I’m settled with Greg now.”

I meet up with my friends for coffee, almost daily. We catch up with life stories from since I left them. I soon realise that I’m at peace with South West Africa. Before I realise, two weeks holidays is over, it’s time to return home. I board my flight back to Gatwick airport in England. And I’m back to Skipton.

It’s great to be with my children and around their dad, Greg again. I missed them massively, when I was away. Greg welcomes me back home, and asks many questions about my family, believing the purpose of my trip was genuine– to see them. His commitment amazes me. From the first time I met him in South Africa he has remained true to me.

“So, Betty, what’s up?” Greg asks me one evening, after dinner, as we watch television in the living room, by which time Wayne and Sophie were asleep, in their bedroom. I run out of words, as I feel his presence next to me. He cuddles me, rubbing his lips against mine. By this time, his hand is moving gradually, touching me, sending a gentle electric current up my spine to the brain, and then down to my feet.

“Well,” I reply with my slurred voice, finding it difficult at the moment to think about anything, specifically. “Mmmmmh.” That’s all I’m able to say, enjoying everything he does. After having fun sharing intimacy, we go to bed. I think about Greg’s question, as I drift into sleep in his arms. Hearing him breathe deeply, I know he is fast asleep. I fall asleep on his arms.

At 6.00 p.m. the following day, Greg returns from work. I serve him a cup of tea. Sitting next to him, I say, “Sorry, love, you asked me a question last night. What, actually, do you want to know?”

“I just wanted to know your thoughts.”

“My thoughts - about what?”

“Your plans for the future - I mean things like work, or that kind of thing.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re on about? It’s good for you to ask. Actually, I was intending to ask your views about completing my training. I think I can give it a final push, and succeed, within the next six months. What do you think, my darling?”

“Of course, you know I’ll support you, Betty. I know how much you want this.”

I’m by now more relaxed about the idea of being at home temporarily. I get up, and help the kids to get ready and drive them to school. After the school-run, I spend time on myself,
steaming my face and pampering it. Some days I go to the gym; I have membership for a year. I soon get to know other community members.

I do gardening, and other chores also, along reading in preparation for re-training. I have been considering the college or university to go to.

Fortunately, as I open my bed drawer, to pack our linen, I find my diary, with the McTate Foundation contact details. My colleague, Gary, gave me the number, before I left Summer Hill School, ‘in case I needed it’. I’m pleased Greg is supporting me to qualify.

The following day I call the McTate Foundation. An extremely friendly and very professional lady answers the phone.

“I’m Betty Davies. Is it possible to speak to the Director, please?”

“What is it about, if I may ask?”

“I’m wondering if you have a vacant place to take me on for assessment.”

“Assessment for what, sorry?” she asks.

“I’d like to gain the qualified teacher status for teaching here in the UK. My case might be different from other recruits. That’s why I would prefer to see the Director first, if possible, and then we might take it from there.”

“I’ll put you on hold, while I speak to him, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, thank you,” I respond, holding my breath.

The lady returns after about two minutes:

“Hello, are you there?” she asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I say anxiously, unable to guess the news I’m about to hear.

“Mrs Davies, Mr Roberts is willing to meet you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Will that suit you?”

“Yes, thank you very much.” My appreciation comes from my heart. I can hear her saying, “Mrs Betty Davies,” as she books an appointment for me. “Hello, Mrs Davies, do you know where we
are?”

“Are you still at 247, Keighley Road?”

“That’s correct.”

As I enquire, it’s hard to believe that I’ve found them. So, tolerance does breed its own reward, as I’d been taught.

“Yes, we’re in room 44, on the third floor. Just press the buzzer. We’ll open for you. You’re fortunate, you know. The Director doesn’t normally work on Fridays,” the secretary says. I wonder if she is aware of the courage she’s giving me. “You’re booked in now.”

I feel like saying, ‘at last’. I respond with a polite chuckle instead.

“You may come ten minutes earlier, and have a cup of tea, before speaking to the Director,” she says.

“See you then. Good-bye for now.”

I hang up. I sit down, motionlessly, thinking.
That’s a different response altogether from what I’ve had in the past. The secretary is so kind, and very polite. What a difference from my treatment in South West Africa. Greg will certainly be pleased with this news.
‘Oh, it’s time to collect the kids,’ I suddenly think to myself, and drive off.

Greg returns from work, I meet him by the door.

“Hi, love,” I say, greeting him with a new optimism.

“Hi, darling, have you got good news?” Greg responds, throwing his arms over my shoulders, pulling me towards himself, and giving me a pleasant kiss.

“Well, I’m meeting the director of the McTate Foundation tomorrow.”

“Wow! And – what is it about?”

“I’m amazed with the reception I received over the phone. Mara, the secretary, even asked me to come in earlier and have a cup of tea - unbelievable!”

“Well done, honey! You never know - this could be your time to get teacher status.”

I get up early on Friday morning. I take a shower. I put on
makeup, my navy blue pair of trousers, jacket and a matching shirt. I select a hand bag to match my shoes. I take two folders containing the most important documents regarding my application to show the Director. I help my kids to get ready to go to Katleen our child-minder, who has agreed to do the school-run for us today. Greg drops them at Mavis’ after taking me to the railway station to catch the 8.35 a.m. train.

At the railway station, Greg reverses the car, and drives off. I stand there waving at them until they disappear around the corner. I buy my ticket, and hurry to the platform. The train arrives. I get on and find a seat. The seats fill up so quickly with people commuting from Skipton to Keighley and Bradford. Some passengers have no seats. Soon, the train arrives at Keighley station. I get off, and it’s a straightforward route to the McTate Foundation office. I get there on time. I ring the buzzer, and listen. I hear, “Hello?” I recognise the voice immediately as that of the secretary.

“Hello. I’m Betty Davies,” I say. “Is it possible to speak to Mr Roberts, the Director, please?”

“Third floor,” she says, abruptly. I find my way up to this floor in an old lift that takes time to ascend. I have to give it one bang, and it responds to that, but it is noisy all the way. On the third floor, the lift stops, and the door opens. I come out of the lift into a corridor. And outside the offices, there is a big banner, with ‘McTate Foundation’ on it. I knock at the door, and push it open.

The secretary appears from behind her desk to greet me, with a firm handshake, and wearing a broad smile on her face. She directs me to the side with the sofa, and towards a jar of mints on the table. I feel relaxed here, as she says, “Please take a seat, Mrs Davies.” As I sit, she asks me, “What drink do you prefer?”

“Tea, with milk and no sugar, please,” I say. I look around, admiring the paintings on the walls. There are three working areas with desks. The staff are already getting on with their work. The secretary returns with a hot cup of tea.

“Thank you.” I receive it with a big smile.

While I’m drinking, I look up at the notice board opposite me. There is a poster of a bird in a pond, attracting my attention. This bird has long legs, and a sharp protruding beak. Inside its mouth, it has something looking like a frog. The head has disappeared down its throat, yet the body is in its mouth, almost eaten up. Strangely, this animal has its fore limbs around the bird’s neck, strangling it. How ironic, I think!