Starlight in the Ring by H. N. Quinnen Page B

because Mum will just use blue soap and a syringe to clean up my tummy as she usually does. It hurts when she sticks the syringe into my backside. I’ve had enough of this. Toothache…Yes! I should say this. I can lose another tooth.
So, I cover myself with blankets and start groaning until my Mama comes in.
    “Betty! For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with you?” my Mum asks, banging the door loudly before she walks into my bedroom. She is in a bad mood, I can tell. “Why are you in bed at this time of day?”
    I remain quiet, thinking how best to respond so that she’ll believe me.
    “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, shouting at me. My Mum can’t stand sick people. “Get up!” she says, ripping off my blankets.
    With the appearance of ‘difficulty’, I try to sit up and struggle to speak. “Toothache, Mummy,” I say.
    “Oh, which one is hurting this time?” The tone of Mum’s voice was more sympathetic now. “You should have told me this. How did you expect me to know?”
    “The back one, Mummy,” I explain, feigning tears and opening my mouth to show her.
    She looks for the tooth and then says, “Uh-huh, that one’s rotten. There’s no cure for toothache, Betty. You should have it removed immediately. I’ll take you to the doctor tomorrow.” Around Burgersdorp, doctors take care of all health issues, including dentists’ work.
    I feel like saying, “In town, yeah!” But I manage to control my excitement by biting my lower lip, and Mum covers me with blankets. “Please sleep earlier tonight. We’ve got a long way to go. We should aim to be at the bus-stop at half past ten in the morning,” Mum says, slamming the door hard as she leaves my room.
    “All right, Mum,” I reply, happily.
    I can tell she isn’t impressed. The journey will cost her more than fifty shillings. My mum’s reluctant to spend such money, and I can’t blame her, knowing the effort that goes into earning it.
    I cover my head with the blankets, deep in thought. Sometimes I have to lie to get things for myself. This is not good, but what else can I do? I know that Dr Berry will ask me with a big smile, “Betty Baker, what’s troubling you this time?” He never tells anybody that I fake sickness. That’s not his concern, I suppose. He gets his consultation fee and medication costs, and his private practice is successful, and full of patients.
    I think about a lot of things, like the journey in an overflowing, stuffy, noisy bus that travels slowly on that bumpy dirt-road for ten miles. I’ll be standing all the way, because normally children give up seats for older people, and that’salways a bad journey. My parents aren’t bothered about this. They’ve been doing it for many years.
    “Cars are mostly driven by Europeans only, Betty,” Dad usually says when I challenge him for not buying us a car. He doesn’t intend to buy one because he can’t afford it anyway. The greater part of my dad’s income is paid in kind. We receive left-over food, and lovely used clothes from Baas and Missus, Baas Jimmie’s wife. We live on their farm for free. Baas Jimmie always buys us paraffin for our primus stoves and lamps. He is certainly a good Baas!
    I wish I could say, though, “No Dad, you should move on. That’s your mind-set showing you the difficulty in owning a car. There are natives, who own cars in our days. Look at Miriam’s dad; is he European? You need to change your way of thinking.” Even so, I daren’t speak to him like that. It would probably be humiliating, and very bad manners to tell an adult your views, especially your father.
    We don’t mind getting a lift on the back of Baas Lyndon’s van (the farmer next to Baas Jimmie) and pay him the hiking fare. We often do this, even on dusty or rainy days. I’m happy using any transport available to get to town.
    I soon fall asleep, to wake up hearing my mum’s scream the following morning. “Betty, wake up! The warm water is ready for you to