To Cut a Long Story Short

‘It was her idea,’ said Stoffel.

‘How do you intend to spend the money?’

‘I’ll start by buying some second-hand books, old rugby balls and cricket bats.’

‘We could help by doubling the amount you have to spend,’ suggeste

d the General Manager.

‘How?’ asked Stoffel.

‘By using the surplus we have in the sports fund.’

‘But that’s restricted to whites.’

‘And you’re white,’ said the General Manager.

Martinus was silent for some time before he added, ‘Don’t imagine that you’re the only person whose eyes have been opened by this tragedy. And you are far better placed to . . .’ he hesitated.

‘To … ?’ repeated Stoffel.

‘Make others, more prejudiced than yourself, aware of their past mistakes.’

That afternoon Stoffel returned to Crossroads. He walked around the township for several hours before he settled on a piece of land surrounded by tin shacks and tents.

Although it wasn’t flat, or the perfect shape or size, he began to pace out a pitch, while hundreds of young children stood staring at him.

The following day some of those children helped him paint the touchlines and put out the corner flags.

For four years, one month and eleven days, Stoffel van den Berg travelled to Crossroads every morning, where he would teach English to the children in what passed for a school.

In the afternoons, he taught the same children the skills of rugby or cricket, according to the season. In the evenings, he would roam the streets trying to persuade teenagers that they shouldn’t form gangs, commit crime or have anything to do with drugs.

Stoffel van den Berg died on 24 March 1994, only days before Nelson Mandela was elected as President. Like Basil D’Oliveira, he had played a small part in defeating apartheid.

The funeral of the Crossroads Convert was attended by over two thousand mourners who had travelled from all over the country to pay their respects.

The journalists were unable to agree whether there had been more blacks or more whites in the congregation.

TOO MANY COINCIDENCES*

WHENEVER RUTH looked back on the past three years - and she often did - she came to the conclusion that Max must have planned everything right down to the last detail - yes, even before they’d met.

They first bumped into each other by accident - or that’s what Ruth assumed at the time - and to be fair to Max it wasn’t the two of them, but their boats, that had bumped into each other.

Sea Urchin was easing its way into the adjoining mooring in the half-light of the evening when the two bows touched. Both skippers quickly checked to see if there had been any damage to their boat, but as both had large inflatable buoys slung over their sides, neither had come to any harm. The owner of The Scottish Belle gave a mock salute and disappeared below deck.

Max poured himself a gin and tonic, picked up a paperback that he had meant to finish the previous summer, and settled down in the bow. He began to thumb through the pages, trying to recall the exact place he had reached, when the skipper of The Scottish Belle reappeared on the deck.

The older man gave the same mock salute, so Max lowered his book and said, ‘Good evening. Sorry about the bump.’

‘No harm done,’ the skipper replied, raising his glass of whisky.

Max rose from his place and, walking across to the side of the boat, thrust out a hand and said, ‘My name’s Max Bennett.’

‘Angus Henderson,’ the older man replied, with a slight Edinburgh burr.

‘You live in these parts, Angus?’ asked Max casually.