Open Writing

Barry Barrett became a father for the fourth time at the age of 81.

Known in the art world as A H Barrett, Barry was a talented fine artist. Born in England, he immigrated to South Africa as a young man. He earned his living painting portraits, illustrating books, calendars, postage stamps and taking almost any commission that was offered. Birds, ships, fish, snakes, city-scapes, people – whatever he painted, Barry did it to perfection. He used a plethora of reference books, photographs and skins of birds and other creatures borrowed from museums, to ensure his paintings would stand up to scrutiny by pedantic scientists. He spent endless hours ensuring that measurements, colours and minute details were accurate. In three consecutive years, his work won third, second and finally first prize as Best Stamp Design, judged worldwide.

As a divorced man Barry lived first in Johannesburg, then designed and built a house on a remote hillside in a farming district.

One day in 1979, Leon, a good friend, visited Barry. “Can I introduce you,” said Barry, holding out a blanket-wrapped bundle, “to my youngest child, Sarah – I want you to be her godfather!” She was a lovely, milky-pale baby, with dark hair and eyes.

Leon was honoured to be the child’s godfather, but rather puzzled as to her parentage. Barry was, as far as Leon knew, living alone; where did Sarah come from? Barry told him, “Her mother is Bimba, my Zulu housekeeper.”

At that time in South Africa, this type of inter-racial relationship was not merely frowned upon, it was illegal. Barry and Bimba could have been imprisoned for sleeping together; having a mixed race child was viewed as a particularly serious crime. Everyone in South Africa lived under strict racial classifications: White, Coloured (of mixed race), Indian and Black. Excellent education, medical treatment, public transport, the right to own property and vote and many other civil liberties were the privilege of Whites. For those of any other race, life was extremely difficult.

As often happens with babies of mixed race, little Sarah was born with a pale skin. Barry knew her life would be easier if she was registered as a ‘white’ with his surname.

An illegitimate white child could only be registered with its father’s name if the mother appeared before a registrar of births. Barry had to find a white woman who was prepared to perjure herself in front of a registrar, swearing that she was the child’s mother.

Being an intelligent man and a lateral thinker, Barry visited a district of Johannesburg, similar to those in all cities where brothels were tolerated. After visiting several establishments, he found a young French woman who, for a fee, visited the registrar and signed an affidavit declaring that she was Sarah’s mother. Barry was happy that his beautiful daughter would live a privileged life; the French woman, gladly receiving her fee, disappeared without a backward glance.

While Barry and Bimba checked the post each day for Sarah’s birth certificate, they noticed her skin colour becoming darker; she could no longer pass as a white child in that community of bigoted Whites. Barry, believing the birth certificate was lost in the post, decided to re-register Sarah as a coloured child with Bimba as her mother; this was a straightforward transaction.

Months later, when neither birth certificate had arrived, Barry received a letter from the Registrar’s Office in Pretoria asking why the same child had been registered as a White and then as a Coloured with two different mothers. Barry visited the registrar and, appealing to his sense of fair play, told the true story. The official pondered, then finally said, "You’re going to have to get hold of the white lady who helped you and she’s going to have to sign an affidavit that she lied when she signed her name as the child’s mother. Then we can issue the correct birth certificate.” The official had no interest in informing the police about Barry’s relationship with Bimba as long as his paper-work was accurate.

Barry returned to the brothel, only to find that the helpful French woman had returned to France.

On his way out of the establishment, a young woman approached him. “I overheard that you wanted to speak to Madeleine,” she said. “She did return to France, she’s been gone a year – but she’s back, she’s sharing a flat with me. For a fee, I’ll take you to her.”

For yet another, larger fee, the French woman signed a second affidavit before the registrar, stating that she had lied previously. With a sigh of relief, Barry and Bimba were happy that Sarah’s birth was finally registered. Eventually two birth certificates were received for Sarah; one for a coloured child and one for a white.

Some months later, a policeman knocked on Barry’s door. A neighbour had reported the illegal coupling of a white and a black and the consequent birth of a Coloured child. Barry appeared in court – and told the magistrate that it was none of his business who he slept with. Though he was convicted of contravening the Immorality Act, Barry did not go to prison.

Sarah was educated in one of the best Catholic schools, where children of all races were accepted. In 1994 when Sarah was fifteen years’ old, Apartheid was abolished and the hope-filled New South Africa came into being. She became an adult in a country where opportunity and privilege were offered to all.

In 1998, while Leon and I were on honeymoon, we visited Barry and Bimba in their new home at Pringle Bay near Cape Town. Barry was eighty-three, tall and upright with a well-worn face, untidy white hair and sparkling blue eyes. “Follow me,” he said, leading us to a corner bedroom. There lay a little golden-brown girl, a fizz of dark hair haloing her face, sleeping peacefully.

This was Barry’s fourth and youngest daughter. Barry said, “Her name is Maria… Aren’t children just wonderful?”

Barry died a year later. Before he died, he married Bimba, rewarding her long-lived loyalty and love with respectability and giving Maria and Sarah retrospective legitimacy.

Several of Barry’s paintings adorn our home, monuments to a good friend and a man of remarkable integrity.

Until next week, “here comes Treble!”

By Isabel Bradley
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