by Emma
utter waste of time. Even worse, I'd come away with no
donation to the guide-dogs.
We had been indoors only a few minutes before the phone
rang. A voice said, 'Hello, this is Mansfield Young Wives
here'.
'Oh, yes.'
'Where were you?'
'Where was I ? When?'
'Tonight.'
Then it dawned. At the time we had been stamping the
pavements of Newark bus station, there had been an impatient
gathering of ladies stamping their feet in a hall in Mansfield.
Oh, dear. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later,
but I could not apologize enough. What had happened, as
it transpired when I checked with Don, was that he had quite
firmly written 'Mansfield Young Wives' in the book. But, by
some aberration, I had transcribed Mansfield into braille as
Newark!
iio EMMA AND I
Generally I liked talking to W. Is., Rotary Clubs and Round
Tables-at the last of these Emma and I revefied in being the
only females-but another sort of talk I always enjoyed
immensely was a Cub or a Brownie meeting. After adults,
I found children so straightforward, unembarrassed, and
refreshing. Their questions were always imaginative, and
they accepted me without question or reservation. I would
never feel they were thinking, 'Poor thing, she can't see'. They
took that for granted, and, in any case, were more fascinated
by Emma and what she could do. Typically, the thing they
were most interested in was the way that Emma worked with
me. They wanted a demonstration. But this created a
difficulty. When I became an official speaker for the GuideDog
Association it was stressed that on no account should
demonstrations of this sort be given. The reasons are easy to
understand: the dogs would be surrounded by people, surrounded
by all sorts of distractions; they would be working in
artificial conditions, which would not be fair on them. This
was fine as a theory. But Emma never appreciated it, and
seemed perfectly happy at a chance to show off. In fact, it
would have taken someone with a stronger will than mine to
deter her.
So I found the best way of satisfying children's curiosity
was a simple little act. From where I stood at the far end of
the hall I would say, 'I'm going to ask Emma to take me to
the door, down the centre aisle. But if you'd like to put some
obstacles in my path, then you'll see how Emma does her
job and takes me round them.'
Emma was always delighted when this moment arrived
She thought it the most marvellous opportunity to display
her intelligence. Children would strew the centre aisle to the
door with coats and other paraphernalia, and occasionally the
odd chair. Emma was pleased to outwit their every move. If
she could not find a clear path down the middle, she promptly
took me another way, round the side, to immense applause.
On one particular evening with the Cubs, however, things
took a slightly different turn. We completed the talk, Emma
EMMA SAVES MY LIFE
ill
had done her demonstration, and then I asked for questions.
One very bright spark who sounded about seven was the first
to stand up, and asked, 'Will Emma do anything anybody
else tells her?'
'No, of course not,' I said, totally unaware of what he was
planning, after listening carefully to my talk about some of
Emma's likes and dislikes.
'If I call her to come to me, won't she come?'
'No, I'm afraid she won't.'
'Can I try?'
'Of course,' I said confidently, 'of course. Have a try.'
'Emma, Emma,' he shouted. Emma remained at my side,
and I imagine I probably had a silly grin on my face. Then he
tried something different. He shouted at the top of his voice:
'Emma, come on-butchers . . .' And Emma moved so
fast, she was down the hall in two seconds.
Although I liked talking to children, I was rather dubious
when an invitation to speak came from Woods School. This is
an establishment for handicapped children just outside
Nottingham. When I spoke to the headmistress, she explained
that many of the children were confined to wheelchairs, with
diseases such as multiple and disseminated sclerosis, and spina
bifida. All the children were to a greater or lesser degree
crippled in their limbs and bodies. Some of them, apparently,
had those little motorized carriages because their degree of
paralysis was such that they were only just about capable of
pressing the button to operate their wheels.
The headmistress asked me if I would go and talk to them,
because the children would love to see Emma, and would like
to know how a blind person coped with life. I was apprehensive.
I felt, I suppose, as a sighted person does at the
prospect of being confronted with someone who is blind. But
I thought, I must go, and we made a booking.
When Emma and I arrived, I asked the headn-iistress
'Won't it be difficult to explain blindness? They're all so
much more handicapped than I am. Will it mean anything
to them?'
II2
EMMA AND I EMMA SAVES MY LIFE II3
To my surprise she said, 'We've talked about blindness in
the classroom, and the children don't understand how you can
get about when you can't see. They think it would be much
worse to be blind than paralysed.'
I felt very strange, and could hardly agree. However, she
suggested that we should speak to the younger children first.
I got into the classroom, and then heard them coming in with
their wheelchairs, and the sound of the buzzers that operated
the electric ones. They were all very quiet as I told them about
Emma. She, I think, was rather puzzled about the wheelchairs.
She did not know what to make of children who had
wheels under them. As a result, she was more subdued than
usual during the talk. I was fascinated by the children's
questions. They were very intelligent. As I have said, most
children I talk to don't really think about anyone not being
able to see. They simply accept the fact. But these children,
with their own handicaps, were far more aware. When I got
to the older children, they were even more receptive and
understanding, and as I talked to them, I found it heartbreaking
knowing that some of them would not live very long.
Yet I could not mistake their incredible zest and enthusiasm
for life as they came up to take a closer look at Emma and
make a fuss of her.
Two of them approached me and said, 'You must come to
our swimn-iing pool.' I had no idea there would be a swimming
pool, but these boys explained that it was used for therapy.
Some children, who were not mobile on land, were able to
move in water.
One of the little boys was in a wheelchair and the other
was on crutches. I could hear the crutches going down the
corridor as they led me to the swimming pool area. The
n I
heard the crutches go faster and faster, and it was becoming
difficult for Emma, me, and the boy in the wheelchair to keep
up. It suddenly struck me that they were having a race! A
race II could hear the sound of the crutches becoming slightly
more distant and the wheelchair speeding up. Then I was
horrified to hear the little boy on crutches, whose name was
Robin, fall with a terrible echoing crash of scattering metal
sticks. I caught up with him, and had no idea what to do.
Meanwhile, I could not understand why Philip, the boy in the
wheelchair, was laughing his head off! Robin was on the
ground and making the most strange noises. I knelt down
beside him and asked, 'Are you all right?' There was no reply
beyond these worrying noises. And then I realized that he,
too, was helpless with laughter. It was infectious, and when
I'd got him back on his crutches, we all set off again down the
corridor, unable to stop laughing. What Emma made of it, I
have no idea.
We got to the swimming pool, and I was fascinated to hear
the children describe the little canoes in which they propelled
themselves. There was a marvellous atmosphere, and we all
got along well. I was able to ask them what it was like to be in
a wheelchair, and all but one said something of the order,
'Well, it's quite normal, we don't think anything about it at
all ... we can do this ... we can do that, and we can see, we
can see to read, and see to play games, and . . .' They felt
sorry for me because I could not see. It was very humbling.
Another centre for the handicapped I visited was Clifton
Spinney, which is a rehabilitation centre for blind people
not far from Nottingham. It is a residential place where
people who have recently lost their sight can go for a monthor
two-month course to help them re-shape their lives without
the aid of sight. Because of the gradual way I had lost what
little sight I ever had, I always considered myself fortunate
compared with people who had enjoyed perfect vision and
then lost it. Naturally I had the frustrations of being blind,
but I had never at any point sat down and thought: 'Last
year I could see, and now I can't; I shall never get used to
this. What am I going to do?'
I always found it difficult if I met someone who had newly
lost his or her sight. It is the worst way to go blind. People are
such visual animals that sight overrides every other sense.
To have that sense suddenly taken away is a terrible blow. It
brings with it not only physical blindness, but a kind of
II4 EMMA AND I EMMA SAVES MY LIFE II5
equivalent mental blindness as well. Sea-anemones immediately
close up when anything touches them. People who go
blind seem to close up mentally in the same way. But they
often remain shut ofF from the world.
So, if I had been dubious to begin with about going to talk
to handicapped children, I was doubly worried about the
idea of talking to the blind at Clifton Spinney. The point was
that one of the main aspects of the talks I gave was to prove to
sighted people how normal blind people were, how they were
able to cope and get on with their daily lives, and to put over
how I had done it, and how Emma helped me. How could I
say this to these people?
The Spinney was managed by a Mr and Mrs Spencer.
Mrs Spencer was sighted, but her husband was blind. It was
good that a blind person was in charge of the centre, because
no one knows better what the blind require than someone who
cannot see. Mrs Spencer was very kind. She picked me up and
took me to the centre, and, once there, led me along to the
room where I was to give the talk, and where a blind audience
was already waiting. She left me saying that her husband
would be along shortly to introduce me. I heard the door
close. I sat on a little platform with Emma by me, and I
realized that not only could I not see them, but they could not
see me. The thought struck me forcibly, and I did not like it
one bit. I wasn't used to mixing with blind people. I had
always chosen the company of sighted people, and if I had
blind people as friends it was always because I liked them
personally, not because of, or with any allowance for, their
not being able to see.
So I sat there, becoming more and more apprehensive, and
my throat going drier and drier as I waited for Mr Spencer.
I could hear the audience chatting among themselves, and
noticed, not for the first time, that with the totally blind,
particularly those who have been recently blinded, there is a
characteristic and very monotonous tone to their voices,
somehow reflecting the idea that in losing their sight, all hope
and interest in life has gone as well. Then I heard Mr Spencer
come through the door. 'Hello, Sheila, my name's Charles
Spencer.' I stood up and moved towards his voice and put out
my hand to shake his. We collided. My hand was somewhere
on his jacket pocket, his was near my left ear. I felt flustered
and disheartened, and thought: this is what happens when
you put blind people together.
I started offin the way I would begin one of my usual talks.
But within a few minutes I knew I would have to change my
tactics. I was getting no response whatever from the audience.
There were no laughs at all, let alone in the right places. It was
a terrible feeling, like talking into a vacuum. I had to get
through to them somehow and eventually I did. But it was very
hard work-I think the most difficult talk I have ever done.
Question time was correspondingly drastic: there was no
sequence of questions, with one person asking after the other.
Everyone shouted, and at times there were three questions in
the air at the same time, and I could not understand one of
them. This was not because newly blinded people are stupid,
or have no feeling for other people, it is because they feel cut
off, they have suddenly been thrust on this dark island, and
they have to do their best to get away from it. Many of them
were still suffering the shock of losing their sight, of having
to begin a completely different life, of having their main sense
taken from them.
I felt desperately sympathetic. One of the difficulties that
affect the newly blind is that sighted people tend to make a
fuss, and to encourage the feeling that, suddenly, they have
become helpless, bereft almost of any faculties. They tend to
take over, and do things for blind people which if they were
taught they could do for themselves. So much is done that
sometimes the blind person becomes convinced she or he
really is incapable. One of the objects at Clifton Spinney was
to counter this very real threat.
As the questions sorted themselves out, it became evident
that they were particularly interested in guide-dogs, so Emma
played her part in convincing them that, despite blindness,
they c
ould have real mobility and freedom.
All the same I was truly glad to leave Clifton Spinney: this
may seem a terrible thing to admit, but it's true. How thankful
I was to have Emma, and for the start I had had in life. I could
never have worked there as Mr Spencer did. It would have
been too close to home, too real. The problems at Clifton
Spinney were all out in the open, and being tackled. But in
their heart of hearts no blind person wants to admit that there
is a problem in not being able to see.
How thankful I had to be for Emma was brought home to
me some weeks after this. Going through town one day, she
took me to a zebra crossing at a busy point. I heard a bus or a
lorry pull up to let us cross. I gave Emma the signal to go
forward., and we started to go over the crossing. But we had
taken only a step or two before Emma stopped, and began to
back away, tugging on the harness. I could not understand
what she was doing, and entirely forgot to trust her. 'Emma,
come on, it's all right, they've stopped for us,' I urged. She
would not move, however, and I thought I must step out to
show that everything was clear-because I could hear the
engine of the bus or lorry safely ticking over and waiting for
us. So I stepped forward. Then Emma did the most incredible
thing. She made a sort of bound in front of me, and almost
knocked me back into the gutter. At the same moment I
suddenly heard a growing noise and a car roared across the
zebra ahead of me and up the road. Another inch forward,
if Emma had not stopped me, and I would have been killed.
The whole incident took only seconds, but when it happened I
just stood there on the crossing, totally petrified. I heard the
engine next to me stop and the sound of a cab door sliding
open. Then the sound of an anxious voice. It was a corporation
bus driver.
'Are you all right?'
'Yes,' I said.
'I've never seen anything like it. I couldn't get his number.
He must have been doing fifty miles an hour.'
'Yes,' I said, still too shaken to react any more.
Then the driver added, 'I've never seen anything like your
II6 EMMA AND I IFMMA SAVES MY LIFE II7
dog, either. It's lucky she did that. You've got a good dog