by Emma
his Vices'. I wished that I had written that. But in praise of
Emma.
Every day we went out somewhere different, and every
morning I went into the garden to look at things. One
morning, as we were waiting to go out, I called to Don,
'Come and have a look at this bird.'
He came rushing out of the house, probably thinking that
something strange was happening.
'Look,' I said, 'at the bird sitting in that tree.'
'Yes,' he said, puzzled, 'what's the matter with it?'
'No, there's nothing the matter with it, but look, it's sitting
there in the branches.'
'Yes,' he said patiently, 'I can see.'
He did not get the point of my excitement, nor should I have
expected him to. I had to explain. I had known, because I
had either been told, or read it, that birds sit in trees. I had
always been aware of birds around me, above me somewhere.
I could even tell the difference between some birds. I knew
blackbirds' calls and sparrows' chirpings. But my mind had
never been able to connect the idea of the birds with the idea
i
i
A NEW LIFE
I83
of trees. I could never put them together, somehow. It sounds
mad, but it was so. Despite having been told, my brain could
not make the link. And here I was actually seeing a bird in
a tree.
On the last morning of our holiday, Don had a brilliant
idea. 'What about going up to Yorkshire, to Flamborough
Head, say?' I knew that up there it was supposed to be very
beautiful, and I could not wait to get in the car and start.
I was longing for my first view of the sea.
It was a long drive, almost a hundred miles, and on the
way countryside rolled by, through the Dukeries, beyond the
coalfields and industrial towns, and gradually into the wide,
green and steep hills of the Yorkshire Wolds. The fields rolled
away ahead and on either side. Sometimes we would be going
past a church in a dip, at the next moment we were at the top,
looking over undulating greenness. I remembered learning
about contours in geography, but I had never before seen
what they really meant.
Don drove the car up to the lighthouse at Flamborough
Head, with its brilliant white tower, and we got out, Emma
running ahead. A second or so after hearing a great booming
and roaring, I saw the sea. I had never imagined such endless
movement, such brilliance, such force of motion. The sea
seemed to gather strength, pausing for a moment of silence,
then it came roaring in, dashing and thundering against the
foot of the cliffs, while in the circle formed by the coast, the
water appeared to boil. The first time this happened, I caught
hold of Don's arm. I felt sure the cliff was trembling and would
crumble under the assault. But when the wave retreated from
the worn foot of the cliff, I realized that this had been happening
for centuries, and that I was quite safe. Emma loved
Flamborough too. She ran about, and helped us when
eventually we went down to the beach to collect some pebbles
and shells. She dashed in and out of the sea, shaking herself
with happiness. I picked up all sorts of different stones from
the beach, and we took them home as a memento.
But, among all the tumbling impressions of that week, there
! i
i
I84
was a touch of sadness, too. I had time to go through all the
drawers and cupboards, and I came across old letters, forgotten
books and magazines, and photographs. It was looking
at the photographs especially that brought home to me that
there were some things I did not know about when I was
blind, and would almost have preferred to keep that way.
There were pictures of my family, and I saw that they seemed
older than I had imagined them. I found snaps of Ohpas, my
Siamese cat that had died, and wished I had not come across
them. Above all, there were a whole lot of photographs of
Emma, all lovely, from the age of a few weeks, some of them
sent to me by Paddy Wansborough, and showing what a
gorgeous, lively little puppy she must have been. Others
showed her later in the fullness of her vigour and looks, and
continued up to the present. The trouble was that ' looking at
them one after the other, I could see the process of Emma's
growing up and getting older. I knew she was nearly eleven,
but I never thought of her as that old. Her age did not mean
anything to me until I saw those photographs, and then it
suddenly hit me, even though she still looked her lovely self,
with not a grey hair. I was confronted all at once with the fact
that, for a dog, Emma was getting on.
And sadness was not the only unpleasant sensation. During
the week, I went one afternoon to do some shopping in
Nottingham, and this brought the most terrifying demonstration
of how I had to learn to use my sight: any expectation
I might have had that the possession of sight would automatically
make life easy was very painfully revised. I got off
the bus, and went out of the bus station. To say I was shocked
would be nowhere near the truth. I was, all at once, scared out
of my wits. I was with Emma on the lead, and as we emerged,
added to all the noise and sense of bustle I knew about and had
expected, there was revealed the cause: people, thousands of
people, everything on the move, and cars and buses and
cyclists going past and all mingled in a great m&I6e. I could
not believe there could be so many people, and not one of them
took any particular notice of Emma and me. Why should they
EMMA AND I
A NEW LIFE
I85
have done? I was no longer blind and Emma was not wearing
a guide-dog's harness. I had always relied on Emma implicitly
to take me through cro~vds and people, but now I was " bumped
and jostled, and I realized that I was making no effort to
get out of the way.
It was frightening, but we carried on, and then I happened
to look up and see an enormously tall office-building, part
of the new centre of Nottingham. I had never thought anything
could be so towering, or so threatening. It seemed to
sway. I knew the clouds were going past above, but it looked
as if the buildings were moving and not the sky. Feeling dizzy,
I finally managed to look away and get back to the business
of dividing everything into moving and non-moving obstacles,
just as Emma had done for me all those years. Emma, of
course, trotted along, and although she was still not used to
being out with me, particularly in town, without her harness,
she was very much like any other dog out for a walk on the
lead. For most of the time that is. But there came a moment
when she sensed I was in difficulties, and she reverted immediately
and absolutely to the r6Ie she knew best. We were going
over a crossing controlled by traffic lights. I waited for the
green light, and, ju
st as important, listened for the bleeping
and the traffic stopping, because I still relied on hearing a
great deal; half-way across the road I was aware that there
was something in our path. I had no idea what it was; I could
not work it out. The image was there, but my brain would not
translate for me. I stood with Emma in the middle of the
crossing in front of this object. Then Emma came to the rescue.
From walking to heel, she came out in front of me and started
pulling left on the lead. I followed. She took me down the
middle of the road, then across to the opposite pavement.
When I turned and looked back at the crossing I saw the
bewildering object from a different angle, and realized what
it was: one of those very long, flat trailers. It was empty,
and had stopped, straddled over the crossing.
On the bus that took me home I was able to see at first hand
all manner of differences in the passengers, and it was a
I86 EMMA AND I
continuing source of amazement: some happy, others miserable
looking; some I thought I would like to know, but a lot
more I would have run a mile from. All in all, I was disappointed
by people's appearances. If they had had a
uniformity in my blind thoughts, at least they shared a certain
imagined handsomeness, and I had never allowed for human
beings looking ugly, grotesque, even repulsive. In front of
me sat a man whose neck bulged and rolled over his collar,
and further down the bus was a bald man. Baldness, in
particular, horrified me then, although by now I have become
used to it.
Of course I was particularly surprised at how different my
family and friends looked from what I had imagined. When I
answered the door one day and saw a man standing there (it
was before I had seen the family photographs) I had no idea
until he spoke that it was my brother, Graham. And when my
mother came round, I looked at her, and said, 'My goodness,
haven't you gone grey? When did that happen?' I was
tactless and possibly unkind in these encounters without
meaning to be. It was only the surprise of reality that made
me so.
I took some time also to get used to the idea of facial expressions.
I looked at Don from time to time, and thought:
people don't have one face, they have hundreds. In a blind
world there is only one hazy idea of what a face might be.
There is no thought for that face being capable of change
through laughter, sadness, or any other expression. And my
face, too, was changing. During that first week our friends
Eddy and Mike Blain came round, and after they had been
with us about half an hour, Mike said, 'You've changed.'
'Whatever do you mean?'
'Well, your face has changed.'
'My face? How?'
'I don't really know. But it's different ... I don't know, I
suppose it looks somehow more alive, Sheila. You're using
expression.'
And it suddenly came to me that he must be right, and that
A NEW LIFE I87
the slight stiffness I had begun to feel in my face was nothing
to do with the operation, as I had thought; instead it was
caused by using facial muscles I had never used before. I
suppose that children pick up expressions from their parents
and from other children. But, never having seen a face well
enough to mirnic, I was now making up for lost time. I was
glad Mike had told me that my face had become alive.
Before the operation, when I went out with Don, either to
friends or to the pub for a drink, I would be with him, yet
among a lot of people, and, unless he was talking directly
to me or I could hear him, I would feel that the circuit
between us had somehow been switched off. After I could see,
it was marvellous to be able to look across a room full of
people and see him instantly, and, no matter how many
people were around, smile and see him smile back.
The time came all too quickly for Don, after that wonderful
week, to go back to the surgery. Eventually I, too, went back
to work. Emma was a little more used to being on the lead,
but it must have been strange for her going on the familiar
morning journey into Nottingham without having to take
charge. She was still a bit puzzled, and looked at me occasionally
before we were going out as if she were wondering: where's
my harness? I don't understand. When we got to work, we
went up to the door, and momentarily, I thought; I suppose
this is the right place, but the door looks strange. It was as if
I had never known it. Yet as soon as I touched the handle, I
knew it was the right place.
Inside, too, it was Eke somewhere I had never known,
utterly different from the idea I had built up. When I reached
the switchboard I had worked at for so long, I could hardly
believe my eyes. My braille machine was there still, ready for
use. I hadn't thought of braille in the past few weeks. I felt
as if I were an archaeologist discovering a long-hidden relic
of my own past. Emma did not seem to mind though. She
went into her basket and settled down straight away.
At first I couldn't manace the new way. It was too much to
operate the switchboard visually. I learned in time, but at the
I88 EMMA AND I
beginning I reverted to working it as I had always done, by
touch. Similarly, it was difficult to write messages instead of
using the braille machine. At home, I had started to teach
myself to read again, and to write. But it came slowly. Once
again, my brain would not always immediately attach the
correct meanings to the shapes I saw on paper. Nevertheless,
however hard it was, nothing could diminish the sheer
pleasure of being given back the ability to read, and I spent
my time surrounded by books and magazines.
I went on working at the garage for some time, until, in
fact, I decided to start writing this book. As time went on, I
gradually managed to operate the switchboard visually, and
to write down all my messages, and, as happens quite quickly
in life, old and familiar habits and patterns, once shed, were
soon forgotten. I was reminded of my former way of life quite
dramatically, and painfully, when the question arose of
training my replacement. This was to be my friend Kath, with
her guide-dog Rachel bringing her to work. I had to train
her on the switchboard, and doing this, and seeing her work,
was like seeing myself as a ghost.
It was such a strange feeling, I could not believe that I had
once been like that. But it came back to me in all sorts of
ways. Kath felt my pen and pad, and laughed. 'They're no
good to me,' she said. And I remembered how I used to feel:
not wanting to admit that such things existed, things that I
could not use. All the same, it had its amusing side. Rachel
and Emma had to share the same dog-bed, at least they tried,
although it was rather a squeeze. Poor Emma kept getting
out and looking up
at me appealingly, and I interpreted
this as meaning something like: look, what's happening? I
know I rather like Rachel, but I've been here so many years,
and now she wants to come and take over my basket! In the
end she was so put out that she settled for lying by my feet
on the carpet, despite all my explanations to her.
But the training was no laughing matter to me. I had to
remember how to work the switchboard by touch, and train
Kath to do so, and when she first sat down I had to demonA
NEW LIFE
I89
strate its workings by touch, her hand following mine over the
braille indicators, feeling where all the numbers and switches
were. I had to teach her where the braille lists were kept,
and as I was doing this, in a terrible flash I suddenly knew how
sighted people reacted to blind people. I knew how people
must have looked at me. And yet, even now, with my
experience, I still did not know how best to help Kath.
I kept wanting to tell her how to do something quicker
because I could see it. Someone would ring the switchboard,
and instantly I could see what was happening, and what
number it was, but at the same time I could see Kath running
her hands along the switchboard, feeling for the movement of
the indicator to answer the call. I was so frustrated by this I
wanted to say to her, 'No, you're on the wrong side, it's over
the other side, it's the one at the top.' But I knew I would not
be helping her if I did. It was heart-rending, and nothing
else since leaving hospital has moved me so much. It hurt
particularly because Kath was such a capable blind person,
and such a good friend, and I could hardly bear it when she
looked at people and could not see them, or I saw her feeling
round her desk for her tea.
But life went on. Emma realized in time that I could see, and
this happened, as I thought it might, as a result of one special
incident. She was still in the habit of patiently waiting for the
cats to finish their food every evening, and, having perfected
a method of stealing across the kitchen floor without me
hearing her, of going and polishing off what was left. The
first I would know about it was always the rattle of empty