emma and i - Sheila Hocken

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