emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  cannot tell you about everything. To a sighted person a mere

  3I

  glance interprets everything about something like a louvre

  window, but to a blind person it has to be explained: its function

  -how it lets the condensation out, but doesn't let the cold air

  in-and how it works in general and can be adjusted to suit

  different conditions. Blind people not only want to know that,

  but they also want to know how it feels when it's open, when it's

  closed and when it's half closed-something that a sighted

  person can assimilate in two seconds just by looking.

  When we came out of the kitchen George still seemed in no

  hurry to talk about his forthcoming programme. Instead we sat

  and chatted.

  'Do you remember those days when you used to ring me, our

  kid?' he said.

  'I do, George.'

  'We had some good times.' He chuckled, and took another

  pull of his beer. 'Do you remember the Opticon?'

  The Opticon? I thought. Then it came back, just as George

  sensed in the brief silence that I had not remembered.

  'I was going to buy you one, Sheila, don't you remember?'

  Don said.

  'Of course,' I said. 'The tactile reading machine.'

  'That's it.'

  'Have you got one yet, George?'

  He laughed. 'No . . . I'm still saving!'

  'Are they still as expensive?'

  'About two thousand quid.'

  I remembered the night that George had rung me, about six

  months before the operation. He had been so excited. 'Listen,

  Sheila ... I've got this terrific news. There's an incredible

  machine just been invented by an American. It's called the

  Opticon. It translates all the visual images into tactile images

  that you can feel. You can read anything with it. Can you

  imagine... ?' I had, in an instant, been able to imagine and

  realized the new, undreamt-of possibilities for blind people,

  George and myself included. In an instant I had become as

  excited as he was.

  'Oh, George! Where can we get one from? What do we do?'

  'Ah. It's not as simple as that.' He calmed down a bit and

  told me about the enormous cost of the machines. They were

  32

  only in the experimental stage, and there were only one or two

  in Britain.

  All very dampening, of course. But the basic idea remained: a

  marvellous new machine that could alter the life of any blind

  person. When Don came in that evening I had told him,

  pouring out enthusiasm to him just as George had to me over

  the telephone. Don listened and said immediately, and with no

  n-iore deliberation than if he had been about to order a pound

  of tea, 'We'll have one!'

  'But Don,' I said, 'where are we going to get two thousand

  pounds from?'

  'Never mind the money.'

  'And don't forget the operation,' I said. By now I had become

  cautious, and vaguely wondered if Don was thinking of rushing

  out and robbing a bank.

  'Ah, the operation ... yes,' said Don thoughtfully. 'Well, I

  suppose we ought to wait to see how it goes.' He had always

  been reluctant to discuss what might happen if I got sight. And

  even more, if the operation did not prove a success. So the

  subject was dropped. But later that evening Don suddenly said,

  'I tell you what. If the operation's a success, I'll buy you a

  colour TV. And if not I'll buy you an Opticon.'

  George brought back the entire memory of that evening,

  sitting there in the same room where those words had been

  spoken and those promises made-and sitting,. now, next to a

  new colour television set!

  When, finally, we had discussed details of the Radio Nottingham

  programme and George had gone, I reflected,with shame

  that in the presence of blind people I was uneasy. I still am.

  Not because I do not know what to do or that I am afraid of

  blindness, like an ordinary sighted person, but it makes me feel

  guilty: guilty that I have sight while people like George have

  not. I think constantly of all those other friends who are still

  left behind on the other side of that dark wall. And my shouting

  to them and telling them how wonderful it is on this side does

  not relieve the guilt nor, more importantly, do them any good.

  The Radio Nottingham programme duly went out and George

  had a story printed in the local paper, and from that moment

  33

  things began to happen. One of the very first exciting things was

  that Robin Brightwell of the BBC 2 Horizon programme rang

  Me.

  'I'm producing a programme,' he told me, 'about blind

  people, but mainly blind children, and I thought it would be a

  good idea to have you, maybe at the beginning of the programme,

  to say what it's like to have your sight restored and

  make a really good opening. How do you feel about it?'

  I was thrilled and flattered and agreed immediately, but I

  said, 'You'll want Emma in as well, won't you?'

  'Oh, well, yes, of course,' he said, after some hesitation.

  So it was arranged that he would come up and see us on a

  Sunday in January so that we could discuss the filming arrangements.

  I remember that Sunday so vividly because, apart from

  anything else, it started to snow. 'It's snowing!' Don had called

  out, and I had immediately rushed into the garden. It was so

  beautiful, and something else I had never seen before. I watched

  the white flakes floating down from the sky and landing on my

  coat, stopping for a while, and then slowly melting away.

  'What are you up to out there?' Don shouted from the

  kitchen window.

  'I'm watching the snow. Isn't it incredible?'

  'Well, if you say so,' he laughed. 'But it's a lot nicer from in

  here. You'll freeze.'

  'No,' I said. 'It's so lovely out here, and I can't feel the cold.'

  I felt I wanted to stay there all day, holding my head up to the

  sky which was whirling with snowflakes, drifting and swirling

  down. I saw that when they reached the grass they alighted so

  gently, as if someone was putting them there one by one. It

  wasn't at all like rain, which is very aggressive. It was as if each

  had wings.

  Eventually I went inside to wait for Robin Brightwell to

  arrive, but I made sure that I was always able to see out of a

  window and watch the snowflakes. I noticed that as the snow

  began to settle and everything turned white, it all seemed to

  look brighter and cleaner and there were new reflections inside

  the house. This might appear very ordinary and unremarkable

  to anyone used to the sight of snow, but it was an astonishing

  revelation to me.

  34

  Robin Brightwell was just how I expected a television

  producer to be: tall, dark, with a beard, and intelligent-looking.

  We sat and discussed the programme.

  'We'd like to come down on Tuesday, if that's all right with

  you,' he said.

  gyes, fine. What have you got in mind for the filming?'

  'Well, I think we'd like to film you on a railway station, and

 
; possibly in a local shop. I remember you saying on the broadcast

  that often you can't relate to objects: you're able to see an

  object, but not able to identify what it actually is until you've

  touched it. Perhaps we might be able to put that idea over on

  film.'

  'There's a little shop round the corner,' I told him, 'which

  would do very well for that. It's a hardware shop and has lots

  and lots of different things in it, and some of them I know I

  can't identify.' We laughed, and when Robin had walked

  round the corner with me and seen the shop he agreed that it

  would be just the place.

  The following Tuesday the production team were due at

  8.3o am.

  'What shall I wear?' I said to Don. 'What do you think I look

  slimmest in?' Once I was able to see, I had been able to judge

  my figure against other women's, and I had had to admit to

  myself that I could do with being a bit slimmer, I had also

  learnt that different colours could alter how slim or otherwise

  you looked.

  I think you ought to wear your navy-blue dress,' said Don.

  Right,' I said. 'That does make me look a bit slimmer.'

  As I said that I realized once again how, in all sorts of

  unpredictable ways, my world and a whole lot of attitudes had

  changed with vision. Before, I think I would have chosen something

  that I felt comfortable in, something made of material of

  which I liked the feel. Now those considerations no longer came

  into it. No matter how uncomfortable I might feel, I had to look

  my best. I don't know which value is right, but I do know that

  visual judgements had by now completely taken over the way I

  dressed.

  When 8.30 came and the bell rang at the front door I

  expected Robin and possibly two or three other people, but

  35

  I was not prepared for the army assembled on my doorstep!

  Robin came in, followed by someone else, followed by someone

  else and so on, until a crowd of football-match proportions was

  inside the house. Robin introduced them all: the assistant

  producer, the cameraman, the photographer, the sound man

  ... and so on.

  'Do you mean to tell me that it takes all of you to make a

  film?' I asked.

  'Well,' said Robin, 'it does-but we're really short-staffed.'

  He sounded a little put out.

  Then started the very gruelling, down-to-earth business of

  making a film. After that day I knew I never wanted to be a

  film star-not that I would ever have the opportunity. I had

  never before realized what a tedious and boring business

  film-making is.

  'We've fixed up to film at the local station, with British

  Rail's co-operation,' said Robin. 'We want to film you buying

  a ticket and then, on the train, what you're looking at out of

  the window. We'll do the wild tracks later.'

  'Wild tracks?' I asked. 'What are those?'

  'Oh, soundtracks that you fit to the film afterwards.'

  Off we went to the station, and Robin told me that if I saw

  anything I was not quite sure about or obstacles that I did not

  recognize immediately, I was to tell him. This was because at

  that time I was still very much learning to translate the identity

  of objects into my mind through sight alone. When we got on

  to the platform I saw some red things hanging on a wall and

  told him about them.

  'Fire-buckets,' he said. 'Haven't you come across those

  before ?'

  'No, I haven't been on many trains, I must admit,' I said.

  'At least, not since I've been able to see.'

  We went to the ticket office, Emma trotting obediently

  beside me, and I bought my ticket. Not once, however, but

  about five times. On each occasion but the last something went

  wrong: 'The lighting's not right-cut!' or: 'Cut-can you do it

  again? Somebody else came into shot.' Only Emma seemed

  unperturbed.

  We heard the train approaching. 'Come on, everybody,'

  36

  said Robin, 'we've only got a thirty-second stop.' Apparently

  British Rail had organized a special stop just for our benefit,

  and had agreed we could hold the train up for precisely thirty

  seconds. I was amazed. I just could not see how we could all

  get aboard in that time: cameramen, soundmen, with all their

  gadgets and lighting equipment, and everyone trailing yards of

  cable. I wished I'd had a camera myself and could have filmed

  the pantomime of them all trying to bundle through the same

  door all at once.

  But we made it-well, at least, the train did not go without

  anyone!

  Once on board, everything I did was filmed over and over

  again. Either the lighting was wrong, or somebody got in the

  way, or Emma looked in the wrong direction at the wrong

  moment, or I did the wrong thing.

  By the time we had finished with British Rail and were ready

  for the ironmonger's shop, I was exhausted. But a repetition of

  the previous minor dramas was to follow. Robin set up everything

  inside the shop, tried to make sure that nobody else came

  in while we were making the film and told me what he wanted:

  'I want to see you coming up to the door, walking in with

  Emma, going up to the counter, having a look round, and

  telling us what you see-including anything you can't identify

  straight away. Right, off we go. Count ten, and come in.'

  Emma and I stood outside the door, I counted ten, and we

  walked in.

  'No, no. That wasn't right.'

  'Why? What did I do wrong?'

  'We could see you standing there. You'll have to go further

  back, up the shop window a bit before you approach.'

  The shop was in a small block in the middle of a council

  estate with stretches of grass planted here and there. The ironmonger

  was situated on the edge of one of these stretches of

  grass. What I had not realized, going in my normal way along

  the pavement, was that there was a drop from the shop to the

  grass on the side. I went outside again, and stood half way

  along the shop window.

  Robin appeared out of the door. 'No, Sheila, further back.

  Back. . . even more. Further back. . .' So I backed, and Emma

  37

  backed, and suddenly I disappeared down the drop on to the

  grass. Needless to say, Emma still had her paws planted firmly

  on the pavement. She looked over at me as if to say: 'Well, I

  don't know. You took my harness off, I thought you didn't

  need me any more. Now look what you're doing-backing off

  down banks, indeed!' I dusted myself off, and started again.

  I was never so glad, at half-past eight that evening, when we

  had finished the 'wild tracks' in our own living-room, to close

  the door on the entire crew and have a bit of peace. For all my

  hard work with Emma, and twelve hours of that day, I think

  three minutes actually appeared on television. But perhaps, in

  the context of the programme, it was all worth while. I hope so.

  In any case, it was a day's work over and as Don and I sat

  back that evening I was too tired
to consider another work

  problem which was looming, which had been nagging at me,

  and which I could not resolve. When I was blind I used to give

  talks on behalf of Guide-Dogs to all sorts of organizations both

  in Nottingham and in outlying towns and villages. Weeks

  before, even before my operation, I had booked a date to give

  a talk to a Rotary Club. Since I had come out of hospital I had

  not given a talk and this was the only one arranged, but I had

  been thinking off and on about it. The point was, the Rotary

  Club were expecting a blind person with her guide-dog and I

  had not told them how circumstances had changed. Not only

  could I see, but I was now not sure whether I could get up and

  talk to an audience that I could see. It worried me terribly, and

  now the talk was only forty-eight hours away.

  But, for once, tiredness was a blessing. I couldn't think about

  it there and then, nor discuss it with Don, who would be sure to

  be helpful. Yet even as I got into bed, I knew the problem

  would be waiting for me in the morning.

  38

  CHAPTER THREE

  BREAKFAST-TIME is not my best time for discussing problems.

  Some people are fully awake and active from the moment

  they get out of bed. I belong to the other half of the human race,

  and take a long time and a lot of coffee before I get into gear.

  But Don and I managed to make some sense, even at that early

  hour, of the threatening business of the approaching Rotary

  Club talk, because I really couldn't put it off any longer and I

  couldn't solve the problem on my own. My inclination was to

  pretend that I was still blind and to take Emma on her harness,

  let her curl up in front of them in her usual way, and for me to

  give my usual talk, which always went down well and showed

  people how marvellous guide-dogs are.

  But I knew this would be taking the easy way out, and in my

  heart I knew I couldn't do it because it would be deceitful.

  Another alternative was to cancel the whole business. I didn't

  know, in any case, whether I was really up to standing in front

  of an audience and talking to them. It had been all right when

  I was blind. I had no idea what the audience looked like and,