more important, I didn't know whether they were yawning with
boredom or not. Perhaps the reason for my diffidence about
the whole thing was that I had come to the end of the road as a
speaker on behalf of guide-dogs. Yet, if we cancelled the talk,
it would mean a lot of disappointment for the Rotarians, quite
apart from it being impossible for them to engage another
speaker at such short notice.
In the end, after Don and I had talked it out, we decided
that I should ring them, explain the changed circumstances,
and see what they said. I tried to get hold of the Chairman all
that morning but there was no reply, and there was still no
reply that afternoon. I tried another number and managed to
get the Secretary's wife, and sat back relieved thinking that's
that secure in the knowledge that he had a message to ring me
39
back. But he didn't ring back. The following day arrived, and
by that time it was too late to alter plans, to tell anyone about
my being able to see, or to do anything other than be in a state
of nerves as I prepared to go off and do the talk. Emma also
was not her usual self, perhaps because she saw me get her
harness off the hook (even though I intended only to carry it)
and was obviously wondering, 'First it's a lead, now it's back
to a harness again. What is she playing at?'
There was only one consolation. Rotary Clubs had always
been my favourite audiences, partly because male audiences
always seemed more responsive. This one was a luncheon
meeting at an hotel. I got there with Emma, and we sat down
in the foyer waiting for the Chairman, or the Secretary who had
not rung back. I saw all the men coming in, standing at the bar
ordering drinks, and watched some of them glancing in a sidelong
way at me and Emma with her tell-tale harness, then turning
away again. I felt a bit like an exhibit and reflected that
this must have been how it always was, but I had not been able
to see it.
At last the Secretary arrived-at least I knew it must be the
Secretary because of his opening words-but at first that did
not interest me as much as the way he approached. He came
over and stood in front of me as if I was one of the supporting
pillars of the foyer, and sort of talked over me as if I was not
really there at all. I wondered if that was what other officials
had always done.
'Ah, Mrs Hocken,' he said, 'I'm sorry I couldn't ring you
back last night, it was too late ... but I suppose you were just
confirming the booking because we made the date so long ago.'
I looked at him, but his eyes didn't meet mine because he
was glancing over his shoulder back to the members at the bar.
'No,' I said, 'that really wasn't it. I had something else to tell
you . . .'
But before I could get to the point, he caught my arm and I
automatically responded by rising to my feet, then he was propelling
me towards the dining-room, saying, 'Well, never mind,
we're all looking forward to hearing you.'
'But,' I said, 'there is something-and it's really rather
important.'
40
At last the message sunk in. 'Oh,' he said. 'What is it?'
So I told him.
His expression was a picture: there was no hint of delight and
instead a sort of baffled look, with a faint suggestion (or so I
thought) of irritation came over his face.
'You can see?' he said in a bewildered way, and then in
an unconscious pun that I wanted to laugh at, but did not,
'I see!'
'This is what I wanted to tell you about on the phone,
because I didn't think it fair that the audience should not know
and the point is I think they should know.'
He was quite aghast. 'No, no,' he said, 'I don't think that
would do.'
'Why not?' I asked.
'Well . . .' he said, obviously not very sure himself, 'I just
don't think it would do . . .'
'But I can still tell them all about Emma, and now I can tell
the story from two sides, so to speak.'
'Yes,' he said 'I know. But the point is we want to raise
money for guide-dogs, and, somehow ... well, I don't think if
you told them you can see it would have the same ... the same
impact.'
'Oh dear,' I said, wishing that the Secretary, the men at the
bar and the entire hotel would miraculously disappear and that
I was sitting quietly at home minding my own business. We
stood there for what seemed ages, with waitresses rushing about
and, by now, the members of the Rotary Club coming in and
taking their seats, and eyeing in a curious way the scene of their
Secretary apparently having an argument with their guest
speaker.
I tried once again to convince him. 'It won't really make any
difference,' I persisted, 'if I tell them. It really won't take away
from how wonderful Emma has been and how guide-dogs are
such a boon to blind people.'
'Maybe not,' he said, 'but I still don't think you should tell
them.' Then, as an afterthought, he added, 'Or if you do, you
ought at least to leave it to the end.'
'Oh, I don't like that,' I said. 'After all, they'll know I can
see when I don't walk into things without Emma on harness.'
4I
'No, they won't,' he said. 'Leave it to the end.' And that is
what I had to do, because at that moment the Chairman came
up. The Secretary introduced us without batting an eyelid and
did nothing to suggest that I was other than blind, and the
Chairman, a booming, over-jovial character who persisted in
calling me 'little lady' which did nothing for my temper,
clucked and fussed around me and guided me to my seat at the
top table.
'You'll be all right sitting there, little lady,' he said. 'I'm
sitting next to you, and I'll announce your talk. All the members
are sitting in front of you on tables that branch off this one.'
I sat there, Emma curled up at my feet, nose under the table
in her usual impeccable, well-behaved wa),, and as the soup
arrived I stopped being nervous about the talk and became
absorbed in the reactions of the men at the other tables. The
soup was of the watery kind in which you can see right to the
bottom of the plate, and with taste, or no taste, to match. As I
started eating I was aware that most of the men, from time to
time, were looking at me in a peculiarly furtive sort of way,
watching me out of curiosity. It was as if I was about to turn
into some prehistoric monster any minute. I put my spoon
down, straightened my hair, made sure that was all right, and
checked that my dress was done up properly in front. Sure
enough, it was, and I went back to my soup again. But very
uneasily. I looked round and met someone else's gaze, and he
looked away. I wondered then if he realized I could see. Or
perhaps it had only been a coincidence that I had caught his
eye.
Luncheon ended, and the Chairman got up and announced
m
y talk. I got to my feet; Emma, on cue, took a more lively
interest in the proceedings; and I was suddenly appalled. I saw
what I had never experienced before when getting up to give
an address-a mass of faces, some looking intent, some leaning
to whisper to the man next to them, some stubbing out cigarettes,
some more concerned with what had happened to the
wine bottle down the table. It was terrible. I wanted to close
my eyes and carry on in the old way, but I knew it was impossible.
I had, literally, to face them and to face it. If I was going
to continue to give talks I had to accept the sight of my
42
audience, like it or not, and the fact that, give or take
cigarettes, wine or brandy, they were looking at me exf
the goods.
So, somehow, I began. I found it best not to look
audience at all, but slightly above their heads (which,
ently, most public speakers do anyway although I did no
that at the time). Yet, having solved that problem, anoth
arose. There were visual distractions that I was not u
When I had given talks before, my whole mind, my
being, were concentrated simply on sound-because tha
there was. But now the visual impressions seemed to cr
on me. I found myself analysing with one bit of my mi
strange, garish, red and gold d6cor, and wanting to do
thing about the extravagant Chinese dragons that were b
ing fire all over it. I caught sight of a waitress ste
removing the last of the empty plates. I was fascinated
hands of a clock which jerked every half minute. And,
unguarded moment, looking back at the audience, I
man glancing at his watch and instinctively I looked at
And that put me out of my stride and made me go h
cold.
But at last came the moment I had been looking forw
least of all, the bombshell for which the entire talk was
lighted fuse: the revelation that I had had an operatio
could now see.
The result was amazing. Instead of reacting as if th
been taken in by a trick or let down in some way, the)
into applause. The faces that had unnerved me we
obviously, on my side. Clearly everyone thought the id
so fantastic, and I was able to continue for another ten m
telling them of the utterjoy of being able to see, and with
~now doing her usual tricks. A record amount was rais
4 :~"guide-dogs that day.
As a result, I decided that I had to go on giving talks.
,:,been right, I reflected, to have insisted on telling them
my sight. But, to give credit where it is due, the Secreta
,~.';''also been right in leaving my revelation as, so to speak,
risistance.
'Alv
Looking back, it was yet one more way in which my I
43
changed directly as a result of sight. Even after such a short
time, there had been startling differences in a way I could never
have forecast. I suppose I didn't realize when I was blind what
sort of life I was living. I didn't think in a detached way what
it was like to be blind, because I had no idea what sight could
mean and what a different life sight would give. So many
everyday things changed: reading my own mail instead of
having it read for me, reading the newspapers, choosing when
to take Emma for a walk, going to the shops and being able to
look in the windows. just about everything in life became completely
different. It wasn't that I hadn't enjoyed life as a blind
person, but when I look back now I feel it was only a part-life.
So much is cut off when you are blind, although you don't
realize it. Life was a constant struggle. I had Emma, and thank
heavens for her, but when we went out it was always a worry
that I had to find her harness and put it on and then remember
my routes. I had to think about where the tins were in the
cupboard. I had to memorize recipes, to remember how much
water to add to a packet of soup and how much lard and margarine
to put in with flour when baking pies. Life was full of
such complications which all vanished with sight. I couldn't
just pick up the telephone directory when I wanted to make a
call. I had either to ring Directory Enquiries or keep a memory
bank of numbers. Admittedly dialling Enquiries was not much
trouble, but it had to be done: I just could not do what I
wanted to do. There was a part of my life that was not free.
I couldn't switch on television and see the pictures, although I
could hear it, and so much learning comes from watching
television. So many different things were just not available
to me.
Sight now seems like a pipeline to me, like oxygen when you
are diving in the sea. You can't really live without it, and now
I don't understand how people can live without it-as I did,
and they do.
If things changed for me they also changed for Emma, and
nothing more drastically than the application of the 'No Dogs'
rule in shops and public places. When I first had Emma,
although I had been given the means of mobility and the freedom
to go anywhere, I found that having got there very often
44
I
there was still a barrier: NO DOGS. I used to go into shops in
those days only to be stopped and turned out of the door. 'No
dogs. We don't allow dogs in here.' 'But she's a guide-dog,' I
used to say, hoping those magic words would change their
minds. 'Oh, it's not me,' they'd reply. It was never them. It
was the Ministry of Health or the manager or the local council.
'I'd let you in,' I would be told, 'but if other people see you
bringing your dog, everyone will want to bring their dogs in.'
And I would be propelled, with Emma, out of the shop.
I discovered that the best way round this situation was to
start with the manager or the owner of the premises by either
asking to see him when I got there or by ringing up beforehand.
I remember wanting to go to our local theatre to see Brian Rix.
He was one of my favourite comedians. He could always make
me laugh, just by what he said. I rang up. I explained to the
girl who answered the telephone that I wanted to see Brian Rix,
and I had a guide-dog. 'I'm sorry,' she replied, 'but we don't
allow dogs in the theatre.' 'I can understand that,' I replied,
'and I'm sure you don't normally, but she is a guide-dog, and I
can't come without her.' 'I'm sorry. We just don't allow dogs,
and I'm afraid that's it.' And that was it, because she put the
phone down.
But I desperately wanted to see Brian Rix. When I say 'see',
of course, I mean 'listen'. As I have explained, blind people do
use the word 'see' partly because to say 'listen' or 'touch' or
whatever would only complicate matters, and partly because
that would be an admission of not belonging to the normal
world. I decided I would have to see the theatre manager.
Emma took me up to the box-office, and I tried to sound
authoritative when I said, 'Can I see the manager, please?'
Finally
he appeared, and I heard a voice say, 'I'm the manager,
what can I do for you?'
'I want to come and see the Brian Rix show, but you won't
let Emma in-she's my guide-dog.' There was a silence for a
moment.
'Well, I'm afraid it's our rule that we don't let dogs in
normally.'
'I'm sure you don't, but she would be very well behaved. If we
could sit in the front row she wouldn't be in anyone's way. And
45
~ I
if she was any trouble, or made a noise, or if you had any complaints
about her during the performance, you could always
throw us out. I wouldn't mind, but please give us a try. Emma
won't be any bother, honestly.'
I went on telling him about the virtues of Emma, trying to
convince him before he made up his mind to say No. But in the
end he said Yes. I was surprised. 'Well, I'm sure she's well
behaved,' he said. 'She looks it. I'll get your ticket for you.'
I was amazed as we walked out of that theatre foyer, and
then I realized it was probably not my talking that had done
the trick. It was more probably the way Emma had sat there
looking at him in a way that would be more pleading than I
could ever be. So after that I decided the best way to get in
anywhere was to let Emma conduct the interview, to convince
any manager by her looks that she was not going to wreck their
shops or destroy their theatre. From that moment on I gained
a lot more freedom in Nottingham.
But the old problem came back redoubled when I could see.
I could no longer use the magic words, 'But she's a guide-dog.'
And although I often carry it, she doesn't wear a harness any
longer. All of which has made things very difficult from the
time of my operation, because I never go anywhere without
Emma. I always want her with me, whether it's just a local
shopping expedition or a longer journey into the city. I don't
think it is fair to leave her behind and, of course, she doesn't
understand there are notices forbidding her entry everywhere.
I have to try to find shops that don't have a warning sign on
them, but they are becoming fewer and fewer because local
councils are now encouraging shopkeepers by sending them
9 NO DOGS' signs. I am glad to say that now some enlightened
emma vip Sheila Hocken Page 5