emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  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