emma and i - Sheila Hocken

by Emma

that ring and so on. Mr Brown, who used to visit my family

  (since we were all registered as blind people), was quite a

  feature of life while I was growing up. He was a nice man,

  rather like an uncle. Mother used to order wool, which could

  be bought more cheaply through him than at a shop. When I

  was young he used to bring little presents, and one of these,

  a doll with separate sets of clothes, I had treasured very much.

  Mr Brown had been waiting for me for about an hour. I

  explained why I was so late, and gave all the details of my

  nightmare journey. He immediately asked, 'Why on earth

  don't you have a guide-dog?'

  They were the nine most important words of my life up to

  that time. Yet the suggestion was an astonishing one. The

  idea of having a guide-dog had simply never occurred to me,

  which is strange considering my previous attachment to dogs,

  and my hopes of finding work with them. Perhaps it was

  because my sight had gone very gradually, and I had always

  pretended to myself that it was not really going at all, and that

  I could still see if I tried. I did not want to admit to being

  blind. In fact, I couldn't believe Mr Brown when he suggested

  I should apply for a guide-dog. I imagined then that people

  had somehow to be very special to qualify for guide-dogs,

  that only a select few had them, and, as a result I suppose, it

  had never crossed my mind to consider the idea at all. But

  Mr Brown went on, 'You quite obviously need a guide-dog,

  and you're just the right sort of age for one.'

  I really could not take the idea in. Its impact was tremendous,

  as if someone had taken hold of the world and

  completely reversed its direction. 'What do I do about

  applying?' I said.

  He replied very firmly, and in a voice full of encourageMMent

  'Well, I'll tell You. I'll get you the forms, and I'll come

  down with them, and we'll fill them in together. I'll do the

  writing for you.'

  When he'd gone, I sat back and thought about it. I thought

  of the books I had read about guide-dogs. I realized it would

  mean I'd never again have to face the kind of terrifying

  business I had been through that day, blundering from bus

  stop to bus stop in anonymous darkness with no idea where I

  was. And I'd be able to go out in the evening: I could be

  independent.

  A few days later Mr Brown was back with the forms:

  sheet after sheet of questions. How tall was I? What did I do

  for a living? What sort of house did I live in? What were my

  hobbies? They even wanted to know how much I weighed.

  We sent the forms off, and a reply came from the training

  centre at Leamington Spa to say that they would send a

  guide-dog trainer to assess my personality and match me to a

  suitable dog. I was excited, but nervous too, because at the

  back of my mind I was wondering, 'What if they find I'm

  not suitable after all?' The prospect was heartbreaking. When

  the trainer came, he went along with me to see where I

  worked and what I did. We went for a walk together so that

  he could test my walking pace, and see I had no odd characteristics,

  such as skips and hops and so on when I went round

  corners. He examined the house we lived in, which had

  virtually no back garden and no fencing, and said, when I

  explained we were hoping to move to a council house, 'You

  must have a garden well fenced-off for your dog.' Lastly, he

  told me that there was a waiting-list for guide-dogs, and it

  would be about nine months to a year before I finally had a

  dog of my own.

  This was in November, 1965. The waiting period was an

  agony of frustration. Every time a letter came I seized it, and

  tried to find someone to read it to me as quickly as possible.

  During these months I had plenty of time to find out about the

  Guide-Dog Association. It was started in 1934, but the original

  idea of using dogs to lead blind people was born in Germany

  during the 1914-18 war, when a doctor in charge of some men

  blinded at the front one day left his Alsatian to look after a

  soldier, and was struck by the way the dog carried out his task.

  The idea spread across the Atlantic and back to England. Yet,

  unbelievably, the use of guide-dogs was opposed here at first

  because people thought it unnatural, cruel even, for dogs to

  be put to work in this way. Fortunately, the Association

  flourished through a lot of hard work and voluntary effort.

  Today there- are four centres for training guide-dogs and their

  owners, at Bolton, Exeter, Forfar, and Leamington Spa, as

  well as headquarters at Ealing near London, and a Breeding

  and Puppy-Walking Centre near Warwick.

  I also learned that some blind applicants had to be rejected

  for various reasons, and this worried me. But the letter I

  wanted so much came more quickly than I had thought

  possible. It arrived towards the end of the following May, and

  I had only five more weeks to wait. Would I be at the training

  centre, Leamington Spa, on 1 July? Would I? I was prepared

  to camp on their doorstep so as not to miss the day.

  At last, 1 July arrived. It was, as I thought only proper,

  glorious weather-bright and sunny. Obviously I could not

  have got from Nottingham to Leamington Spa on my own.

  But I was very lucky. Geoff, one of the reps at the firm where

  I worked, had offered to take me in his car. I was up with my

  cases packed and ready long before he called for me at nine

  o'clock. We took the M 1 south from Nottingham, Geoff doing

  his best to describe the- scenery to me as we went. I disliked

  travelling, as there was nothing to occupy me except the

  business of going from A to B. Geoff's descriptions at least

  stopped the boredom. Yet I couldn't really imagine all the

  things he was telling me about. I had no mental picture of

  what fields looked like because I couldn't remember ever

  seeing one, much less a cow. I remember him saying to me,

  'What do you think I look like? You must have an idea of

  what I look like.'

  'Yes, I get an image when I hear people, just as you must

  get an image of what people look like in your imagination

  when you hear them on the radio. But,' I added, 'if you later

  see a photograph of what they're really like, the two images

  don't match up, do they?'

  'No, you're right. They don't,' he said.

  'Well, don't blame me if I've got the wrong idea of you ...

  I think you've got dark, curly hair, and I know that you're

  about five foot seven because I can judge that when you're

  standing up and you talk.'

  'MM' he replied, non-committally. Then he went on,

  'Do you ever feel people's faces to get an image of them?' I

  told him I didn't, but not the reason. It would have been like

  telling everyone I couldn't see.

  About half-way to Leamington, Geoff asked if I'd like to

  stop for coffee. I did not really want to. For one thing I wanted

  to get to Leamington as quickly as possible. For another, I<
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  hated going into strange places where I knew there would be

  lots of people, because I always felt so embarrassed. But we

  did stop, mainly because I thought Geoff deserved a coffee.

  We drew off the motorway, and into a big car park. Geoff

  wanted to be helpful, and he grasped my arm, not realizing

  how unnerving it was for me being dragged along in this way.

  As he was taking me from the car park, he said, 'Steps here,

  Sheila, ' That was fine, as far as it went. But he didn't say

  whether the steps went up or down. I assumed they went up.

  I was wrong. I suppose I ought to have asked, to make sure.

  Then he led me, or more accurately propelled me, through

  some doors. I got the impression we were in a very large

  room, full of women, all talking. I could smell their perfume,

  and the coffee. I imagined it was about eleven o'clock, and

  they were all in there for the coffee break.

  Left alone while Geoff got the coffee, I panicked. I felt

  desperately cut off, and wanted to run. Then another

  embarrassment presented itself. I wanted to go to the lavatory.

  But I did not want to have to ask Geoff. Although the situation

  was not new to me, I always found it humiliating. Unfailingly,

  it took me right back to primary school, my hand sawing the

  air, 'Please teacher, can I leave the room?' When I did

  summon up the courage to mention my predicament Geoff

  was very good and said immediately, 'Oh, of course. I'll get

  someone to take you.' Either he didn't notice my embarrassment,

  or covered up very well. He left the table and went to

  speak to someone. As it turned out, he must have picked the

  biggest and strongest woman in the room. I had the bruises

  on my arm the next day to prove it. She got hold of me and

  hauled me out of my scat by brute force. 'Come along, my

  dear,' she boomed, 'I'll take you. You poor thing, not being

  able to see.' And she literally pushed me through the room.

  I crashed into everything possible on the way: tables, chairs,

  even an occasional cup and saucer, they all went flying. I felt

  like a red-faced bull in a china shop. Even when I was in the

  Ladies, she insisted on standing guard outside the door,

  enquiring from time to time, 'Are you all right, dear?' and

  'You're sure you don't need any help?' I didn't know whether

  to laugh or cry. I could not wait, once released from the grip

  of this Amazon, to be back in the car and driving the last lap

  to Leamington.

  The training centre, Geoff told me when we arrived, was

  ù large, Tudor-style house, with trees all round it, standing in

  ù great expanse of grounds. While we waited for someone to

  come and look after me, I had a sudden moment of misgiving.

  'What,' I thought, 'if I go through the course, and I can't do

  whatever they teach, and they say I'm not good enough to

  have a guide-dog. What then?' It was a cold, alien feeling and

  I was shaking slightly when the receptionist arrived.

  She instantly dispelled my momentary panic. 'Hello, Sheila,

  we were expecting you round about this time. If you'd like to

  take my arm, I'll show you to your room.' No pushing or

  dragging here, I thought. GeofF said goodbye, and the receptionst

  took me through a lot of corridors and up several

  staircases. It seemed an enormous place as she guided me

  along, explaining the layout of the centre, and the way to

  the dining-room, the lounge, the bathroom and toilets, and

  so on. Then we reached my room. 'Here we are,' said the

  receptionist, 'Number Ten.' She stopped and told me to put

  my hand up to the door. To my utter amazement I felt

  'Number Ten' in braille. 'All the doors are numbered or

  marked like this,' she said, 'so you won't have any trouble

  finding your way about.' I was quite staggered. At last a place

  where they really understood the business of being blind. I felt

  better just at the touch of the 'Number Ten' on my door.

  Imagine, I thought, as I felt the outline through my fingers,

  they actually expect you to feel your way about.

  Then the receptionist took me into my room, and described

  the layout. I, of course, had to 'picture' it through my sense

  of touch and my estimation of the distance between obstacles.

  Directly behind the door was an easy chair and then a fitted

  wardrobe. I felt along the wall and found my bed, and along

  the bed to the radio and the table. In the corner was a handbasin

  with hot and cold taps, and on the same wall was the

  dressing table. I discovered a looking-glass on the dressing

  table, and the receptionist must have noticed my expression.

  'Ah yes,' I heard her say, 'the looking-glass. You want to

  know why. Well; the reason is that if we didn't have normal

  fittings such as mirrors and lamps in the rooms it would be

  very odd to the sighted, particularly to those who work here.

  We expect you to fit into a sighted world, *and accept these

  sorts of things.' Wonderful, I thought-integration ...

  There was just one more item of furniture left to examine,

  and it was the most important. Next to the dressing table was

  the dog-bed. It seemed massive, and I felt its interior-sprung

  mattress and blanket. It was so obviously comfortable I

  fancied it myself When I'd finished identifying it by touch the

  receptionist said, 'Well that's it, Sheila. I'll leave you to

  unpack. The midday meal will be in half an hour.' I heard

  the door close behind her, and started unpacking my suitcases.

  On the way to the wardrobe I had to keep passing the

  dog-bed. Every time I did so I stopped and felt it. I wondered

  longingly what sort of dog would soon be sleeping in it.

  The sound of knocking interrupted my thoughts. When I

  opened the door, a voice said, 'Hello, I'm Brian Peel. I'm

  your trainer.' He not only trained the dogs, but also taught

  people how to use them. His handshake felt firm and friendly;

  I was sure we would get on well. 'If you'd like to come down

  with me,' he went on, 'I'll show you exactly where the diningroom

  and lounge are.' We went down to the lounge, and he

  explained the geography of the room. 'We meet here each

  morning to begin the day's training. There are chairs round

  the outside. If you follow them round to the right, you'll find

  the radio and television. On the opposite side are braille

  books and games . . . mind that coffee table . . . if you

  remember that table stands where the carpet ends, you won't

  walk into it.'

  As we went on to the dining-room, the prospect of a familiar

  ordeal loomed up in my mind. I hated eating meals with

  sighted people. It always led to some kind of embarrassment.

  They usually wanted to cut my meat up, and imagined it

  would be better if I ate with a spoon instead of with a knife

  and fork. Or they said, 'Oh dear, if only I'd known you

  couldn't see, I would have made sandwiches.' I would become

  so demoralized and nervous I could hardly eat at all when a

  plate of food was eventually put in front of me. N
ot knowing

  what was on it, much less exactly where the food was, I would

  stab away, usually missing potatoes or meat or whatever, and

  ending up bringing my teeth together on the metal of an

  empty fork.

  At the training centre it was totally different. Brian sat

  next to me and put the plate in front of me. 'Here we are,' he

  said, 'Fish, chips and peas. Chips at twelve o'clock, peas at

  three o'clock, and fish between nine and six.' So I not only

  knew what I was going to eat, but where to find it. We talked

  during the meal. 'Are there any other people here for training ?'

  I asked.

  'You're the first to arrive,' said Brian, 'we've three more

  coming this afternoon.'

  Then, before many more chips and peas had disappeared, I

  asked the question which was burning in my mind: 'When do

  we get our dogs?'

  'In a day or two, when we know a little bit more about you

  and you know more about the dogs. You know, a lot of the

  people we get for training have never had even a pet dog

  before they come here, and they wouldn't know how to look

  after a guide-dog. So first we teach the business of actually

  looking after a dog. Then, of course, you can't work with a

  dog unless you know how she's been trained, and what

  commands she will respond to.'

  'I see,' I said. There was a pause. Then I asked, 'Have you

  chosen the dog I'm going to have?'

  'I think so,' said Brian, 'but over the next two days I shall

  make absolutely sure. You see, I know the dogs, but I don't

  know the students properly yet, even though you've all filled

  in your questionnaires. The thing is, we match the dog to the

  future owner as far as possible. For instance, if an owner is

  young and can move quickly, we want a dog that can move

  quickly. If the owner's older, we want a dog that will slow

  down a bit ' and, generally, we try to match characteristics.

  Your dog-or the one I think you're going to have-was

  puppy-walked by a woman who had no men living in the

  house; she's obviously a woman's dog-she gets on with them

  better than with men. She's quite seral!ive, too, and because

  you've handled dogs before, we think you might suit one

  another. But even so, like everyone on the course, you'll have

  to get used to her.'

  After the meal, we went back to the lounge, and met the