emma and i - Sheila Hocken

by Emma

  utter waste of time. Even worse, I'd come away with no

  donation to the guide-dogs.

  We had been indoors only a few minutes before the phone

  rang. A voice said, 'Hello, this is Mansfield Young Wives

  here'.

  'Oh, yes.'

  'Where were you?'

  'Where was I ? When?'

  'Tonight.'

  Then it dawned. At the time we had been stamping the

  pavements of Newark bus station, there had been an impatient

  gathering of ladies stamping their feet in a hall in Mansfield.

  Oh, dear. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later,

  but I could not apologize enough. What had happened, as

  it transpired when I checked with Don, was that he had quite

  firmly written 'Mansfield Young Wives' in the book. But, by

  some aberration, I had transcribed Mansfield into braille as

  Newark!

  iio EMMA AND I

  Generally I liked talking to W. Is., Rotary Clubs and Round

  Tables-at the last of these Emma and I revefied in being the

  only females-but another sort of talk I always enjoyed

  immensely was a Cub or a Brownie meeting. After adults,

  I found children so straightforward, unembarrassed, and

  refreshing. Their questions were always imaginative, and

  they accepted me without question or reservation. I would

  never feel they were thinking, 'Poor thing, she can't see'. They

  took that for granted, and, in any case, were more fascinated

  by Emma and what she could do. Typically, the thing they

  were most interested in was the way that Emma worked with

  me. They wanted a demonstration. But this created a

  difficulty. When I became an official speaker for the GuideDog

  Association it was stressed that on no account should

  demonstrations of this sort be given. The reasons are easy to

  understand: the dogs would be surrounded by people, surrounded

  by all sorts of distractions; they would be working in

  artificial conditions, which would not be fair on them. This

  was fine as a theory. But Emma never appreciated it, and

  seemed perfectly happy at a chance to show off. In fact, it

  would have taken someone with a stronger will than mine to

  deter her.

  So I found the best way of satisfying children's curiosity

  was a simple little act. From where I stood at the far end of

  the hall I would say, 'I'm going to ask Emma to take me to

  the door, down the centre aisle. But if you'd like to put some

  obstacles in my path, then you'll see how Emma does her

  job and takes me round them.'

  Emma was always delighted when this moment arrived

  She thought it the most marvellous opportunity to display

  her intelligence. Children would strew the centre aisle to the

  door with coats and other paraphernalia, and occasionally the

  odd chair. Emma was pleased to outwit their every move. If

  she could not find a clear path down the middle, she promptly

  took me another way, round the side, to immense applause.

  On one particular evening with the Cubs, however, things

  took a slightly different turn. We completed the talk, Emma

  EMMA SAVES MY LIFE

  ill

  had done her demonstration, and then I asked for questions.

  One very bright spark who sounded about seven was the first

  to stand up, and asked, 'Will Emma do anything anybody

  else tells her?'

  'No, of course not,' I said, totally unaware of what he was

  planning, after listening carefully to my talk about some of

  Emma's likes and dislikes.

  'If I call her to come to me, won't she come?'

  'No, I'm afraid she won't.'

  'Can I try?'

  'Of course,' I said confidently, 'of course. Have a try.'

  'Emma, Emma,' he shouted. Emma remained at my side,

  and I imagine I probably had a silly grin on my face. Then he

  tried something different. He shouted at the top of his voice:

  'Emma, come on-butchers . . .' And Emma moved so

  fast, she was down the hall in two seconds.

  Although I liked talking to children, I was rather dubious

  when an invitation to speak came from Woods School. This is

  an establishment for handicapped children just outside

  Nottingham. When I spoke to the headmistress, she explained

  that many of the children were confined to wheelchairs, with

  diseases such as multiple and disseminated sclerosis, and spina

  bifida. All the children were to a greater or lesser degree

  crippled in their limbs and bodies. Some of them, apparently,

  had those little motorized carriages because their degree of

  paralysis was such that they were only just about capable of

  pressing the button to operate their wheels.

  The headmistress asked me if I would go and talk to them,

  because the children would love to see Emma, and would like

  to know how a blind person coped with life. I was apprehensive.

  I felt, I suppose, as a sighted person does at the

  prospect of being confronted with someone who is blind. But

  I thought, I must go, and we made a booking.

  When Emma and I arrived, I asked the headn-iistress

  'Won't it be difficult to explain blindness? They're all so

  much more handicapped than I am. Will it mean anything

  to them?'

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  EMMA AND I EMMA SAVES MY LIFE II3

  To my surprise she said, 'We've talked about blindness in

  the classroom, and the children don't understand how you can

  get about when you can't see. They think it would be much

  worse to be blind than paralysed.'

  I felt very strange, and could hardly agree. However, she

  suggested that we should speak to the younger children first.

  I got into the classroom, and then heard them coming in with

  their wheelchairs, and the sound of the buzzers that operated

  the electric ones. They were all very quiet as I told them about

  Emma. She, I think, was rather puzzled about the wheelchairs.

  She did not know what to make of children who had

  wheels under them. As a result, she was more subdued than

  usual during the talk. I was fascinated by the children's

  questions. They were very intelligent. As I have said, most

  children I talk to don't really think about anyone not being

  able to see. They simply accept the fact. But these children,

  with their own handicaps, were far more aware. When I got

  to the older children, they were even more receptive and

  understanding, and as I talked to them, I found it heartbreaking

  knowing that some of them would not live very long.

  Yet I could not mistake their incredible zest and enthusiasm

  for life as they came up to take a closer look at Emma and

  make a fuss of her.

  Two of them approached me and said, 'You must come to

  our swimn-iing pool.' I had no idea there would be a swimming

  pool, but these boys explained that it was used for therapy.

  Some children, who were not mobile on land, were able to

  move in water.

  One of the little boys was in a wheelchair and the other

  was on crutches. I could hear the crutches going down the

  corridor as they led me to the swimming pool area. The
n I

  heard the crutches go faster and faster, and it was becoming

  difficult for Emma, me, and the boy in the wheelchair to keep

  up. It suddenly struck me that they were having a race! A

  race II could hear the sound of the crutches becoming slightly

  more distant and the wheelchair speeding up. Then I was

  horrified to hear the little boy on crutches, whose name was

  Robin, fall with a terrible echoing crash of scattering metal

  sticks. I caught up with him, and had no idea what to do.

  Meanwhile, I could not understand why Philip, the boy in the

  wheelchair, was laughing his head off! Robin was on the

  ground and making the most strange noises. I knelt down

  beside him and asked, 'Are you all right?' There was no reply

  beyond these worrying noises. And then I realized that he,

  too, was helpless with laughter. It was infectious, and when

  I'd got him back on his crutches, we all set off again down the

  corridor, unable to stop laughing. What Emma made of it, I

  have no idea.

  We got to the swimming pool, and I was fascinated to hear

  the children describe the little canoes in which they propelled

  themselves. There was a marvellous atmosphere, and we all

  got along well. I was able to ask them what it was like to be in

  a wheelchair, and all but one said something of the order,

  'Well, it's quite normal, we don't think anything about it at

  all ... we can do this ... we can do that, and we can see, we

  can see to read, and see to play games, and . . .' They felt

  sorry for me because I could not see. It was very humbling.

  Another centre for the handicapped I visited was Clifton

  Spinney, which is a rehabilitation centre for blind people

  not far from Nottingham. It is a residential place where

  people who have recently lost their sight can go for a monthor

  two-month course to help them re-shape their lives without

  the aid of sight. Because of the gradual way I had lost what

  little sight I ever had, I always considered myself fortunate

  compared with people who had enjoyed perfect vision and

  then lost it. Naturally I had the frustrations of being blind,

  but I had never at any point sat down and thought: 'Last

  year I could see, and now I can't; I shall never get used to

  this. What am I going to do?'

  I always found it difficult if I met someone who had newly

  lost his or her sight. It is the worst way to go blind. People are

  such visual animals that sight overrides every other sense.

  To have that sense suddenly taken away is a terrible blow. It

  brings with it not only physical blindness, but a kind of

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  equivalent mental blindness as well. Sea-anemones immediately

  close up when anything touches them. People who go

  blind seem to close up mentally in the same way. But they

  often remain shut ofF from the world.

  So, if I had been dubious to begin with about going to talk

  to handicapped children, I was doubly worried about the

  idea of talking to the blind at Clifton Spinney. The point was

  that one of the main aspects of the talks I gave was to prove to

  sighted people how normal blind people were, how they were

  able to cope and get on with their daily lives, and to put over

  how I had done it, and how Emma helped me. How could I

  say this to these people?

  The Spinney was managed by a Mr and Mrs Spencer.

  Mrs Spencer was sighted, but her husband was blind. It was

  good that a blind person was in charge of the centre, because

  no one knows better what the blind require than someone who

  cannot see. Mrs Spencer was very kind. She picked me up and

  took me to the centre, and, once there, led me along to the

  room where I was to give the talk, and where a blind audience

  was already waiting. She left me saying that her husband

  would be along shortly to introduce me. I heard the door

  close. I sat on a little platform with Emma by me, and I

  realized that not only could I not see them, but they could not

  see me. The thought struck me forcibly, and I did not like it

  one bit. I wasn't used to mixing with blind people. I had

  always chosen the company of sighted people, and if I had

  blind people as friends it was always because I liked them

  personally, not because of, or with any allowance for, their

  not being able to see.

  So I sat there, becoming more and more apprehensive, and

  my throat going drier and drier as I waited for Mr Spencer.

  I could hear the audience chatting among themselves, and

  noticed, not for the first time, that with the totally blind,

  particularly those who have been recently blinded, there is a

  characteristic and very monotonous tone to their voices,

  somehow reflecting the idea that in losing their sight, all hope

  and interest in life has gone as well. Then I heard Mr Spencer

  come through the door. 'Hello, Sheila, my name's Charles

  Spencer.' I stood up and moved towards his voice and put out

  my hand to shake his. We collided. My hand was somewhere

  on his jacket pocket, his was near my left ear. I felt flustered

  and disheartened, and thought: this is what happens when

  you put blind people together.

  I started offin the way I would begin one of my usual talks.

  But within a few minutes I knew I would have to change my

  tactics. I was getting no response whatever from the audience.

  There were no laughs at all, let alone in the right places. It was

  a terrible feeling, like talking into a vacuum. I had to get

  through to them somehow and eventually I did. But it was very

  hard work-I think the most difficult talk I have ever done.

  Question time was correspondingly drastic: there was no

  sequence of questions, with one person asking after the other.

  Everyone shouted, and at times there were three questions in

  the air at the same time, and I could not understand one of

  them. This was not because newly blinded people are stupid,

  or have no feeling for other people, it is because they feel cut

  off, they have suddenly been thrust on this dark island, and

  they have to do their best to get away from it. Many of them

  were still suffering the shock of losing their sight, of having

  to begin a completely different life, of having their main sense

  taken from them.

  I felt desperately sympathetic. One of the difficulties that

  affect the newly blind is that sighted people tend to make a

  fuss, and to encourage the feeling that, suddenly, they have

  become helpless, bereft almost of any faculties. They tend to

  take over, and do things for blind people which if they were

  taught they could do for themselves. So much is done that

  sometimes the blind person becomes convinced she or he

  really is incapable. One of the objects at Clifton Spinney was

  to counter this very real threat.

  As the questions sorted themselves out, it became evident

  that they were particularly interested in guide-dogs, so Emma

  played her part in convincing them that, despite blindness,

  they c
ould have real mobility and freedom.

  All the same I was truly glad to leave Clifton Spinney: this

  may seem a terrible thing to admit, but it's true. How thankful

  I was to have Emma, and for the start I had had in life. I could

  never have worked there as Mr Spencer did. It would have

  been too close to home, too real. The problems at Clifton

  Spinney were all out in the open, and being tackled. But in

  their heart of hearts no blind person wants to admit that there

  is a problem in not being able to see.

  How thankful I had to be for Emma was brought home to

  me some weeks after this. Going through town one day, she

  took me to a zebra crossing at a busy point. I heard a bus or a

  lorry pull up to let us cross. I gave Emma the signal to go

  forward., and we started to go over the crossing. But we had

  taken only a step or two before Emma stopped, and began to

  back away, tugging on the harness. I could not understand

  what she was doing, and entirely forgot to trust her. 'Emma,

  come on, it's all right, they've stopped for us,' I urged. She

  would not move, however, and I thought I must step out to

  show that everything was clear-because I could hear the

  engine of the bus or lorry safely ticking over and waiting for

  us. So I stepped forward. Then Emma did the most incredible

  thing. She made a sort of bound in front of me, and almost

  knocked me back into the gutter. At the same moment I

  suddenly heard a growing noise and a car roared across the

  zebra ahead of me and up the road. Another inch forward,

  if Emma had not stopped me, and I would have been killed.

  The whole incident took only seconds, but when it happened I

  just stood there on the crossing, totally petrified. I heard the

  engine next to me stop and the sound of a cab door sliding

  open. Then the sound of an anxious voice. It was a corporation

  bus driver.

  'Are you all right?'

  'Yes,' I said.

  'I've never seen anything like it. I couldn't get his number.

  He must have been doing fifty miles an hour.'

  'Yes,' I said, still too shaken to react any more.

  Then the driver added, 'I've never seen anything like your

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  dog, either. It's lucky she did that. You've got a good dog