by Emma
on towards the bus stop, and Emma seemed the least troubled
of any of us. She trotted along the pavement in her normal
fashion. Then at one busy crossing I could hear two dogs
growling and barking at each other, and I hoped nothing
I34 EMMA AND I
i
would happen. Emma ignored them completely and crossed
right by them.
As we went along, I realized again how she loved working
in town. She was weaving in and out of the people on a busy
pavement, across the controlled crossings without a moment's
hesitation as the bleeping sound went, and she seemed to have
put on an even faster pace than usual. By the time we were at
the bus stop and the end of the test, I was exhausted.
I waited for the decision. I had half made up my mind that
if it went against us I was going to say I refused to have
Emma retired. Then Mr Soames said, 'I saw Emma about
four or five years ago.'
'Oh, did you?' I said, wondering where this was leading.
'Yes. You haven't been putting brown boot-polish on her
nose have you?'
'Boot-polish, no, of course not.' (What was he driving at,
what was he going to say?)
'Well, it's very strange. She hasn't gone a bit grey you
know.'
'I know, everyone tells me she's not at all grey, and still
looks very young.'
'She does ' ' said Mr Soames, 'she does look very young.'
I just had time to begin thinking: he's leading up to tell me
that she looks young, but he knows that she's getting on in
years ... when he said, 'No, she hasn't changed a bit. She
really doesn't look a day older than when I last saw her.'
'No,' I said.
But Mr Soames did not say any more, and I suddenly
grasped his meaning.
'You mean,' I said, 'you're not going to tell me to retire
her ?'
'Retire her?' he said, sounding quite surprised, 'Retire
Emma? No, no, of course not. Goodness me.' Then he
laughed. 'I should think the way she's shown us all up today
she'll still be working when she's eighteen!'
It was like the sun suddenly coming out and shining on my
face: marvellous. I said goodbye to Mr Soames, and Emma
,*A
THE CATS
i
I
I35
and I set off home. On the way back I stopped to buy her a
new rubber bone. And that evening Don and I went out to
celebrate.
Not long after this we had an even greater cause for celebration.
At long last all those long years of waiting, the
uncertainty and the lonely nights were over. I found it hard to
believe. That morning as Emma and I sat in the taxi on the
way to the registry office was cold, but I could feel the sun
warm on my face, like the feeling I had inside. It was to be
a very small gathering-just close family and friends. Don and
I felt that our marriage was a personal thing, just for us. We
didn't want the whole world to share it.
Emma led me up the steps to the registry office (of course,
Emma had been given special permission to attend: I certainly
couldn't have got married without her). I found I was
trembling as I pushed open the heavy door. I could not believe
it was happening, that Don would be mine for ever. Inside,
I heard his voice: 'Hello darling'. He took my hand. 'You
look beautiful,' he said. I had chosen a green dress because I
associated green in my mind with spring, and all things new
and lovely. And on the dress I wore a carnation.
As Don held my hand, I felt he was trembling too, and I
could hardly say the simple words 'I will' in front of the
registrar. Emma must have sensed the extreme tension, for
half-way through the service her cold wet nose nuzzled my
left hand as if in moral support.
Then it was all over, and as Don and I walked out hand in
hand, I felt the confetti and heard the congratulations, but I
don't think either of us was properly aware of what was
happening around us. The thing that mattered most was that,
at last, we were Mr and Mrs Hocken.
FRESH HOPE
CHAPTER TWELVE
FRESH HOPE
ONE BLEAKJANUARY day in 1975, Emma and I had just
come in after doing some shopping on the way back from work,
and as I put the key in the latch of the front door I heard the
telephone ringing. For some reason the key did not work
properly, and I remember tugging and turning it impatiently
and hoping the phone would not stop. When I finally got
inside and Efted the receiver, I heard my brother Graham's
voice.
Graham, as I've mentioned, has a similar eye complaint
to mine, but despite having lost the use of one eye entirely
because of a bad piece of surgery when he was very young,
he always had, unlike me, some residual vision. In addition,
he was constantly seeking means to improve the sight he had.
He was ringing now to tell me about his latest efforts. He had
gone to a new optician in order to try and get some contact
lenses, and the optician had advised him to go and see a
specialist called Mr Shearing, with the advice: 'This man is
really good. There are a lot of new techniques that he knows
all about. Go and see him.'
So, despite the reluctance of our family in general, and
Graham in particular, to have anything to do with specialists
or eye-surgery because of bitter experience in the past,
Graham had gone to see Mr Shearing who was an ophthalmic
surgeon.
I37
I was excited on his behalf, and almost before Graham could
say 'Hello' I was asking, 'How did you get on? What
happened?'
'Well,' he said, 'good news and bad news. He said it would
be fairly simple to operate and remove the lens that my
cataract is on, but in my case, he wouldn't really like to take
the risk because there's only something like an eighty-five per
cent success rate. Because I've got some vision he said it would
be a terrible thing if the op. wasn't successful. He wants me
to wait a bit longer to see if anything new develops; anyway,
the older I am the easier the operation is, because as you
know, the lens hardens off with age, and the easier it is to
break and bring away without any danger of messing up the
rest of the workings of the eye.'
I felt a bit deflated, but then he went on, 'But I did think
that you could go and see him. He's a very nice sort of chap,
practical but extremely sympathetic. You never know what he
might be able to do for you.'
And it struck me that Graham was right. What would be the
harm in just going and putting my case to this specialist? I
rang up the following day and made an appointment, and I
was quite surprised, when I put the phone down, to find that
I felt quite shaky.
I suppose the reason was that I had always, on a conscious
level, accepted the fact of going blind. But underneath, like all
blind people, I had never accepted it.
There is always a small
voice somewhere at the back of the mind insisting: 'I've got to
see. I can't go on living like this.' But that voice always has
to be strangled, suppressed, put out of mind, because if you
heed its message you will never be anything more than a
ragbag of regret, and unable to take your part in the world, a
part limited by the fact that you can't see.
I think that to make the most of that part is the only possible
way to survive as a blind person. I'm always distressed when I
meet people who have lost their sight and never bothered to
learn braille. I say 'never bothered' but it is the wrong phrase.
If I said they were 'unable' that would also be wrong. What is
"I'~
I38 EMMA AND I
behind their attitude is a dogged, misguided, lack of acceptance
of the facts as they are. They prefer to dream instead.
They are so convinced that they are going to have their sight
restored somehow. Their conversation is always of the. last
specialist they went to, or the operation they are going to
have, or, worse, 'They say that the next operation might. . .'
and 'They hope that in a few years . . .' It is all so understandable,
but so sad, because such active hopes simply
prevent the day-to-day business of getting on with life on the
terms that have been dictated. I always tried to work along
the lines of acceptance. It was only when I thought of the
possibility of having sight again, that the frustration and sheer
hatred of being blind arose. And here I was, trembling,
because those very hopes were rising in me.
I had to wait three weeks before going to see Mr Shearing.
The hopes got bigger, the hatred of blindness more intense.
My imagination ran riot. When I made the appointment I
said to Don, 'Well, that's it. Isn't it fabulous? I'm going to
start saving. I'll be able to buy a car-I'll be able to go anywhere
I want.' The idea of having to pass a test never even
entered my head. I went on, 'I'll be able to join the public
library, I can't wait to go round all those shelves. I'll be able
to read anything I choose.'
'Yes,' said Don, 'marvellous.' But at the same time, his
voice did not sound as enthusiastic as it might have done.
'What's the matter?' I said.
Then he tried to tell me as tactfully and gently as he could,
in effect, not to build my hopes up too much. He wanted to be
encouraging but he did not want me to be let down if things
didn't work out. I knew what he was saying. I heard his words,
which were meant to protect me. Yet I still could not stop
dreaming. I let my excitement get the better of me. Yes, it
might not work. But what if it did? It was a prospect I could
not resist. It must have been a difficult time for Don, not
wanting to pour cold water on my hopes, yet so afraid for me
if what I most wanted in the world did not come about.
And during the three interminable weeks that I had to
FRESH HOPE
I
I39
wait for the appointment with Mr Shearing, my imagination
ranged over the countless possibilities of what sight would
mean to me. At last the Friday came for my appointment.
Graham said he would come with me because we had to go to
Derby, and even with Emma he thought it might be difficult
for me to find my way round the unfamiliar streets. In truth,
I think he wanted to come with me anyway. He wanted to
be the first to know what went on: he had a vested interest in
the outcome of the interview.
We agreed to meet at the bus station. I had told Emma we
were going to meet Graham (she knew the names of all my
friends and close relatives) and when we arrived, I knew she
had spotted him. Her tail began to wag, tickling the palm of
my hand, and she quickened her pace, took me on, stopped
and sat down.
I heard Graham's voice as we approached. 'Hello, you're
early. The bus isn't in yet.'
'Mm, I know. I wasn't going to miss it, so I left plenty of
time.'
Then I heard the bus con-iing in. Emma led me on and found
a seat for me, then, as always, lay quietly under the seat, while
Graham sat down next to me. Graham is not a great one for
small-talk and chat, so we sat there not saying anything much
as the bus moved off. It was an hour's journey from Nottingham,
and as we left the echoes of the bus station behind and
started off through the traffic I felt excited, and all sorts of
thoughts about the possibility of seeing began to stalk through
my mind. I suddenly thought about Emma, and for the first
time, my worries about having to have another dog because
of Emma's age were quietened.
It was the first time that I realized that if I could see, she
would not have to guide me; I would be able to take her for a
walk like other dogs, the partnership of nine years with all it
meant would not have to be wrenched apart. It was a
wonderful possibility.
Graham led the way to the consulting-rooms, then said he
would leave me there because he had some shopping to do.
I
I
I40 EMMA AND I 7 FRESH HOPE I4I
We rang the bell, and he said, 'I'll be back in about half an
hour. All the best.'
The door opened, and I smelt that strangely clean and
antiseptic smell mixed with floor polish that belongs to
doctor's houses. A receptionist led me into the waiting room,
and I sat there alone, Emma beside me. I was not there very
long before I heard the door open, and a quiet voice said,
'Mrs Hocken?' I stood up. 'Would you come this way,
please?' Emma guided me through the waiting room, across
a very narrow hall, and into what sounded to me like a very
big room with fitted carpets. I felt a fire in front of me; Emma
had headed for it straight away.
'Well, lassie,' I heard a voice say, 'what can I do for you?'
'I want to know if you can possibly help me.'
There was a silence during which I could hear the clock
ticking somewhere away to my left, and the gas fire hissing.
I realized afterwards that Mr Shearing must have had something
of a surprise to see someone led into his consulting room
by a guide-dog: on the face of it, possibly a no-hope case.
Then, at last, 'Mmm. Well. Would you care to sit down?'
I told Emma to find a chair. I felt it, took her harness off
and sat down.
'What's your name, then, lassie?'
I thought, what a terrible memory, he can't even remember
my name. 'Sheila Hocken,' I said.
'No, no. This lovely creature sitting beside you.'
'Oh,' I said, 'Emma.'
'Emma. Yes. That suits you.' And I heard him patting her.
He went on, 'I used to have two boxers, you know.'
'Boxers? I love boxers.' I asked him about them, and he
told me all the details. They had died of old age.
'Haven't you a dog now?'
'Mm. I've got a bloodhound. Very wilful bloodhounds are,
you know, very wilf
ul.'
I was enjoying talking about dogs, but was beginning to
wonder if we were skirting round the main topic because it
was difficult, and he could not bring himself to ask the
questions. I was becoming nervous, but at last he asked me to
tell him all about my eyes.
I explained about the hereditary factor, and how his seeing
my brother and holding out a wonderful opportunity for him
had led me to come along. He was very quiet as I went on.
When I had finished he led me over to another chair and
put drops in my eyes to dilate the pupils so that he could make
a better examination. 'I'll leave you here for a little while so
that can work. I'll be back in about ten minutes.' I heard him
go out of the room and close the door behind him. Once again
all I could hear was the clock, and the hiss of the gas fire,
with, this time, Emma's sleeping deep breaths added, keeping
up an odd counterpoint with the tick of the clock. I could hear
nothing from outside, and in the air I could smell just the
faintest aroma of cigar smoke.
He came back in what seemed to me less than ten minutes.
I felt him examining my eyes. He hummed and ha'd a bit,
and then said decisively, 'Right, come and sit in a more
comfortable chair.' He led me back to where I had been
sitting before, and I heard him making a fuss of Emma again,
and from her little snorts and growls I knew she was enjoying
it. I was longing to ask him what he had seen, what he thought.
But hejust went on talking to Emma, telling her how beautiful
she was. I almost became impatient, but sat and waited.
'Well, lassie,' he said finally. 'What do you expect I'm going
to say?'
What did I expect? I didn't know. I couldn't think. It was
too overwhelming even to frame into words the possibility I so
much wanted to hear. I said, 'I don't know. I was hoping,
after my brother had been to see you . . .'
'Well,' said Mr Shearing, 'you know you've got cataracts.
But you're aware of this retina problem, aren't you?'
I did know about the retina problem, but such is human
nature, I had pushed this uncomfortable and depressing
thought to the depths of my mind in the past few weeks. Such
