emma and i - Sheila Hocken

by Emma

  But as soon as we were on our way, I suddenly saw the pavement

  rushing by under me. It was so unexpected and

  frightening, that I had to tell Emma to stop. In a moment I

  recovered and we went on again. But then I saw the fence

  coming at us at a headlong rate, and the trees seeming to

  fly towards us as if they were going to knock us down. Looking

  down again, I saw the pavement and even the shadows of the

  lamp posts were sweeping along towards me like solid black

  bars, making me think I would trip. It was no good. Once

  more I had to tell Emma to stop. I knew it was illogical. I

  knew I was moving, and not the lamp posts, or the pavement,

  or the shadows. But as far as I was concerned visually, the

  reverse was happening. I decided to give it another try. The

  same thing happened again. I was panic-stricken. I had to

  keep stopping to reassure myself that it really was me in

  motion, and each time we stopped Emma sat down and looked

  at me with those great brown eyes full of questions. She wanted

  to know what was happening; after ten years together why

  was I behaving in this peculiar fashion? In the end the only

  solution I could think of was to close my eyes, and let Emma

  carry on as usual. And this is how we finally arrived at the

  shops.

  Emma stopped. I opened my eyes, and there we were,

  outside the greengrocer's. Immediately I was hit by a mass

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  of colour, and that, mixed with some relief at actually being

  there, made me think, 'Well it was worth it after all.' I was

  astounded at the sight of all the fruit and vegetables and

  flowers in the window, and saw to my immense surprise that

  each apple in its redness or greenness was different, and that no

  two potatoes looked alike, nor the lettuces, nor anything in the

  whole array. How could there be so many shades and varieties

  of colour?

  Apart from this, there were a lot of things in the window

  that I could not identify at all. Once again I was coming up

  against the problem of not being able to relate my previous

  tactile impressions to my present vision. Perhaps I had already

  that day given my brain enough to cope with. Seeing was

  miraculous, but I had, in a way, to learn to see as well. In the

  shop, where they knew me very well and were delighted at the

  success of my operation, they didn't mind my touching things

  I could not recognize. There was something on the counter

  that I could not, try as I would, put a name to. I could see

  some red, and green, and a shape. That was all it meant to

  me. It would not fit any description I could think of. Then I

  touched it. I realized I was seeing leaves and flowers. It was

  a plant. I could not understand why I had not immediately

  known what it was. It turned out to be a poinsettia. Then I

  pointed to something on the shelf, and said, 'What's that?'

  'Celery.' 'And those?' 'Beetroot,' they said. So I went on, and

  finished up buying tomatoes because they looked the most

  gorgeous colour of all.

  On our way back, I determined to keep my eyes open,

  which led to an odd incident. I was again in a state of nerves,

  but resolving to persevere, when I saw a young lad coming

  towards us. As usual, I was talking to Emma as we walked,

  and I said, 'Now there's someone coming, Emma, do be

  careful.' What she made of that unnecessary comment, I

  have no idea, but as I said it, I thought, 'Now I must take

  action, I must get round this boy. But how? How do I do it?'

  It did not occur to me that I was abandoning my trust and

  faith in Emma. I thought, 'I'll step aside to the right, and

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  EMMA AND I

  we'll avoid him that way.' So, when he was nearly up to us,

  I stepped to the side of the pavement to go right. In the

  very same second, Emma had decided the best way to take

  us past the lad was to go left. I let go of the harness, and we

  landed up in a sort of confused heap and a tangle of harness

  -while the lad went merrily on, all unaware. I felt dreadful,

  and I knew by Emma's expression she could not make out

  what had happened. She yawned, not out of boredom, but

  embarrassment.

  She sat looking at me with an anxious, quizzical expression,

  which said, 'Why ever did you do that? In ten years you've

  never done that before. What's happened?' I said, 'Oh,

  Emma, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put your harness on.' I

  decided that I had been expecting too much of her. I had

  virtually been asking her to stand by me until I had the

  courage to go out on my own. It was not fair. From then on,

  whenever we went out, I would simply have to put her on a

  lead, and learn how to manage myself.

  We somehow got home from the shops, and then I took

  great delight in being able to empty my shopping bag and

  see to prepare a meal. But one thing I was already beginning

  to realize was that it took a great deal of concentration to

  look at objects. It was something quite new to me, this

  concentration and mental effort involved with seeing, something

  I had not suspected would be required. I had imagined

  that once I got my sight back, I would be able to see, and that

  would be that. But it was not the case. It was like suddenly

  being given an extra limb, and having to work hard at getting

  used to putting it to the best advantage. But it was exciting,

  too.

  When I looked into the food cupboard for the first time,

  I found an Aladdin's cave full of tins and packets and jars

  which I did not know by sight, but which I had used before.

  They had taken on a new existence. I came across a packet that

  was red, yellow and white, and thought, 'What's this?' Of

  course, it said SALT on it, but, although years before I had

  been able to read print, regaining this faculty took a long

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  time, and the word SALT at first was just an arrangement of

  different shaped letters. I could remember some printed

  words in my mind, and was able to write them down when I

  could not see. But, the other way round, presented with words

  via my eyes, and required by the brain to attach a meaning

  to them, was something altogether different, and very

  difficult at first, though it came back in time.

  So, to begin with, I identified the salt by the old method,

  taste, and related this to the colour of the box. Cereal packets

  were yellow, or white with a pattern on them, baked bean

  tins were a distinctive turquoise blue, and so on.

  Still, this was all discovery, and I did not mind. In fact I

  enjoyed going through the food cupboard on that first afternoon,

  and I enjoyed even more the preparation of the meal,

  with all the reds and greens of the salad dazzling me, even

  down to the simple business of running water from the tap

  over the lettuce: the way the water glistened and swirled,

  caught the light, and made a waterfall pattern in the sink


  fascinated me. Once I had laid the tea-table, and was waiting

  for Don to come home, I went out into the garden, my lovely

  garden. I was so proud of it as I walked about, with Emma

  rooting along beside me.

  When I was blind, there had been times when I literally

  hated those trees in the garden, because the branches were

  always getting tangled up in my hair, and if ever I did take a

  walk round the lawn, which was a fairly rare occurrence, I

  used to have to keep in mind the presence and arrangement of

  the three apple trees, and make sure I did not collide with

  them. The apple trees, in fact, had been nothing more than

  rather ogre-like obstacles, to be avoided and shunned. Now

  they not only looked incapable of harm, but beautiful, too.

  And at the edge of the grass was our willow tree. I could not

  get over its sheer grace. The leaves were green on one side,

  and silver on the other. For a moment I thought my eyes really

  had got it wrong. No one had ever told me that trees could

  have silver leaves. It was while I was looking at the willow

  that I noticed the sky for the first time, and how the clouds

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  moved, sailing along, with great billows of white on blue. I

  heard the car draw up, and the gate-latch click. Don was

  back.

  He came up and joined me on the lawn, and said, 'Hello,

  how have you been getting on? What have you been doing?'

  'Oh, looking at everything, you know.'

  'What are you looking at now?'

  'Well, to tell you the truth, I'm waiting to see the sunset.'

  Don had often described the sunset to me and no one could

  have done it better, or more vividly, yet, standing there with

  him in the garden as the sun was going down, and the colours

  werejust beginning to change in fractions of a second, I knew

  that there was no substitute for sight. Reading about things,

  or having them described (and I do not want to devalue in

  any way what Don had done) were substitutes, and until

  that day all I had ever had were second-hand sunsets.

  On this Friday we stood and watched together. The sun

  disappeared, and the clouds and sky around were streaked

  with gold and purple. It was perfect, and to end that day

  nothing could have matched it

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A NEW LIFE

  FOR THE FIRST few seconds after I woke up the following

  morning, everything seemed normal. It was no different from

  any other morning, from the ten thousand other times I had

  woken up. In front of me was a familiar blank greyish mist.

  Then I remembered. I could see! I had only to open my eyes,

  and I could see! It was the first morning of a new life. But,

  in my drowsiness, I wondered: is it all really true? Dare I

  open my eyes?

  The night before, tired as I was, I had not wanted to go to

  sleep. It had seemed such a waste to spend eight hours with

  my eyes shut. I had lain there feeling happier than I had ever

  felt in my life before. Emma had got into her basket at the

  foot of the bed, and I had looked at the wallpaper, unable to

  keep my eyes off it. It was so pretty, with cascades of blossom

  on a deep rose background. Don had got into bed beside me,

  and I remember him saying, 'We can go anywhere we want,

  you know.' I really did think that the world, at last, was

  mine. But I was still looking at the wallpaper when we put

  the light out.

  Now I opened my eyes. Immediately I saw that the wallpaper

  was still there. I could read, I could take Emina for

  walks, I could see everything I had heard about and been told

  about, and never properly known. An astronomer who sees

  a new planet must, I thought, feel like this, or an explorer

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  coming to the edge of a plateau and seeing below him miles

  and miles of unexplored territory. As I lay daydreaming, the

  sun was streaming through the curtains, and I saw Emma still

  curled up in her basket.

  Then Don stirred and said he would get up and make some

  tea, which brought me back to the more immediate, practical

  things of life. And while I was looking at Emma, she woke

  too. She got out of her basket, stretched sleepily right down on

  her forelegs with eyes half-closed against the brightness of the

  day, but looking up at me, full of affection. She gave her usual

  brisk and vigorous good-morning shake, then, wagging her

  tail jumped up on the bed. I had heard all this every day, but

  never before seen what happened. It was a daily ritual that

  she had to play her game of what Don calls 'Push Noses' in

  which she puts her nose under the bedclothes and pushesback

  legs in the air and tail waving frantically. Actually seeing

  this for the first time, accompanied by the normal sounds, I

  lay back and shook with laughter, it was so funny.

  At that moment Don came in with the tea, and I said to him,

  'I wonder how long it will be before she realizes I can see?'

  Emma had obviously not yet grasped the fact, and I wondered

  whether it would dawn on her gradually or suddenly. Then

  something odd happened. I was watching Don pour out the

  tea and start to get dressed, when I noticed his legs. I hadn't

  noticed them before he got into bed the night before, and I

  looked, and said, 'Don, your legs.'

  'What about my legs?'

  'Aren't they strange?' And I started to giggle because they

  looked so peculiar to me.

  Poor Don was quite put out. He looked down and, with a

  great muster of dignity, said, 'They're perfectly normal legs.'

  'But they can't be.'

  'Yes, they are.'

  'But they're all wrong somehow. They don't seem to fit the

  rest of your body.'

  He then turned round and hurriedly put on his trousers to

  cover his legs and hide them from my critical gaze: I was

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  convinced they were out of proportion. I have no idea how I

  expected legs to look, but whatever image I had it was not

  matched by Don's lower limbs. When I got out of bed a second

  or two later, I stopped laughing. I saw that my legs looked

  peculiar as well, amazingly strange, and disproportionate.

  Over breakfast, I discovered something else. I cooked bacon

  and eggs and tomatoes. I thought how much pleasure I had

  missed by not being able to see food, and how the sight of it

  added to the appetite. We sat down, and I put my fork towards

  the bacon, and, somehow, the two did not connect. I could

  see the bacon, and I could see the prongs of the fork near it,

  but I could not bring the two together. The co-ordination was

  beyond me, and although it was an admission of a temporary

  setback, an unforeseen defeat even, I had to revert to my old

  ways and feel for my food with my knife and fork. I stopped

  concentrating on looking, and went back to touch.

  Over the coffee, Don said, 'Where would you like to go

  today?' He had arranged to h
ave a week offfrom the surgery,

  and was longing to take me on all sorts of trips in the car.

  Before he said it I knew where I wanted to go first: 'What

  about Newstead Abbey, what about going there?' Newstead

  Abbey, with its acres of woods, lakes and gardens is about a

  twenty-minute drive out of Nottingham on the Mansfield

  side. Once it was the home of Lord Byron, and in the I 930s

  was presented to Nottingham City Corporation. I had been

  there so many times when I was blind, and I found it always so

  peaceful. I could almost feel the atmosphere of the old abbey,

  and would imagine Byron writing poetry under the trees, or

  riding his horse along the paths. I used to go round and feel the

  trees, knowing there were great masses of rhododendrons, and

  hear the waterfalls. I was dying to see it all.

  There was a lake which stretched like a great looking-glass,

  with moorhens and swans floating on it, attached to their

  shimmering mirror images. Eventually we came.to the waterfalls.

  The sun was shining, and it caught the water, and turned

  it into a cascade of diamonds, whirling and dancing over the

  stones. The colours were changing in a halo over the falls.

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  I could not take my eyes off it, and Don almost had to drag

  me to look at the flowers he had caught sight of: dahlias and

  chrysanthemums in a blaze of different yellows and bronzes

  and scarlets. To me it was as if all the colour in the world had

  suddenly been concentrated and massed in that spot. Then I

  caught sight of a stone wall, a part of the old abbey, and went

  over to see it. It was mottled all over with pinks, whites,

  yellow, grey, brown, with mosses and lichen growing in the

  crevices, and all made up of a million tiny details.

  I felt quite high on colour and visual sensations. But one

  last thing I had to see. That was Byron's memorial to his

  Newfoundland dog, Boatswain. We reached the little square

  stone edifice at the top of some steps. Emma went all round it,

  very interested. And I was able, at last, to read for myself

  what Byron had written about his dog. Inscribed on the stone

  it said that Boatswain possessed 'Beauty without Vanity,

  Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man without