emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  Emma's head; she was still snoring and occasionally twitching

  and giving little growls in her sleep. Dreaming, but all unaware

  that life had changed. I whispered, 'They won't take you back,

  Emma. I won't let them.'

  I lay back again, and, with determination in my mind, I

  eventually got to sleep.

  I6

  t I woke up to see our pink wallpaper, and the sun shining

  hrough the window. For a moment I forgot about worrying

  whether they would take Emma away or not, because the wonderful,

  unaccustomed daylight had taken over again.

  There was so much to do, so much to see, so much to plan. I

  got out of bed and went to the front door. There was the Daily

  Express sticking through the letter-box. Print! Could I read? I

  pulled the paper out and looked at the headlines. I could see

  them perfectly well. But what did they mean? I couldn't make

  any sense of the great black letters. I kept looking, and it was

  like looking at double-Dutch, or what I assumed people meant

  by double-Dutch. I put the paper down thinking, Well, it was

  too much to expect. Don came out of the bedroom.

  'I thought I might be able to read the paper,' I said, 'but it

  doesn't seem to make a lot of sense.'

  'But you used to read when you were little, didn't you?'

  'Oh yes, I learnt to read, but it's a long time ago.' So long it

  could be a different person, and there was an instant memory

  of the small edition of that person, aged about eight, at her

  desk in school, knowing that other girls and boys somehow had

  an easier time of things and that she had to put her face right

  up to a book to learn to read, but fortunately not knowing that

  within a very few years even doing that would not enable her

  to see print. To the right she could vaguely see the shape of

  Trudy, the little girl who sat next to her, holding her book on

  her desk. Trudy was giggling and saying, 'What are you smelling

  your book for, Sheila?'

  'I'm not smelling it,'I'm reading it.'

  More giggles.

  'You're silly,' Trudy said, stretching her arms right out as

  she held her book. 'I can read my book like this.'

  All little Sheila had done then was to hold her book away as

  well, but the print immediately blurred and went out of focus

  so that she had to bring it back to her face to restore the Cat to

  the Mat, and reassure herself. When she had done that she had

  just observed rather lamely, 'I'm not silly.'

  The mental images and sounds of the classroom were dissolved

  by Don's voice. 'Don't forget,' he was saying, 'you

  I7

  haven't got your lenses yet. You'll want glasses before you can

  read.'

  'I never thought about that,' I said. But, of course, had I

  thought about it, I would have realized immediately. My

  blindness had been caused by congenital cataracts inherited

  from my father's side of the family. My brother Graham

  suffered the same defect as I, and my mother had a difterent

  sort of eye complaint caused by German measles. We were a

  family all blind in varying degrees and I should have remembered

  the importance of glasses which, in our little circle, were

  just about as vital as breathing itself. The cataract operation I'd

  had takes the lens part of the eye away so that focusing, especially

  close up, is not possible without glasses or contact lenses.

  'I suppose I'll want reading glasses,' I said. Then a thought

  struck me. 'My Dad's got a pair-big thick ones. If I could

  borrow them, I could probably focus on the print better, and

  it wouldn't take me long to remember all the words.... Don,

  let's go and see him today.'

  'Well, why not?' said Don, though in his voice there was the

  hint that this might bring disappointment. 'Shall we have

  breakfast first though?'

  I had forgotten this important part of the beginning of the

  day, and was a bit dashed because I wanted to rush out to the

  car there and then to fetch the lenses from my father. It was

  strange cooking breakfast-or at least attempting to. Even

  stranger, it might seem, that I found it harder than cooking

  when I was blind. I had managed quite happily then, judging

  everything by feel and taste, and with the aid of a braille regulo

  on my cooker. But this was so different. Quite apart from being

  unable to co-ordinate my movements and judge distances

  accurately as sighted people do automatically (I got the fryingpan

  a bit to the right of the hot-plate at first, and an inch or so

  above it) it meant nothing to me to actually see bacon fat

  turning to crispy gold and the transparency of an egg gradually

  becoming white.

  'When's bacon cooked?' I said to Don. 'And eggs?'

  'What do you mean, petal?'

  'Well, I used to be able to judge by feel ... with a fork .

  bacon, anyway, and I just used to sort of time the egg.'

  I8

  'Yes, I know,' he said. 'You either got them half done or so

  hard I couldn't get my bread anywhere near them.' He smiled.

  I knew he was joking.

  tisn't it lovely to look at somebody and see them smiling,' I

  said. 'I'd have thought you were serious if you'd said that to me

  last week.' That quite perked me up. Yesterday had shown so

  many marvellous things about sight. Today had brought some

  problems, but here was something else I had found out. 'Now,

  Don,' I said in a tone of mock severity, 'how do you know when

  bacon's done?'

  He laughed. 'When it looks done,' he said.

  'Yes, I know that. But what does "looks done" mean?'

  He became serious. 'Well, it's a bit difficult to explain. Why

  don't you test it as you used to and then you can see what it

  looks like, and then you'll be able to judge by eye.'

  Tentatively I put a fork into the rashers, and it didn't feel

  cooked.

  'It's not cooked yet,' I said.

  Don stood over me at the stove, and explained. 'No, you can

  see it's still too pink there. It needs to go a darker shade yetmore

  cooked looking.'

  I had to laugh. 'It's no good you standing there and saying

  "more cooked-looking"! I'm trying to learn what it means.'

  Finally, somehow, and with the aid of my old, familiar

  methods, the breakfast was cooked. Emma came trotting into

  the dining-room as we carried the plates in, and as Don sat

  down she did as well, just by his chair, with her nose pointed up

  towards his breakfast. I looked at her.

  'Does she always do that?' I asked.

  'Didn't you know? She always sits near me in case I drop a

  crumb or two.'

  'Oh yes,' I said, not utterly convinced. I went on with my

  breakfast. 'You don't give her titbits, do you? You know the

  rules about titbits.'

  Don looked up, slightly guiltily, I thought, with a piece of

  bacon poised on his fork.

  'Certainly not.'

  But the expression on his face told me he was not quite telling

  the truth, and this notion was reinforced by the very expectant

  in

  I


  look on Emma's face. Sight had brought yet another revelation

  of things as they really were!

  But at the time I did not dwell on this. Emma sitting there,

  nose quivering, eyes all bright and eager, and with her tail

  giving tentative little wags at the mention of her name had

  reminded me of the thoughts of the previous night, and the

  whole terrible prospect of losing Emma came back with a rush.

  'Oh ... Emma!' I said.

  'What's the matter?'

  'You remember what I said last night? They might want her

  back.'

  Don looked at me steadfastly across the breakfast table.

  'Sheila, you mustn't worry like this. Of course they won't want

  her back. She's your dog, she's nearly eleven, she'd be retiring

  anyway soon, wouldn't she? And you'd have kept her then,

  wouldn't you?'

  'Well, yes, I know. But I can't remember anything like this

  happening before. I can't remember hearing of a guide-dog

  owner getting their sight back.'

  'Look,' saic'l Don, 'the best thing is to ring them. Don't sit

  worrying about it. Give them a ring, now.'

  ' I can't,' I said.

  'Why not?'

  'It's Saturday. There won't be anyone at the office. I'll have

  to wait till Monday. Oh dear.' The worry crowded in on me. I

  patted Emma on the head and she wagged her tail as if to

  reassure me. Monday seemed an age away.

  'Come on,' said Don. He got up from the table, came round

  and put an arm round me. 'Don't worry. Let's go and get those

  lenses from your Dad.'

  We all got into the car, and I turned and looked round at

  Emma who had jumped into the back scat. It was so lovely just

  to be able to turn and look at her. But immediately I visualized

  one of the guide-dog trainers coming to take her away. I shut

  my eyes and made the picture go away, and opened them again

  and looked out of the front window of the car. We were driving

  into Nottingham.

  'Isn't there a lot of traffic?' I said. 'I suppose I did think of

  other cars on the road when I couldn't see because I heard

  20

  them, but you don't hear all of them because of your own

  engine noise. It cuts a lot of sound out.' Being in a car used to be

  rather strange because I never formed a picture of the outside

  world at all. Then suddenly I said, 'Will you teach me to drive- ?'

  Don looked at me. 'Well, if you want me to. But you have to

  have good eyesight to drive you know.'

  ,Yes,' I said, 'I know.'

  'I mean, you've got to be able to read a number-plate at

  twenty-five yards.'

  'Well I can certainly do that,' I said. 'I can see the trees, and

  all those leaves on the pavement .....

  'All right then. See that white car . . . what's the numberplate ?'

  I screwed my eyes up. What white car? Where? 'Which car?'

  I said.

  'The one up in front. It's about twenty-five yards away.'

  'Ah, I've got it.'

  'What does the number-plate say?'

  'Mm, no, I can't make it out. Can you go a bit closer.'

  Don drove a bit closer. He laughed. 'Any nearer and we'll

  be touching. Can you see the number-plate?'

  'Ah ... no.'

  Don made a wry sort of face. 'Well, petal, don't rush things.

  It doesn't matter.'

  So I gave up trying to find the number-plate, let alone

  decipher what it said. Obviously driving a car was something

  for the future. Not exactly a disappointment, because Don was

  quite right. I was expecting too much, too soon, perhaps.

  Having borrowed the lenses from my father, Don and I went

  straight back home. I couldn't wait to know if I could read. As

  soon as I got in, I put the special glasses on and picked up the

  paper again. There was an immediate improvement. 'Don,' I

  called, 'come here. I can see all the letters.' It was true. The

  trouble was I couldn't remember which was which.

  'What's that one? Is that a P or an R?' Don patiently

  identified them for me, in turn, and at last it all began to make

  a little sense. 'It is coming back,' I said, 'P-L-A-C-E ... placethat'

  s what it says, isn't it?'

  2I

  'Yes, that's right,' said Don, 'and what's that one?'

  'I-N-yes, in! Gosh, isn't it fantastic.'

  I didn't speak for minutes after that, and Don left me to it. I

  simply buried my face in the paper and read every word I

  could find. But there were quite a lot of words I simply could

  not make head nor tail of. Not for some time after that morning

  did I realize that I suffer from a kind of word blindness. I

  suppose it was because I hadn't read anything but braille for

  years and my brain didn't act very quickly when I saw proper

  print. Instead of looking at a line and bcing able to read it off

  as any other literate sighted person would, I had to go through

  each word, letter by letter, before it made sense. Things have

  improved since then, but I still suffer to an extent from this

  'word blindness' and I am a very slow reader. Not that it takes

  any of my enjoyment out of reading-I might take ages and

  ages to read a book but it is still one of my great pleasures, and

  since that day I have never had to use braille again in earnest.

  Don came back after I had been sitting with the newspaper

  for, it seemed, hours. 'Do you want me to take you to the shops

  to :ret something for lunch? Then we can go out into the coun9

  try and look at the fields.'

  'No, I don't think so, Don,' I said. 'I think I'll walk. I've got

  to get used to it.' I was remembering the horrifying experience

  I had had the day before when I had gone out for the first time

  with Emma. Yet I knew I had to get used to going out and,

  although it had proved a frightening experience, it had been

  curiously exciting and thrilling as well. I wanted to have

  another try, to see how the pavement and lamp-posts and

  hedges behaved this time-and I also wanted another look in

  the shops.

  'Are you going to take Emma P' said Don.

  'Oh I won't go without Emma. I won't use a harness,

  though. I'll just put her lead on. I'll take it slowly, and make

  sure no hedges get me on the way!'

  I went out of the door, and again had that uncanny feeling

  of the ground moving beneath me and the gate coming towards

  me. Then when I got to the gate--or it got to me-I couldn't

  find the latch. I could see it perfectly well but I just couldn't

  locate it with my hand. Lack of co-ordination again. So I shut

  22

  my eyes and felt-it was much easier. For quite a time looking

  at things just put me off altogether and I had to go back to my

  old ways.

  I decided we would go to the paper-shop first as I wanted to

  buy some women's magazines.

  'Come on, Emma, we'll go to the paper-shop. I'm going to

  buy a magazine. Isn't it exciting!' She looked up at me, not

  quite sure what I was talking about, and still not understanding

  why she had no harness on. She tried to keep the same pace in

  front of me as she had always done and she stopped
as usual at

  the kerbs. When we arrived, and on the mention of 'paper-shop',

  she turned in, as she would have done if she had been leading

  Me.

  I looked at the counter full of papers and magazines. Which

  one should I buy? I went for the brightest of all the brightlycoloured

  covers-a woman about my age modelling a stunning

  dress in green against a pink background. As I was deciding,

  Mrs Hill, who kept the shop, finished with another customer

  and came over to me.

  'Hello, Sheila, how nice to see you. I heard the news about

  your operation. It's marvellous!'

  'Yes, isn't it?'

  Then she saw Emma, and said, 'Oh ... no harness today.'

  'No, isn't it lovely? She can go on a lead and have all the

  walks she wants now.' Emma lay by the counter, head between

  her paws and looking up with an expression which seemed to

  say: 'Well, I'm not sure about all this; I'll believe it when it

  happens.'

  But Mrs Hill looked a bit perplexed. 'Doesn't that mean

  they'll take her back to Guide-Dogs, though, now you don't

  need her?'

  Don't need her? I thought. How can people think that way?

  All the anxieties were started up again and I wanted to get out

  of the shop with Emma immediately, even though I knew Mrs

  Hill was only anxious on my behalf and meant no harm.

  'I really don't know, I'm afraid,' I said. 'I'm going to 'ring

  the Guide-Dog people first thing on Monday and find out. But

  I'm sure they won't take her away.' And, going out of the door,

  I added for bravado, 'I won't let them, anyway.' Mrs Hill's

  23

  ~ I ~

  expression didn't seem very hopeful as I said this, but at least

  Emma gave an approving wag as we left the shop.

  The next day we went for a drive into the Nottinghamshire

  countryside. We parked down a lane and set off across the

  fields. Emma ran on in front, tail in the air, stopping every so

  often to snuffle in the grass and enjoy the new scents, while Don

  and I, who somehow had set off separately, kept calling to one

  another to come and look at this flower, or that. Then, suddenly,

  having been walking quite happily, I found myself falling: