emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  much so that it was not long before I realized that nothing less

  than a full-scale boarding cattery, and kennels for dogs, would

  satisfy me.

  Sadly, the local council objected to me looking after other

  people's cats, as they were of the opinion that it was a business.

  Having tried to convince them for over a year that no way was

  I making any money, I gave up the fight, and since then I have

  been unable to board even the kittens I have bred. All this

  made me more determined to find a place in the country where

  I could realize my ambition.

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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DURING THE TIME I had my limited Utopia-the cattery I

  had already built-I sometimes used to think perhaps I was

  insane to want that kind of life on an even bigger scale. It could

  be freezing, wet, and highly unpleasant cleaning those cathouses

  out, even with Susan's help when she came along. Of

  course, there were other forms of help (Emma), and, sometimes,

  hindrance (Kerensa). Emma is not the sort of dog to sit about

  and do nothing. Since my operation, and she was no longer

  guiding me, she obviously had to find other responsibilities so

  she could still feel an essential part of us. Emma somehow

  ensured that everything in the house revolved round her. She

  found different roles in life, things she knew she was needed for,

  and one of them was waiting outside the cat-runs when I was

  feeding the boarders. She clearly felt that it was her place to sit

  outside those doors and stay there until I came out again. What

  also entered into this, no doubt, was the fact that when I did

  come out I usually brought all the food bowls; and, since some

  cats never quite finished up their meals, Emma liked to ensure

  that every plate was clean even before it went to be washed up.

  So perhaps that lay behind the desire for responsibility. But

  there was another reason. When Kerensa reached the toddling

  stage she always came with me as well. I didn't mind that

  because I could keep an eye on her and see (because she had

  soon become fond of animals) that she didn't pick up any cats

  who weren't used to her. And here Emma, standing guard, was

  an extra pair of eyes. She knew she played her part in looking

  after Kerensa.

  I didn't realize, however, how fast Kerensa was growing:

  upwards, that is. But one day it was brought home to me.

  I discovered she could undo the bolts on the cat-runs. She

  was playing out in the garden, and I was in the kitchen washing

  up. I didn't know where Emma was, but I thought she

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  was in the garden watching Kerensa. Suddenly I heard her

  barking.

  Normally she does not bark a great deal-only occasionally

  when people come to the door, in order to let us know someone

  is there. For the most part the drive is very busy -,s~ith

  patients coming to and from Don's surgery. There is an iron

  gate between the garden and the surgery so Emma can see all

  the patients but she knows they have a right to be there and she

  never barks at them. So I wondered why she was barking in the

  back garden.

  'Emma!' I called. I was answered by more furious barking.

  'Emma, what's the matter?' She didn't come to the back door,

  but simply barked even more.

  I put my tea-towel down and went into the garden. Emma

  was standing by the cat-runs.

  'What is it Emma?' I said. She barked again. Then I looked.

  There was a gate open and Kerensa was standing there with a

  kitten clutched in her little hands, giggling, laughing and

  dancing about saying, 'Baby kitten, baby kitten.'

  'Kerensa! Have you let the mum out?' I looked into the cathouse.

  It was empty. Mum had gone. What was I to do? Emma

  stood there wagging her tail in front of the open gate. 'Where is

  she, Emma? Where's she gone?'

  Emma immediately and with a great sense of purpose led me

  along the side of the garden. And there, sitting licking her paws

  between two rose bushes, was the kitten's mum.

  'Oh, Sheena, thank goodness you haven't gone far.' I scooped

  her up and put her back in the cat-run with her kitten. Now I

  shall have to padlock the gates, I thought.

  'You're a naughty girl, Kerensa,' I said. But when Emma

  bounded up, pushing her nose into my hand and wagging her

  tail so her whole backside moved, I said, 'And you're a good

  girl.' I knew what had happened. Emma had seen Kerensa

  undoing the gate, had known it was not the right thing to do if

  I was not there and had barked to let me know.

  Some time before this I had a growing preoccupation beyond

  the cats, Emma and Kerensa. It was my first book Emma and I,

  on which I had been working increasingly hard, putting the

  final touches and making revisions. Earlier in the year I had

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  been thrilled when it had been accepted for publication. That

  had been a tremendous moment in all our lives, but I was not

  prepared for the reception it had when it came out in the

  autumn of that year. It went to the top of the bestseller listand

  immediately I had visions that were more than dreams.

  Might we, after all, be able to afford a new and really full-size

  boarding cattery and kennels?

  Following the publication of the book Emma and I embarked

  on a non-stop whirl of tours round the country, making appearances

  at bookshops and autographing copies. In addition, we

  had all sorts of invitations to speak on radio and appear on

  television shows, and in each instance Emma, in her own wayand

  very appropriately-nearly always managed in some way

  to steal the show.

  The very first appearance we made was with Russell Harty

  for London Weekend Television. Lynn Silver, the programme

  organizer, rang up to confirm details.

  'You will be bringing Emma, won't you?' she said.

  'Oh yes, of course. I never go anywhere without her.'

  'Oh, that's splendid.'

  I voiced her thoughts for her: 'You mean if I didn't bring

  Emma, you really wouldn't want me, would you?'

  She laughed, but I knew there was some truth in this.

  Don, Susan (Don's daughter from his first marriage), Emma

  and I set off for London for the show. We were all immensely

  excited. I was so excited, in fact, that when we got to Nottingham

  Midland Station and the train came in, Emma and I were

  first on it and it was not until I was actually in my scat that I

  suddenly realized that I had not got the dress I had bought

  specially for the show. I had spent hours going round the

  Nottingham shops before I found what I wanted: a long dark

  green velvet dress-actually a two-picce-with a blouse under

  the top. And, just as the train was about to pull out with only

  one stop between there and St Pancras, that dress was lying in

  a carrier-bag on a seat on the platform.

  'Don!' I said. 'I've left the carrier with the dress in it on the

  seat.'

  He dashed off the train, colliding with people still stowing


  their luggage and settling in their seats, sprinted down the

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  platform, and just got back aboard as the whistle was blowing.

  'What on earth made you do that?' he said breathlessly.

  'What would you have done?'

  I had no answer to that one, but I spent the rest of the t~vo

  hours going down to London permutating a small nightmare

  of arriving without anything to wear beyond what I had

  travelled in.

  London Weekend Television turned out to be a skyscraper

  building: something which I still have not got used to. To look

  up at a skyscraper, with the clouds going past and making it

  seem to move, makes me feel dizzy. We walked in through the

  main doors, and I had to close my eyes and pretend I was

  walking into an ordinary building.

  Lynn Silver met us and we were taken up in the lift, with me,

  once again, trying not to think of how many storeys high we

  were. We arrived in her office and I didn't dare look out of the

  window.

  I met Russell Harty only very briefly before the show. He

  said that he had read the book and would be asking me questions

  going through the book chronologically. Then he sprang

  rather a surprise.

  'I don't want you to come on with Emma,' he said.

  'Oh, why not? I don't think I could come on without her.

  After all she's at least the other half of the book.'

  'No,' he said, 'it's not that. I'd like her to sit with your husband

  in the audience. Then, about halfway through, I'll get

  you to call Emma to come on and sit by your chair. Do you

  think she'd do that?'

  I didn't much like the idea. 'Oh, she'll come all right. But I

  must tell you I don't fancy the idea of walking on by myself.' It

  was strange, but in moments like that, sighted as I was, I still

  very much needed Emma to give me confidence. I felt that if

  she was there by my side nothing could go wrong.

  Then I asked: 'Are there any stairs to come down?'

  'Yes, you have to come down a flight of stairs, but don't

  worry-ive'll show you them before the show starts and you

  can see how you go.' I felt I needed Emma even more when he

  told me that. This was something I had still not become

  accustomed to with sight: negotiating steps I didn't know.

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  Although I didn't get Emma's guidance as strongly through a

  lead as I used to through the harness, she had always helped

  me with unfamiliar steps back in Nottingham. I still judged

  from her pace how far up or down we had to go and I relied on

  that, rather than trust the message from my eyes to my brain

  which did not always give the right distance.

  So I immediately dreaded the idea of going on alone, down

  stairs.

  Lynn took me behind the set. 'Now don't worry about the

  stairs,' she said. 'They're not rickety or anything, and they're

  all level.'

  We had a little rehearsal, and it was not very successful. The

  steps were curved down from the back of the set on to a carpeted

  plinth where there were two seats and a table. I tried to

  memorize how many steps there were, and that there was a

  turning halfway down. With lights glaring at me and an

  audience looking at me, to say nothing of unseen but watching

  eyes at their television screens, I knew it was not going to be

  easy. I thought: Well, you're just going to have to go back to

  the old times when you didn't have Emma. You'll just have to

  feel with your feet.

  As the show started, I sat alone at the back of the set. Emma

  had gone into the audience and was curled up under the seat

  between Don and Susan. I was due to appear last. I was very

  nervous. I saw on a monitor what was happening on the show

  and a few seconds before my entrance Lynn took me to the top

  of the steps behind the set. I don't know how a paratrooper

  feels before he jumps from the aircraft, but I think I have a good

  idea.

  'Don't worry,' said Lynn, 'you'll be all right.'

  'I'll have to be,' I said.

  I heard Russell Harty say my name-which was my cueand

  the applause, and out I went into the dazzling light. I just

  couldn't see the steps at all. I was also conscious of how nervous

  I was. I had to feel with my feet: no, there was not a step yet.

  Then, there it was. Help! I nearly missed that one. The viewers

  might not have seen it, but I was shaking. But I managed to get

  down that flight of stairs, on to the plinth, and once I had sat

  down I breathed the most enormous sigh of relief.

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  Russell Harty commented on the book, and as soon as we

  started talking I forgot my nerves and then felt encouraged as

  the audience laughed at the little things I told them about

  Emma.

  Suddenly, Russell said that Emma was in the audience, and

  would she come if I called her? I stood and called, 'Emma!

  Come on, there's a good girl!' And she immediately came running

  on to the stage and wagged her tail excitedly round me

  before settling down beside my chair. Russell went on asking

  questions, and I noticed after a time that Emma had disap

  peared. I looked on the other side of my chair and there she

  was. I had no idea why she had done that. Perhaps she had not

  been comfortable.

  But as soon as the show finished, one of the cameramen came

  up to me.

  'I must tell you,' he said, 'I'd already heard a lot about

  Emma and what a fabulous dog she is, and I must admit I

  really didn't believe that a dog could be so clever. But I believe

  it all now, I really do.'

  'Why's that?' I asked.

  'We-Il,' he said, 'when you called her up on to the set, she

  went round one side of your chair and she was completely out

  of camera-I couldn't get her at all, and I forgot she was just a

  dog and started waving her over to the other side. And do you

  know what? She got up and went round the chair and sat just

  where I wanted her to.'

  I laughed. 'Well, I told you Emma was exceptional.'

  'My word, you're right,' he said, patting Emma, who looked

  up at him with an expression that said: 'Well, of course, you

  should never have doubted my intelligence in the first place.'

  Later, Emma became very tired of the whole business of

  radio and television studios. Certainly she took everything in

  her stride. When everyone used to come up and pat and stroke

  her, she wagged her tail at them and then just settled down. It

  didn't matter what the programme was, or how importantshe

  simply lay down by my feet and went off to sleep. Most of

  the interviewers assumed this was Emma's way, but one was

  not suited at all, or at least his producer didn't seem to be. One

  reason for Emma going to sleep in front of the cameras was, of

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  course, the studio lighting: hot even for humans, but doubly so

  for a dog.

  We had been asked to appear on Anglia Television, and

  Emma curled up as soon as the programme was tinder way and

  took no fur
ther interest in the proceedings. ~Ve did the interview,

  which lasted about four minutes, and I answered all the

  questions. We finished and the interviewer said, 'Right. Tliat's

  fine. Thank you.' Emma roused herself and ~ve were just walking

  out of the studio when he called me back.

  'The producer wants us to do it again,' he said.

  'Why?' I asked. 'What did I say wrong? Didn't I give the

  right answers?'

  'No, that was OK. You were perfectly all right. But he didn't

  like the look of the dog.'

  'Didn't like the look of the dog? What do you mean?'

  'Well, she didn't do anything, did she? She was just lying

  there.'

  'What does he expect? Somersaults?'

  'No, I don't think so . By this time I was rather cross on

  Emma's behalf.

  'Well, ask the producer what he wants,' I said.

  The interviewer disappeared and came back a minute later.

  'I think what he would like is for her to sort of sit up and look

  round or do something.'

  I decided there and then that Emma was not going under the

  lights again. She was getting on in years, and going on tour

  wasn't a strain for her only because I made sure it wasn't. I

  made certain she had her meals and water at the proper times

  and that she got lots of comforts, and I was certainly not going

  to allow her to do cartwheels or sit up and look interesting for

  any producer anywhere.

  And whether the viewers liked it or not, Emma was fast

  asleep when that interview finally appeared on the screen.

  One morning a letter arrived and I really could not believe my

  eyes when I opened it. Inside was an invitation for me to speak

  at the Woman of the Year luncheon at the Savoy Hotel in

  London. just to have been invited to be there would have been

  beyond my wildest dreams, but to be invited to speak as well!

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  I called upstairs to Don, and ran up to the bathroom where he

  was shaving. 'Don! Don! Look at this!' I pushed the letter in

  front of his nose, and he said, 'Steady. You'll get shaving cream

  all over it.'

  I was too excited to tell him about it, and I wanted him to

  read it for himself. So, with his face still lathered, he read the