emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  told me how different I had made their lives by telling them

  what it was like to see for the first time, and how they themselves

  now saw things with more appreciation. Whenever people

  told me this I always thought of the time I was coming

  back from London on the train one evening. It had been a

  brilliant summer day, and as the train sped north to Nottingham

  there was the most incredible sunset: great rays of red

  and gold through banks of slate-blue cloud as we reached the

  Trent, with dazzling reflections in the water as if somehow the

  sun were submerged in the river like a great molten blood

  orange.

  There were five others in the compartment with me, all

  businessmen. Three were asleep, one was doing a crossword,

  and the other was hidden by his Financial Times. I wanted to

  get on my seat and shout at them: 'Look! Wake up! Can't you

  see what's happening? Isn't it marvellous! Why don't you use

  your eyes for something important? Something wonderful that

  will never ever happen again exactly as it is now!' But I just sat

  there, and the eyes of those asleep remained closed, while the

  man doing the crossword gazed up momentarily but sightlessly

  as he pondered a clue and the other man stayed hidden behind

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  his paper, and by then ~~.e were slowing up through the Nottingham

  shuntiiig yards and the sun finally vanished behind the

  great black ~.archouse ~vhlch housed the British Waterways, a

  minute before drawing into Midland Station.

  So many people don't really see what is going on around

  them. They take their gift of sight so much for granted. They

  look at grass and nex,er think, that's wonderful grass. If it

  changed colour overnight they would probably never notice.

  I was glad the people had written to me and said that my

  description of getting sight had given them new eyes as well.

  Apart from the letters there were innumerable callers. Particularly

  on Sundays: children on the doorstep, old ladies,

  entire families saying, 'We're sorry to bother you, but we've

  read your book. Could we see Emma do you think?' At least

  Emma didn't bark automatically every time the doorbell went.

  When we first moved to the surgery the doorbell sounded like

  the telephone back at the bungalow, and the telephone either

  bleeped on a direct line, or buzzed when a call was routed from

  the surgery. At first, for good measure, Emma barked at all

  three. But within a fortnight she had learnt the differences. Who

  says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

  But the publication of Emma and I was having another effect.

  We were now getting cheques for royalties and foreign rights,

  and each one brought a little more hope that one day, very

  much in the future but one day nevertheless, we might realize

  our ambition of buying our own boarding cattery and kennels.

  At first I had intended simply to buy a commercial cattery as

  a going concern and to develop the kennels later-although had

  it not been for Emma the priorities would have been reversed.

  I didn't think it would have been fair on Emma to have other

  dogs around. When Emma was out in the park, or nosing her

  way over the fields above our house where Don particularly

  liked to take her, she loved it when she met other dogs. But if

  we had friends in who brought a dog with them, then Emma

  went all peculiar. The expression on her face said: 'What's this!

  Another dog in my house!' She didn't do anything, nor make

  any sign of aggression; she was even polite to them, in a distant

  sort of way, but she would not play with them however much

  they woofed around her and lay doggo pleading: 'Oh do come

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  and play.' Emma always remained aloof, and the look on her

  face also meant when she glanced up at us: 'I don't mind

  whether you have babies, or cats, or as many people as you

  like-but, please, not other dogs in here. Please.' So that is

  why, although the desire to run a kennels of my own dated

  back to the years when I was a girl, unable to see, getting

  weekend jobs at local dog establishments round Nottingham,

  I originally gave a greater priority to buying a commercial

  cattery.

  So for a long time the idea of, ultimately, owning kennels was

  something even more remote than the cattery-and of course

  I had built only a private little cattery at the back of the house

  for the offspring of my own cats. But gradually Don and I came

  round to the view that eventually, when we had the money,

  Emma would probably not mind if she remained the centre of

  attention in the house and there were dogs boarded in whatever

  new establishment we could buy. At the same time it never

  entered my head-or Don's for that matter-to have another

  dog in the house. We both worshipped Emma, and any permanent

  intrusion would seem such an affront to her. Or so we

  thought.

  But one evening Don was sitting watching television and I

  was reading my favourite part of the local newspaper-not the

  news columns which are invariably miserable and depressing,

  but the 'For Sale' section. I lapped up every detail of 'Garden

  Sheds œ2o o.n.o.' or 'Ford Cortina. As new', items that did not

  remotely concern me in my day to day existence, but which on

  the closely-printed page somehow acquired a magical attraction

  that compelled me to read about them. I got to the 'Dogs'

  column. I always read the 'Dogs' column, not particularly

  because I wanted another dog, but I was very interested to

  know about the dogs for sale, what breed they were and how

  much owners were charging. Suddenly something seemed to leap

  out of the page towards me. It was something I had never seen

  advertised before. I couldn't believe it. 'Chocolate-coloured

  Labrador,' it said. 'One year old.' I read it again. Sure enough,

  my eyes had not deceived me. 'Chocolate-coloured Labrador.'

  How about that? I thought. I suppose I had really come to

  think that Emma was the only chocolate-coloured Labrador in

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  the whole world. They were so unusual that I had never seen

  another, let alone read an ad. for one, and I was resigned to

  people coming up to me and saying, 'Isn't she lovely! What

  breed is she?'

  'Don,' I said, 'read that advert.' I thrust the paper under his

  nose.

  'Mm, what advert?' he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  'Look, this advert. Read it. What does it say?'

  He took the paper from me and looked rather blankly at the

  page of ads.

  'What do you mean, "What does it say"? Which one?'

  I pointed it out.

  'Read it to me,' I said.

  He was still rather puzzled, but looked intently at the page.

  'Chocolate-coloured Labrador. . .' he began, but by the time

  he had got that far he was alive with interest and astonishment.

  'One year old.'

  He handed the paper back to me.

  'Incredible,' he said.

  'Yes isn't it?' There was a pause, and in the silence I thi
nk

  our two minds were racing along the same lines. But it was Don

  who beat me to expressing what we were thinking:

  'I wonder what she looks like?' he said.

  'Yes, so do I.' I suppose it never occurred to either of us,

  having lived with Emma so long, that 'she' might possibly have

  been 'he'. There was a further pause.

  'Do you think it's worth ringing them?' I said.

  'Well,' said Don, a little uncertain, 'you could ask them what

  she's like.'

  'Mm. I'm really intrigued. I just wonder how like Emma

  she is.'

  'I wonder,' said Don. 'You can't do any harm just giving

  them a ring.'

  I picked up the phone. Then, when halfway through dialling

  the number given in the paper, a thought struck me. I put the

  phone down again.

  'What's the matter?' said Don.

  'I've just thought. What do I say? It sounds a bit daft,

  really . . . "Hello Mrs Whatever, I've rung about your

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  cliocolate-coloured Labrador ... I don't want to make an offer

  for her, but I just want to know what she's like because we've

  got one as well . . ." She'll think we're barmy.'

  Don burst out laughing.

  'Go on,' he said, 'ring up and ask. They won't mind. We

  could fix up to go and see her.' And he added: 'You never know,

  we might like her.'

  'Oh,' I said, 'I don't know about that.' It somehow seemed

  terribly disloyal, what we were doing. Emma was curled up,

  all oblivious, asleep in her usual place on the settee, dreaming

  with an occasional little sound and a twitch of her forepaw. I

  looked at her. There was really only one chocolate-coloured

  Labrador in the world.

  'I don't know,' I said again, and gave a sigh. 'I don't think

  Emma would like it. And I think it would be a bit unfair to go

  along and see the dog without any intention of buying.'

  Don thought for a moment. Finally he said: 'Well, don't you

  think Emma likes other dogs?'

  'Oh, of course she does. But whether she would like another

  one living here's a different thing.'

  Somehow, without discussing it, we seemed to have got to

  the possibility that we might-just might-consider buying the

  dog, and that seemed even more underhand. I put the idea out

  of my head.

  'Well,' said Don, 'they won't mind you ringing up to inquire.

  Ring them up and ask what kind of a price they're thinking of,

  and then see where we go from there.'

  'All right,' I said. It was curiosity really that got the better of

  me. I so much wanted to see this other chocolate-coloured

  Labrador. But I was quite determined that we would not buy

  her.

  I picked up the phone again. A woman answered. Yes, the

  voice said, she (it was a 'she') was still for sale. 'Why do you

  want to sell her?' I asked. 'I'm afraid I've got too many dogs,'

  was the answer, 'and I've just had another litter of ten. They

  all need hand-feeding and I haven't time to cope with the

  others properly so I thought the best thing was to try and find

  them good homes.'

  'I understand. I wonder would it be possible for us to come

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  an have a look? I'm not sure whether we want another dog,

  and I'd really quite like to bring our dog to see her.'

  This all came out with a bit of a rush, and judging by the

  silence at the other end, I felt the woman was thinking I was

  slightly deranged.

  But, rather uncertainly, she agreed and we arranged to go

  the following day. I put the phone down. Don was back watching

  his programme and I didn't say anything to him. Thoughts

  raced through my head. I sat on the settee beside Emma.

  Another dog. Another chocolate-coloured Labrador. Emma

  shifted in her sleep. I wonder if she'll look at all like Emma?

  I wonder if she has the same sort of temperament? No, not

  possibly. Never another like Emma. What would Emma think

  if we brought another dog home? Like bringing Kerensa home

  ... another child, another baby. Emma certainly had not been

  too keen on Kerensa to begin with, but then had accepted

  her as a person. Another dog would be worse. Or would it be

  better? I decided not to worry about it. We would just go and

  see her.

  So the next day, Don, Emma and I, and, of course, Kerensa,

  set out to have a look at this rarity, another chocolate-coloured

  Labrador. When the breeder answered the door and saw Emma

  I think she had a shock.

  'Oh, I had no idea you'd got a chocolate Labrador already...'

  'Yes, but we've never seen another, and we would very much

  like to see yours ... I don't know whether we want to buy

  another dog.' (I felt I had to be quite honest.) 'It all depends on

  Emma, and what she thinks . . .'

  The breeder was sympathetic. She smiled.

  'I understand. Do come in.'

  'Does she like other dogs?' I asked.

  'Yes, she loves other dogs.'

  'And what about children?'

  'Yes, she likes children. In fact, altogether, she's really a

  very friendly dog . . . anyway sit down and I'll go and fetch

  her.'

  We all sat down. I was feeling apprehensive, I don't know

  why. What would this dog be like? Was I going to be disappointed?

  What did I expect? To be honest I hardly knew.

  iig

  But before I had more than a few seconds to think, the door

  opened and in bounded a shiny, young, tail-wagging chocolate

  Labrador. In an instant my mind went back years: to the GuideDog

  Training Centre at Leamington Spa, sitting on the edge

  of my bed, the door open, waiting. My eyes had not seen anything,

  but my mind had preserved every detail of that moment

  as clearly as if it had happened only a second before. Sitting,

  waiting, then hearing footsteps approaching down the corridor

  outside, and hearing an even more magic sound keeping pace

  with them ... the click and unmistakable patter of paws ...

  Then I heard the trainer's voice: 'Here we are, Sheila ...

  here's your dog. She's called Emma, and she's a chocolatecoloured

  Labrador. . .'

  And I had heard a tail swishing the air and the trainer leaving,

  closing the door behind him. 'Emma,' I had called, and

  immediately had been aware of a bounding in the room and

  being nearly bowled off the bed, and then being licked all over.

  'Hello, Emma,' I had said, 'hello.' And, as I felt a cold nose

  pushing into my hands, I remember thinking that I couldn't

  believe it. It was a dream. This was Emma, and she liked me,

  and I had felt like dancing round the room.

  And now, in this room, I could see something of what it must

  have been like. And yet at the same time I knew it was just an

  approximation, because the moment that Emma came into my

  life was unique and nothing would ever match it.

  However, in bounded Buttons, full of glee, full of excitement,

  vigour and life, leaping immediately up to Emma and making a

  big fuss of her before she even noticed that Emma belonged to

  other human beings. When she had go
t over the excitement of

  meeting Emma, she came over to us, tail going sixty to the

  dozen, brown nose glistening, ears bouncing up and down, coat

  so glossy and with all those different shades of colours that

  Emma also had. I took her in at a glance and knew immediately

  that she was not completely like Emma. She was different: she

  was herself; yet alilte also, merely because of the fact she was

  chocolate-coloured. I have to be honest and say that from the

  moment she came in, I fell in love with Buttons and it did not

  diminish one speck my love for Emma.

  'Can I take them into the garden?' I asked. 'I want to see if

  I20

  she will play with Emma, and if Emma will want to play with

  her.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  Emma was then thirteen years old and obviously she had

  begun to slow down, but it was not until we met Buttons that

  I realized how much. It is strange how you grow old with your

  dog, and you expect them to do only what an older dog will do.

  Emma was beginning to plod a little along the pavements, to

  make her strolls across the park more leisurely, and to stop and

  sniff a little more before moving on to the next bush or tree.

  In the garden we let both the dogs off the lead. Buttons

  danced about and immediately did the usual Labrador thing:

  bottom and tail in the air, nose and front paws along the ground,

  tail gently wagging, making those little snorting and snuffling

  noises, the appeal of all these friendliest of all creatures: 'Come

  and play with me. Oh do come and play.'

  Emma's response was to behave a little like a shocked

  Victorian lady who has had an improper suggestion made to

  her on a park bench, her expression almost shrouded in lace

  frills and disapproval: 'If you think I'm simply an ordinary dog,

  you're very, very much mistaken.'

  Then, all at once, the disdain and haughtiness vanished. She

  changed utterly. Instincts and long-forgotten memories stirred.

  It was as if, in a second, she shed years and years. She dashed

  over to Buttons and then they took ofF, chasing round and

  round, together, in among the flower beds, skidding over the

  lawn, disappearing round a far hedge and reappearing time

  and time again, until they both came to a stop in front of us and,