emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  her back was most expressive and non-committal, I knew who

  had instructed Bracken, and why.

  When Emma was a puppy, one of her favourite tricks had

  been digging up plants in the garden. Paddy Wansborough, her

  puppy-walker, had told me that. 'I planted a hundred bulbs

  one morning,' she had told me. 'A hundred. It took me hours

  and hours, and I let Emma into the garden-she wasn't very

  old-just for a run round, you know. Then I wondered why

  she hadn't come in, and when I went to the door y,ou would

  never believe it! Every single bulb I'd planted, crocuses, daffodils,

  tulips, you name them, Emma had dug up and carefully

  put on the back doorstep. There was an enormous pile of bulbs

  on the step and Emma, very pleased with herself, wagging her

  I5'

  tail beside them. I knew she meant it all as a huge gift, so I

  couldn't blame her, but it was annoying.'

  So here was I, fourteen years later, doing exactly what Paddy

  Wansborough had done. I stood looking at Emma.

  'Emma,' I said, 'I'm sure you told him to do that.' She

  opened her mouth and grinned at me, pushing her tongue out

  as Bracken leapt round the garden with his prize.

  'Oh well,' I said, 'I suppose if you did it as a puppy, we can

  expect him to.'

  I went back indoors and told Don what had happened. It

  was as if an electric shock had passed through him. 'Dug up one

  of my rose-bushes? He hasn't!' And he rushed out into the

  garden. 'Bad dog!' lie yelled. I followed him. 'Don't shout at

  him,' I said. 'Emma did that as a puppy.' Don turned, surprised.

  '0h? Did she?' Yes,' I said, 'don't you remember Paddy

  Wansborough telling us?'

  'So she did,' said Don, and then, all annoyance gone, he

  called to Bracken who was doing his best to see that the rosebush

  would never bear any roses. 'Come on Bracken, drop it.'

  He turned to me. 'I'll have a go at planting it again.'

  And re-plant the bush he did. Not that it did much good,

  because fifteen minutes later Bracken was back with it again in

  the kitchen.

  It was quite uncanny, but this was only one of the occasions

  when Bracken repeated what Paddy had told me Emma did as a

  puppy. He was fascinated by the television. Emma apparently

  sat for hours as a puppy and watched television. He loved the

  plants in the garden, and even more, he loved to chew them up.

  'Emma when she was little was certainly no angel,' Paddy had

  told me.

  I know it sounds far-fetched, but I feel there is a part of

  Emma in Bracken and that somehow he is a continuation of

  her. I mentioned this to Don. 'Do you think that's silly?' I

  asked.

  'No,' he said, 'I know what you mean. But I know why you

  like it particularly. Bracken's a puppy and does all the things

  that Paddy told you Emma did. You never had Emma as a

  puppy and couldn't have seen her, and so now it's lovely to see

  what she was really like.'

  I52

  A day or two after the incident with Bracken and the rosebush,

  Don reminded me that it was November the Fifth the

  following weekend. My mind immediately went back years:

  Guy Fawkes Night, the smell of bonfires in the damp, chilly air,

  and, even though I had not been able to see them, the whoosh

  of rockets and cracklings in the sky.

  'One of the patients was telling me they're having a big

  bonfire up the road,' Don said. 'Do you think Kerensa's old

  enough to appreciate some little fireworks if we keep her well

  away? Not bangers and sort of thing, but the pretty ones,

  you know. . .'

  'Well,' I said, 'I'm sure she would, and she's old enough to

  hold a sparkler anyway. But in any case I wouldn't mind having

  some fireworks myself.'

  Don's eyes lit up-almost like Roman candles.

  'Would you really?'

  'Well, wouldn't you? Be honest!' I laughed. 'I bet you're

  itcliing to go and get some rockets and dying to let them off.'

  Don laughed as well. 'Ah ... now you conic to mention it, I

  wouldn't mind at all.'

  So that afternoon we all went ofl into Long Eaton where we

  knew there would be a better selection of fireworks thaii locally.

  But alas for our foresight. We had forgotten that Wednesday

  was early-closing in Long Eaton.

  'Would you credit it?' Don said as we arrived in the marketplace. '

  All the firework shops are closed.'

  'Well, there might just be somewhere open. Let's try up

  here.'

  We went up another shopping street.

  'It doesn't look very promising,' said Don as we got out of

  the car and went up the street. Kerensa took Emma's lead. But

  we were no luckier.

  'It doesn't look as if there are any firework shops up here,'

  I said.

  'No,' said Don, 'but there's a pet-shop open over there. Look.'

  And, sure enough, a strange bright oasis in a desert of unlit

  shop windows, there was a pet-shop. Even if we got no fireworks,

  I thought, Emma will think the journey worthwhile.

  We crossed the street and looked in the shop window. It was

  I53

  I

  Kerensa who first spotted something unusual-something,

  though we had no idea at the time, which was about to become

  a part of our home-life. Temporarily, I'm thankful to say.

  'Birdie,' said Kerensa. 'Look Daddy. Birdie.'

  'Oh yes,' Don said, 'look at that green bird there. I wonder

  what kind it is?'

  ' I don't know,' I said. 'I'm not really very up on birds, but

  it looks something like a parrot.'

  'Mm. Isn't it handsome?' said Don. 'I've always fancied

  having a parrot, you know.'

  I was astonished. This was something he had never mentioned

  to me. I laughed. 'Well, learn something new every day.

  You never told me.'

  'Yes,' he said, 'always had a fancy to own a parrot.' He

  looked at me, quite seriously. 'Shall we go in and have a look?'

  'If you like,' I said, rather dubiously.

  We went into the shop. Emma and I and Kerensa browsed

  round the shelves while Don hung his nose over the cage with

  the green bird in it. When we got back to him he was deep in

  conversation with an assistant.

  'No,' she was saying, 'it's not a parrot. It's a parakeet.'

  'Ah,' said Don, obviously not well-versed in the differences

  between parrots and parakeets. The assistant went on: 'He's

  very nice. He's only five months old.'

  'Oh. How big will he grow?'

  'He'll never be much bigger than he is now.'

  'They do talk, don't they?'

  'Oh yes, they talk like mad. They'll say absolutely anything.

  Especially that one.'

  I stood by silently watching this exchange, and noted that

  if this parakeet was going to be such a good talker he was

  obviously a late developer as he moved silently on his perch.

  But Don did not seem to draw the same conclusions.

  'How much is he?'

  'We've reduced him. Only twelve pounds.'

  'What's he been reduced for?' asked Don, becoming wary

  for the first
time.

  'Oh, because we've only got him for sale and there's no

  choice,' said the assistant. She said it all too promptly for my

  I54

  liking and her logic totally evaded me, but Don seemed almost

  satisfied.

  'There's nothing wrong with him, then?'

  'No, nothing at all. He's a very good buy at that price.'

  Don's doubts were dispelled, and I didn't interfere although

  I pri-%,ately thought that if you have always had a mad urge to

  own a parrot or parakeet it does not encourage sales resistance.

  Don looked over at me. 'What do you think, petal? Have we

  room for a parakeet as well?'

  'Well, I suppose one more creature more or less isn't going to

  make much difference.' I laughed and added, 'Don't tell Ming,

  though.'

  'Ah, I hadn't thought of Ming.' Then after a moment's

  thought: 'I suppose we could take him out of the room when

  Ming came in, and vice-versa?'

  'We could,' I said. 'But Don, I'm a bit frightened of birdswell

  that sort anyway. You'll have to look after him.'

  'They don't take any looking after at all, birds don't,' he said,

  by now taking his wallet out. And, with a strange gleam in his

  eye, he said: 'And we'll have him talking in no time!'

  So we didn't come home with a box of fireworks. Instead we

  had a parakeet in a cage which Don carried triumphantly into

  the house. He was like a man suddenly obsessed. He decided he

  would call this newest arrival Captain Flint, and I imagined

  him setting out for the pub like something out of Treasure

  Island. Kerensa was also thrilled and sat by the cage for the

  rest of the day pointing and announcing, 'Birdie.' But I am

  afraid that I, and, it later transpired, Emma, did not share their

  bol-indless enthusiasm for Captain Flint. It was the st~trt of a not

  very beautiful friendship.

  I55

  I

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WE DID MANAGE to buy some fireworks the following day.

  There was no time to go back to Long Eaton, so I did the

  rounds of the local shops and, despite leaving it late, came back

  with an exciting, brightly-coloured assortment. Don gazed

  approvingly, and picked each one up, examining it with a

  gleam of anticipation: Roman Candles, Golden Showers, Giant

  Catherine Wheels, a Mount Vesuvius and a Mount Etna (these

  turned out, disappointingly, to be different only in name)

  Silver Fountains, Peacock Tails, Bengal Lights, and plenty o~

  sparklers and rockets which, alone, had helped to cat up most

  of the remainder of the housekeeping money; but no Thunderflashes,

  jumping Crackers, jack-in-the-Boxes, or those terrible

  aerial whizzbangs that make Bonfire Night more like a version

  of trench warfare in your very own back garden.

  Kerensa was fascinated and thought (as she did about so

  many things) they all looked very edible. 'Sweeties,' she said,

  jumping up and down to get a better look. Although we tried to

  explain, before putting all the fireworks on a high shelf in the

  kitchen out of reach, that they were certainly not for eating,

  there were the inevitable tears, and we resigned ourselves to

  having to make more explanations before Saturday night.

  Captain Flint, by now, was installed in his cage by the

  window, and gazed out morosely, jigging about on his perch.

  Don went through the box of fireworks and occasionally

  turned to him to say: 'Pieces of Eight, eh Captain? Pieces of

  Eight ?'

  I was astonished at the way this bird had suddenly intruded

  on our lives. In less than twenty-four hours he had added his

  own dimension. 'What do you mean, Don? "Pieces of Eight"?'

  I said.

  'Well, you know,' he said, 'it's treasure. He'll learn to say

  it if I keep on.' He turned to the cage again. 'Pieces of Eight!

  I56

  Pieces of Eight!' The bird took no notice but this didn't deter

  Don, who, between the fireworks and his new acquisition,

  seemed somehow to have suddenly reverted to his schooldays.

  'Don,' I said, 'it sounds ridiculous.'

  'No, no,' he persisted, laughing. 'He's got to learn, and all

  parrots-I mean parakeets-ought to know "Pieces of Eight".

  Shouldn't they jim Laaa-ad... ?'

  'Well, make up your mind. Which is he, Captain Flint or

  jim Lad? You'll confuse him.'

  'Never,' said Don, 'never. He's an intelligent bird is that ...

  aren't you Cap'n?'

  I thought, well you could fool me, but said nothing.

  When Don turned to go back to the surgery I could have

  sworn there was a slight wooden-legged roll in his walk, and I

  imagined for a moment I saw a three-cornered hat perched on

  his head. Whatever had come over him?

  Would Captain Flint somehow take possession of Don? I

  hoped not. Some men raced pigeons in their spare time, collected

  stamps or tinkered with motor cars, and these I could

  have put up with, but having a parakeet as a rival was something

  different. I also hoped it would not prevent him from

  organizing the firework party. We invited Harold, Betty and

  their dog Zelda down for the weekend to help with the celebrations.

  They arrived on Friday, and we set about preparations for

  the next evening. Don, although not entirely ignoring Captain

  Flint, concentrated on his side of the organization such as collecting

  wood for the bonfire, and doing the rounds of the shops

  for the food and drink.

  'Sheila, are you going to make some bonfire toffee?' Betty

  asked me.

  'Oh,' I said, 'I suppose we ought to, to go with the baked

  potatoes.'

  It was something I had forgotten about, one of the traditional

  things about November the Fifth, and as soon as Betty mentioned

  it I remembered that years ago, before I was married,

  we used to have firework parties and that I still had a recipe for

  bonfire toffee written out in braille. I told Betty, and went to

  I57

  rummage among the cupboards upstairs where I knew it would

  be-somewhere. At last I discovered it among my files of braille

  now happily long unused and getting rather musty. I brought

  it down.

  'Here it is,' I said, handing it to her.

  'It's no good giving it to me,' Betty laughed. 'You'll have to

  do the reading-although I'll help with the cooking!'

  'Of course,' I said, 'I'm sorry.' I had forgotten once again

  that people who have always been sighted usually have no idea

  how to translate the raised patterns of dots that make up the

  braille alphabet. I began to run my fingers over the brown sheet

  of paper. It was more difficult than I had anticipated. But not

  because I had forgotten braille.

  'It's a long time since I made this recipe,' I said, 'but I must

  have used it quite a bit. The dots are nearly worn down into

  the paper.'

  At last I began to make sense of the recipe, and I started to

  laugh.

  'What's funny about bonfire toffee?' Betty said.

  'It's not the recipe, it's what happened when we made bonfire

  toffee one
year. I've just remembered.'

  My mind was already back in 1968, when Emma and I were

  sharing the little flat in Peel Street, in the middle of Nottingham,

  with my great friend Anita. She and I had first met when

  I went to evening classes for writers. At the time, I was trying

  to improve my stories and she was writing a novel. The flat was

  in a large, rather decayed Victorian house and the furniture

  was nothing very grand, to say the least. But it was home and

  I was happy there, partly because Anita was very practical and

  helped me enormously, but also very much because she never

  allowed me to think that I differed in any way from people in

  the sighted world.

  Anita had bought some fireworks for November the Fifth,

  and she had really done it very much for me: a good illustration

  of her attitude to me as a blind person. I, however, thought she

  had taken leave of her senses.

  'Anita,' I said, 'fireworks don't mean a thing to me.'

  'Oh, they will, they will,' she said in her no-nonsense Hull

  accent. 'I'll have a little bonfire out the back, and the smell's

  I58

  gorgeous, you know that, and I'll be able to tell you all about

  the colours and the marvellous patterns the fireworks make.

  You'll enjoy it, you really will. And we'll make some bonfire

  toffee, although we'll have to get a recipe for that from somewhere.'

  I had agreed, with reservations. Not that there would have

  been much point in objecting because Anita, once set on a

  course, was well nigh unstoppable.

  When we got back from work the following evening, Anita

  set about making the toffee. I had found someone in my office

  who knew how to make it and had put the recipe into braille,

  and I read it to Anita who, in turn, had copied it down.

  But I heard her getting exasperated as she stood at the stove

  and I couldn't understand why, because the smell was quite

  delicious. 'Sheila,' she said at last, 'are you sure you haven't left

  anything out of this recipe ?'

  'No, positive I haven't.'

  'Well, it's terrible. It won't set. It's all sloshy.'

  I heard further sighs and groans, accompanied by mysterious

  shaking sounds of the saucepan on the stove. Finally Anita said,