again and I was apprehensive as I sat there, Kerensa on my
lap, getting nearer and nearer home. What would Emma think?
I was bringing a stranger into the house. Somebody that Emma
didn't know. Somebody that would need a lot of my attention,
a lot of my time. I felt a traitor. I felt, after all Emma had meant
to me and still meant now she was twelve, as if I was somehow
doing wrong. It may sound incredible, but I didn't want to take
the baby home. It was as if I was pushing Emma aside for
something else, something better. I didn't know what to do.
And when you have a baby, you don't love it instantly-I didn't
76
anyway, and I am sure many mothers feel like this. The baby,
much as I wanted her, was a stranger, someone I had to get to
know and love. And at that time in the ambulance, Emma
meant far more to me than a baby could.
When we got to the house, I asked the ambulance driver if he
would mind carrying Kerensa in for me. At least if he did that
Emma would not be put off by me actually carrying a stranger,
and we could say hello to each other before she had to accept
the new being. And that is how it was. The door opened,
and there was that loving chocolate-brown shape waiting, tail
wagging and eyes saying, 'Here you are. Where have you been?
What have you been doing?' I bent down to her. 'Hello,
sausage,' I said, and she gave snuffles of delight as the ambulance
driver slipped in behind me and handed the baby to Don.
In fact, I needn't have worried about Emma accepting the
baby. The older Kerensa grew, the more Emma took her as
truly a part of the family. At the same time.I made sure that, in
Emma's thoughts at least, I made more of her than the baby.
She got far more titbits than she had ever done before: the
long-standing rule had to go by the board, although I still had
to be careful that she didn't put on too much weight. But it
didn't seem fair to Emma to see this new little creature being
fed all the time and for her to get nothing. So she got extra
bowls of milk, and extra biscuits. Also, and more comically,
squeaky rubber toys sent as gifts to Kerensa inevitably ended
up, sooner or later, in Emma's paws.
Ming, on the other hand, was rather jealous of Kerensa when
she first arrived. So every time I fed the baby, Ming had to
come and sit on my knee. With her there and Emma at my feet,
I had more than enough to cope with. But all the animals came
to accept Kerensa eventually. More than that, in time, Emma
quite obviously became fond of Kerensa. I don't think she
would have liked me to know that, but one day I caught her out.
Kerensa was in her pram outside the back door and Emma was
pottering about the garden. Someone came round to the back
of the house and, instead of coming to the door and knocking,
they stopped to speak to Kerensa. I have never seen Emma
react so quickly. She raced from the bottom of the garden,
barking furiously. She got to the pram, hackles raised, and-so
77
unlike her normal sedate self-actually snarled at the woman
who was bending over the pram. She, in turn, was so frightened
she took offimmediately in the direction of the gate. Emma had
given the game away. She really cared for Kerensa!
Later, Emma suddenly developed an even closer relationship
with Kerensa. It coincided precisely with the time that Kerensa
was old enough to sit and eat biscuits on her own. Emma
discovered immediately that nothing would have been easier
than to take a biscuit out of that little hand. But to give Emma
her due, greedy as she may be, she would never do that. She
used to sit and look furtively at Kerensa, occasionally looking
away to pretend that she was not in the slightest bit interested.
And, if she happened to catch my eye, a look would spread
over her face that suggested she was successfully grappling with
the temptations of Satan himself. I almost began to think I
could see a halo beginning to form over those velvety brown
ears.
I believe that Kerensa must, from the beginning, have
thought that Emma was a part of me, because we were always
together. When she started to talk I was not called 'Mummy'.
I was called 'Emma'. And Emma was called 'Emma' and most
other things, too. When she was a young baby and I had to get
up and feed her in the middle of the night, Emma came too and
watched all the proceedings. It was as if she had to get up. I
don't think she was particularly keen on being dragged out of
her basket in the small hours, but if I was doing it, then she
considered it her duty as well. No doubt in time she could have
told me how to make a bottle and change a nappy.
And whenever Kerensa went out in the pram, Emma
naturally went too. It was surprising how quickly she adapted
to the fact that there was a pram in front of me. Emma elected
to keep on the left side and walk a bit out from the pram. At
these times it was Kerensa I felt sorry for, however. I still
hadn't got the hang of going up and down kerbs, and having a
pram to push made it all the more difficult. Often I wouldn't
anticipate a kerb, the pram would leap down in front of me,
Kerensa would get a shaking and Emma would look at me as if
to say, 'Do be careful.'
Still, Kerensa survived. I wish I could say that in the early
78
',I
part Of 1977 we were as happy about another, more serious,
aspect of her existence. From the moment I knew I was
pregnant I had thought about it; so had Don, although he
rarely said anything about it. Would our baby inherit the family
eye defect that had so altered the lives of my mother, my father,
my brother and myself? I was convinced in an odd wayperhaps
it all went back to Alasdair Macdonald and the circumstances
of his strange prophecy-that any baby I had
would have perfect sight. But I knew Don was worried. I also
knew that if I had not made optimism my defence, I would
have been as worried as he was.
There was no way of telling, short of a thorough examination,
whether, even if her vision seemed right at the outset, it would
remain so. We had to wait six weeks before Mr Shearing, the
specialist who had performed my operation and given me sight,
could make that examination.
One day his secretary rang to say that Mr Shearing would
see Kerensa the following Tuesday. As I put the phone down I
remembered the words of this kind and understanding specialist
when he had said he would operate on me: 'I don't work
miracles, lassie.'
I knew that Don, at least, would be hoping for nothing short of
a miracle on that next Tuesday.
79
CHAPTER SEVEN
OVER THE INTERVENING days Don became progressively
quieter, strangely withdrawn, and tense; not at all his easygoing
and cheerful self. It was as if there was a spring inside
him, being wound up tighter and tighter, nearly to breakingpoint.
I tried talking to him about his anxiety, but it was no good. I
tried getting his mind away from thoughts of Kerensa's eyesight,
getting him to talk about his painting, the hobby which
took up most of his spare time, but that was of no use either. I
knew, equally, that my telling him I felt convinced she would
have perfect vision would also be useless. All attempts at
conversation led inevitably back to the only certainty he would
entertain: the uncertainty of Kerensa's ability to see, and the
fact that Mr Shearing would dispel all doubts-one way or
another.
It was like living with someone who was incessantly spinning
a coin in his mind, and when Tuesday came I was relieved even
at the mere action of us all getting in the car for the journey. I
was beyond thinking of the outcome, or its possible implications.
Emma curled up on her seat and went to sleep. I had Kerensa
in my arms. We put a bottle in my bag in case she was upset by
Mr Shearing looking at her eyes.
As we went along I looked out of the window and saw the
trees and fields beside the motorway. Even though they were
leafless and bleak they held some sort of magic for me because,
in reverse, this was the journey I had made coming back from
months later it still made my heart beat faster to go on that
same journey. But there was one great difference: this time we
went along in almost complete silence.
At last we reached Mr Shearing's. 'I'm glad he likes Emma,'
I said to Don as we got out of the car and I put her lead on.
8o
i
'There aren't many specialists who would let a dog in their
surgery, are there?'
'No,' said Don.
'I mean, he's always so pleased to see Emma, isn't he? I'm
sure he'd be disappointed if we didn't bring her.'
'Yes, I expect he would,' said Don.
I remembered so well that strangely clean and antiseptic
smell mixed with floor polish. I decided not to bother trying to
make conversation. We sat in the waiting-room. Kerensa was
on my knee and Emma sat at my feet. I tried to lose myself in
the open fire burning in a huge fireplace which took up almost
a quarter of the room. I watched the flames and was fascinated.
I loved watching and making pictures in the fire, and imagining
all sorts of things being there.
I came out of my dream when the door opened and Mr
Shearing came in, greeting me as he always had: 'Hello lassie,
hello there. Come on in.'
At that moment Don suddenly came across the waiting-room
and took Kerensa off my lap. I knew how he felt: somehow if he
held her, everything would be all right. Emma and I followed
him into the surgery. Don hardly said a word to Mr Shearing.
'I see Emma's well,' said Mr Shearing over his shoulder; and,
when we were all in the surgery: 'Now, let's have a look at this
new little bundle.'
Don held tightly on to Kerensa as Mr Shearing took his
various instruments and started peering into her eyes. Don was
trembling and looked desperately apprehensive. I sat looking
across at him, wanting to say, 'Don't worry, I know she'll be all
right-because we love each other. Perhaps she won't be able
to see, but we would still love each other and any difficulties
can be surmounted that way.'
'Hum,' Mr Shearing kept saying infuriatingly. 'Hum ...
yes ... hm . . .' Apart from that there was a silence in which I
could hear him breathing, and the clock ticking, and an
occasional sound from Kerensa.
'Hmm . . .' said Mr Shearing again. 'Well, you look a nice,
healthy little girl.' And there was a further silence as he went
over and put his instruments away.
Don cleared his throat. 'What's the verdict?' I had never
8I
heard his voice tremble like that before. Mr Shearing came
back across the room and patted Don on the shoulder. Then he
smiled. 'It's all right, laddie,' he said. 'She'll be all right. She's
got away with it.'
Instantly Don's face was a sunburst of relief, happiness and
pride, all at once. 'Thank God,' he said. 'Thank you lir
Shearing. Isn't it wqnderful?'
'I knew she would be able to see,' I said. 'I just did. Oh,
thank you Mr Shearing.'
'Ah well ... you're both looking well. You've got no troubles
with that little girl.'
It was the way he always, almost self-consciously, brushed
aside any thanks. I was surprised he didn't start talking about
Nottingham Forest Football Club, as he had when I thanked
him after my operation. Instead he turned his attention to
Emma, bent down, and patted her.
'Well, how are you, old girl? How's retirement suiting you?
Has she been taking you out for walks? It looks as if she's been
feeding you well, anyway, lass.' Then he looked up at me.
'How are the contact lenses going, lassie?'
'Oh, marvellous. I'd never go back to glasses.'
'Good. I wondered if you'd get on all right with those soft
contact lenses.'
We stood there for a moment saying goodbye on the
pavement and I realized, much as I had been convinced that
everything would turn out for the best, the sun was confirmation
of our relief. At the same time, I thought: And it will never go
dark for Kerensa. At that moment, perversely, she began to cry.
In the weeks that followed the sense of relief changed into
something quite different, something that could never have
existed when all I had was a dogged private conviction that
Kerensa would be able to see properly. Sight to me was like an
extra faculty that had suddenly been grafted on to my being;
now Kerensa's sight brought another dimension. I had not had
a sighted childhood, but now I was able to share hers and it was
an utterly joyful experience.
It gave me yet another fresh view of the importance of sight,
its part in discovery for a child and in the child's growing
82
awareness of everything in the world around. Sight-as I had
only recently learnt, as an adult-augmented touch and smell
and hearing, but only through sight were most new experiences
exciting and beautiful. When I give Kerensa a biscuit, she feels
it, she smells it, she shakes it to see if it will rattle like a toy; but
above all, before she bites it, she looks at it so that every piece of
information about that biscuit is stored in her brain.
I know, of course, part of the excitement of coming into a new
world visually, but how much more exciting it must be for a
baby. Every sound, every smell, every touch-they are all new
and have to be investigated visually. There are so many things,
I realize now more than ever, that a blind child will miss in life,
and so much education is lost because the visual learning is cut
off. I will never forget the pleasure I saw on Kerensa's face
when she first saw a b
ird fly over her in her pram. It was a
miracle to her. As a baby, I would never have seen such a thing.
And that is why I realize now that birds, apart from their
sounds, had no place in my consciousness before I could see. I
had no direct means of knowing they fly about the sky, or
perch in trees, or hop on the lawn. Kerensa knows from the
beginning, just as she will know from the beginning that every
tree is different and that grass is not simply green, but every
shade of green. I hope I shall be able to bring her up in a way
that ensures she never loses that first fascination with life, and,
particularly, the appreciation of the visual side of life.
Bringing up Kerensa intrigued me and occupied me most of
my time, especially at the crawling stage-as I need tell no
parent-although for me there was an extra interest in the way
Emma dealt with this now-mobile object at her own eye level.
She was very patient, even when, before I had got the message
across that it was not allowed, her tail and cars were used as
painful handgrips to an unsteady standing position. Apart from
all this, I was also finding time to write a book about Emma and
myself. And I had other ambitions as well.
I had always wanted a cattery. Not (at first, anyway) a
commercial boarding cattery, but a place where I could look
after the kittens of my own Siamese cats which I had sold to
people, to make sure that they would come back and be well
looked after when their owners had to go away. Ming, still as
83
wise and mischievous as ever, was and still is with me, joined by
Hera, a Red Point, and Rahny, a Tortie Point and, from time
to time, their offspring, so quite a variety of colours were
stalking about the house.
When I was able to see, I was appalled at some of the catteries
I went to. I would not have trusted them with a pet goldfish, let
alone my Siamese cats. One in particular left a deep and black
impression on my mind. The cats were kept in tiny cages, about
the size of rabbit hutches, perhaps two foot by two to be
generous. They were lined along the wall of a long shed,
stacked one on top of the other. When I went in there and saw