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
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: