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
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,