rolling, rolling down somewhere. Luckily it could not have been
very far, because when I landed at the bottom I was still in one
piece. I sat up. Don came running.
'Are you all right?'
'Yes. What happened?' I said.
'There's a grassy bank there, didn't you see it?'
'No. What grassy bank?' I looked back. It all looked just
level grass to me.
Don helped me to my feet, 'Come on, walk up and down it.'
Holding his hand, I put my feet out gingerly. Yes, the ground
did go up steeply. I walked up with him and then, on my own,
down again, But however much I walked up and down the
bank, I could not actually see the incline. It was rather disturb-~ing.
I could get the idea much better if I closed my eyes than I
could by looking at it.
'You'll have to be careful,' said Don, 'at least until you can
weigh up this sort of thing.'
It is strange how vision gives you the distance and depth of
things, but that information has to be processed, as in a computer,
by the mind. This process of assessment comes with
experience, and to someone like me had to be learned. It was
another odd revelation. I had expected. that when I could see
I would be able to see everything, immediately. I had not
imagined I would be unable to judge how high a step was, or
that the ground inclined one way or the other.
'It was a lot safer with Emma,' I called to Don when we had
resumed our walk.
'Well, take my arm.'
'No, I'd rather not,' I said. I was not ungrateful but I knew
24
~4
I had to learn on my own. 'But you can shout if you think I'm
going to walk into anything. . . . I can't go back to having
Emma on harness again, can I?'
At the mention of her name, Emma, who was a few yards
ahead, looked up. She had obviously found something interesting
at the bottom of a tree and had started digging a hole. Then
I saw her throw herself up in the air and roll on the floor.
'Emma!' I heard Don shout, 'NO!'
I stood there in amazement. 'What's the matter? What's she
doing?'
He rushed up to her, grabbed her by the collar and started to
drag her away from the tree.
'Oh dear. It's not too bad,' he said. 'Have you brought any
paper hankies?'
I delved in my handbag and gave him a wad of tissues.
'What's the matter? What did she do? Has she hurt herself?'
Then Don started laughing. 'No, nothing like that. Come
and have a look.'
I looked, and saw-but not only saw when I got closerwhat
had happened.
Emma's coat was a subtly different shade of brown. But there
was nothing subtle about her aroma. She had found a cow-pat
and rolled in it.
'I think we can get most of it off,' said Don.
'Oh, that's what she was doing when she was rolling.'
'Yes. Don't you remember that picnic we went on and she
did the same thing?'
I remembered all too well. just after we had first met, Don
had taken me on a picnic in Charnwood Forest and Emma had
covered herself, but not in glory, and I had then discovered to
my relief that Don is a kind and tolerant man.
Then, as now, it had been impossible not to be very conscious
of Emma in the back of the car, with the exception that
on this occasion I could actually see how unlike her usual, welltrained
guide-dog self she looked. At the same time I thought:
I don't care if she does roll in cow-pats and smells like a farmyard.
I still love her. And as we drove back, what Monday had
in store for that bedraggled, and now sleeping, figure on the
back seat seemed an unbearably long way away.
25
i
I)
CHAPTER TWO
M 0 N D A Y B R 0 U G H T A bright, hazy, autumnal morning; but it
was not as autumnal as I was feeling inside. I was tight with
anxiety, and all sorts of other feelings had started when Emma
had got out of her basket, stretched, and looked up at me with
those lovely, eager eyes, and I patted her, said "Morning,
Emma,' and felt a lump in my throat.
'Shall I dial the number for you?' asked Don. He understood,
although neither of us had mentioned the matter, that I needed
encouragement and was trying to put off the actual moment of
ringing Guide-Dogs.
'No, I'll do it,' I said, putting on a brave face, which I knew,
by Don's look, had not taken him in for a moment. 'You go and
read the paper.'
'All right, petal.' He smiled and patted my arm, then went
off into the other room with the paper.
I went to the phone and looked at it for a moment. It was no
good putting it off. I picked up the receiver and started dialling.
They answered almost immediately, and so quickly that I
heard the girl say, 'Guide-Dogs for the Blind . . .' And then
again, slightly impatiently when I said nothing, 'Guide-Dogs
for the Blind . . .' I thought: I could put the phone down now.
Her voice somehow sounded like an invitation to a turning in
my life I did not want to take.
But I said, 'Can I speak to Mr Wright, please?'
There was a pause and some clicks, and then I heard Mr
Wright. Again I had the impulse to abandon the whole idea, to
run away, to collect Emma and disappear and not tell them
anything. But, in a voice that did not seem to belong to me, I
heard myself saying: 'Sheila Hocken speaking . and felt my
heart thumping as he replied.
'Oh Mrs Hocken. Good morning. Let's see ... Emma, isn't
it?'
26
d
No going back now.
'Er ... yes.'
'Well, what can we do for you?'
'Er ... well, she's getting on ... she's nearly eleven It
was not what I had meant to say. The words hung there in the
wires for a moment, because I still could not bring myself to the
point. My hand was trembling and I reached with the other for
my cigarettes.
Distantly, and with an ominously brisk and business-like
overtone, or so it seemed, Mr Wright replied: 'You're worried
about her age?'
' Mm ... yes and no . I thought ... I'd just tell you. She's
due for retirement fairly soon, I suppose.'
' Well, I'd better have a look at her file.' There was a pause
and I lit another cigarette, having stubbed the previous one
halfway down. I heard him pick up his receiver again.
6 She was working very well on our last report. I'm sure there's
no question of her retiring yet awhile.'
I decided it was no good beating about the bush.
'Mr Wright. . . it's not just her age I want to tell you about.
I've just had an operation on my eyes
now .... 5
It all came out in a rush, and there really was no going back
now.
'How absolutely marvellous,' said the voice at the other end,
somehow unexpectedly delighted. 'Congratulations. That really
is wonderful-'
But I am afraid I cut off his congratulations.
'Yes, it's unbelievable,' I said. 'But what about Emma?'
There was a silence, then a tone of slight surprise.
'I don't quite follow ... what about Emma?'
'Well, I don't need to use her as a guide-dog any more. I
thought ... you'll want her back-you're not having her, you
know.'
There was another silence from the other end, and then,
while I stubbed out my cigarette and wanted to hang up without
hearing what he had to say, there was a laugh from Mr
~Vright.
'Whatever gave you that idea, Mrs Hocken? Of course we
and I can see
27
A~
shan't want Emma back. She's your dog. She can retire, and
you can take her for walks instead of the other way round.'
I didn't say anything for a moment, and once again my eyes
could not see-but only because they were full of tears.
I heard Mr Wright saying, 'Mrs Hocken ... are you there?'
'Yes,' I said faintly.
'Now,' he said consolingly, 'it really wouldn't be fair to take
Emma from you, would it? We don't do that, you know. You
go and enjoy yourself... I'm going straight away to cross
Emma off our list. And congratulations again. It's wonderful.'
Wonderful! It certainly was. Mr Wright was talking about
my sight, but I was thinking about Emma. Don came out of the
other room and didn't even say 'I told you so.' We said nothing,
just hugged in this huge and marvellous relief. And while we
stood there embracing, I felt a cold nose on my leg and heard
the swish of a tail. Emma looked up at us both, eyes bright,
wagging her tail furiously.
She knew, too.
Later that day there was a telephone call from George Miller,
the blind newspaper reporter through whom I had originally
met Don. He had heard about my operation and wanted to put
a story in the local paper.
'I'd rather you didn't,' I said.
'Oh, come on, Sheila, it's a great bit of news. Let me use it.'
'George, I promise I will let you use it, but not just yet.'
'Well, why not?'
To be honest, I really couldn't say why not. I think possibly I
was a little worried. There was so much I had suddenly gained,
and I didn't want to lose it. I think I was afraid that if I made it
public, perhaps it would go. Everything was so precious and
perhaps it was a silly idea on my part, but I promised George
that if he gave me three months I would come back to him, and
then he could put a story in the local paper.
In the event, the three months did not elapse. He rang up
again a week or two later and persuaded us to go on his Radio
Nottingham programme, and not long after that he came round
to visit us and discuss the programme.
It was marvellous to see him. I had known him for ten years,
28
but had never actually seen him before. And-as I came to
realize more and more-as with other people I had known only
by their voices and general sense of presence, he was so different
from how I had imagined him. The only way I can explain this
is to compare how someone you have known as a radio voice
can sometimes be totally and wildly different if you see them on
television. It was like this with George, only more so. I had
guessed that he was not very tall and rather plump. But before
I really had time to notice how different he was from my
original image of him, I had a shock.
It was so patently obvious by looking at George that he could
not see: something about the eyes and the expression on the
face. That was a deep shock because I had heard people say
that you could always tell if someone was blind, but I had never
really believed them. 'How could they know?' I had always
asked myself. 'We may be blind, but we have eyes and the
same features as anyone else.' I would never accept the idea
and it was a quite horrible thought to me. But then, at the
moment of looking at George for the first time, there was the
proof, both upsetting and inescapable. It really was obvious
that he just could not see.
Don followed George through the door. 'Are you all right,
old lad?' he said. 'Let me take your coat.'
I realized then that I was just standing there, staring at him.
'Sorry George,' I said. 'Let me take your coat.' I took it from
him and went to hang it up.
'I'll get you a drink, George,' Don said. 'What'll you have?'
'Oh, a glass of beer'll do me,' he said.
I was still looking at him, fascinated, but realized I ought to
do something. 'Come and sit down, George,' I said.
I didn't want to grab him and drag him to a chair; I wanted
to make it least embarrassing for him, just as I would have
wanted it to be when I was blind. I said, 'This way, George.'
And he followed my voice.
'It's to the right of the door, just round the back. That's
right.' I saw him feeling for the seat, and then turn round and
sit on it.
'Well, now then, kid, how are you keeping?' George always
called me that. He always regarded me as his kid sister.
29
'Oh, I'm fine, George. On top of the world.'
'You'll do this programme, you and Don?'
'We'd love to.'
Exactly ten years before, George had started a programme on
Radio Nottingham for blind people, called Wednesday Club. I
had been on the very first programme, in those dark days, so
many years ago, and for his tenth anniversary of first going on
the air he wanted me on again, even though I was no longer in
the blind community.
'You'll come on as well, won't you, Don?' he said as he heard
Don come in from the kitchen with a glass of beer.
'Oh, I will George, I said I would.'
'Great stuff, lad.'
'Here's your beer, George, on the table.'
I watched as George felt for the table edge and then felt
round for his glass of beer.
'Cheers!' George turned towards me but he didn't actually
look at me. 'Where's my Emma ?'he said, putting his glass down.
'She's in front of you, George.'
'Come on, my old girl, let's have a fuss.' George put his hand
down, and Emma instinctively moved towards him and snuffled
her nose into his hand, wagging her tail furiously.
'Now then, old girl. How are you? You're having an easy life
of it these days, aren't you?'
'George, watch out! Ming's just about to get on your back.'
'Glad you warned me,' he said as Ming, one of my Siamese
cats, landed on his shoulders. Animals seemed to collect round
George like bees round the honeypot, perhaps because they
instinctively knew he could not see and sought bodily contact.
I don't know why it was, but it seems to happen with blind
people, certainly as far as my animals are concerned.
'Well,' said George, untroubled by Ming's attentions and
still stroking Emma, 'what's it like being in the visual world?'
His voice was quite matter-of-fact. He might have been discussing
the football results. There
was not a hint of envy in the
question, just mild curiosity.
I didn't know how to reply, but I said, 'George, it's marvellous,
absolutely fantastic. I don't know how to describe it.'
30
only then did George seem to look away from me with the
shadow of a wistful expression passing over his face, as if he was
on the other side of a gulf from me. It made me feel terrible.
How could I really say what it was like?
'Try and tell me, kid,' George said. 'It would be nice to hear
from somebody like you.' I thought that was very brave, and
also sad, and I still could not say anything because coming from
me, who knew what it was like to be blind, a description of the
world he could never know would, I am certain, have been
upsetting in a way a sighted person's description could never be.
So all I said was: 'Well, George, it's marvellous. Sitting here
and looking at everything in the room. just that.' And even
then I thought I might have said too much for him. Then Don
stepped in and rescued me.
'You haven't seen the kitchen since we did it up, have you?'
he said.
'Oh, that's a coincidence,' said George. 'I'm having my
kitchen done. Let's have a look round and see if you've got any
new ideas.'
A 'look round' to George, and any other blind person, really
means a feel, or, as we call it in the blind world, a 'fleck'. As I
used to call it, that is.
I went with them into the kitchen and saw George feeling
round walls and cupboards and windows. When he got to the
back door, his hands touched our new louvre window.
'What's this, what's this, Don?' he asked, excitedly feeling all
the different layers of glass.
'It's a louvre window,' said Don. 'It's really handy for
ventilation. You ought to have one. Feel down this side. Look,
feel the handles.'
George felt along the side of the door, felt the handles and
experimentally pulled and pushed them to make the windows
open and close.
'Fantastic,' he said finally. 'I've never seen one of these
before.'
When you cannot see, things such as this are all about you
but you are not aware of them. And there are so many things
immediately around that even the most attentive sighted person