cannot tell you about everything. To a sighted person a mere
3I
glance interprets everything about something like a louvre
window, but to a blind person it has to be explained: its function
-how it lets the condensation out, but doesn't let the cold air
in-and how it works in general and can be adjusted to suit
different conditions. Blind people not only want to know that,
but they also want to know how it feels when it's open, when it's
closed and when it's half closed-something that a sighted
person can assimilate in two seconds just by looking.
When we came out of the kitchen George still seemed in no
hurry to talk about his forthcoming programme. Instead we sat
and chatted.
'Do you remember those days when you used to ring me, our
kid?' he said.
'I do, George.'
'We had some good times.' He chuckled, and took another
pull of his beer. 'Do you remember the Opticon?'
The Opticon? I thought. Then it came back, just as George
sensed in the brief silence that I had not remembered.
'I was going to buy you one, Sheila, don't you remember?'
Don said.
'Of course,' I said. 'The tactile reading machine.'
'That's it.'
'Have you got one yet, George?'
He laughed. 'No . . . I'm still saving!'
'Are they still as expensive?'
'About two thousand quid.'
I remembered the night that George had rung me, about six
months before the operation. He had been so excited. 'Listen,
Sheila ... I've got this terrific news. There's an incredible
machine just been invented by an American. It's called the
Opticon. It translates all the visual images into tactile images
that you can feel. You can read anything with it. Can you
imagine... ?' I had, in an instant, been able to imagine and
realized the new, undreamt-of possibilities for blind people,
George and myself included. In an instant I had become as
excited as he was.
'Oh, George! Where can we get one from? What do we do?'
'Ah. It's not as simple as that.' He calmed down a bit and
told me about the enormous cost of the machines. They were
32
only in the experimental stage, and there were only one or two
in Britain.
All very dampening, of course. But the basic idea remained: a
marvellous new machine that could alter the life of any blind
person. When Don came in that evening I had told him,
pouring out enthusiasm to him just as George had to me over
the telephone. Don listened and said immediately, and with no
n-iore deliberation than if he had been about to order a pound
of tea, 'We'll have one!'
'But Don,' I said, 'where are we going to get two thousand
pounds from?'
'Never mind the money.'
'And don't forget the operation,' I said. By now I had become
cautious, and vaguely wondered if Don was thinking of rushing
out and robbing a bank.
'Ah, the operation ... yes,' said Don thoughtfully. 'Well, I
suppose we ought to wait to see how it goes.' He had always
been reluctant to discuss what might happen if I got sight. And
even more, if the operation did not prove a success. So the
subject was dropped. But later that evening Don suddenly said,
'I tell you what. If the operation's a success, I'll buy you a
colour TV. And if not I'll buy you an Opticon.'
George brought back the entire memory of that evening,
sitting there in the same room where those words had been
spoken and those promises made-and sitting,. now, next to a
new colour television set!
When, finally, we had discussed details of the Radio Nottingham
programme and George had gone, I reflected,with shame
that in the presence of blind people I was uneasy. I still am.
Not because I do not know what to do or that I am afraid of
blindness, like an ordinary sighted person, but it makes me feel
guilty: guilty that I have sight while people like George have
not. I think constantly of all those other friends who are still
left behind on the other side of that dark wall. And my shouting
to them and telling them how wonderful it is on this side does
not relieve the guilt nor, more importantly, do them any good.
The Radio Nottingham programme duly went out and George
had a story printed in the local paper, and from that moment
33
things began to happen. One of the very first exciting things was
that Robin Brightwell of the BBC 2 Horizon programme rang
Me.
'I'm producing a programme,' he told me, 'about blind
people, but mainly blind children, and I thought it would be a
good idea to have you, maybe at the beginning of the programme,
to say what it's like to have your sight restored and
make a really good opening. How do you feel about it?'
I was thrilled and flattered and agreed immediately, but I
said, 'You'll want Emma in as well, won't you?'
'Oh, well, yes, of course,' he said, after some hesitation.
So it was arranged that he would come up and see us on a
Sunday in January so that we could discuss the filming arrangements.
I remember that Sunday so vividly because, apart from
anything else, it started to snow. 'It's snowing!' Don had called
out, and I had immediately rushed into the garden. It was so
beautiful, and something else I had never seen before. I watched
the white flakes floating down from the sky and landing on my
coat, stopping for a while, and then slowly melting away.
'What are you up to out there?' Don shouted from the
kitchen window.
'I'm watching the snow. Isn't it incredible?'
'Well, if you say so,' he laughed. 'But it's a lot nicer from in
here. You'll freeze.'
'No,' I said. 'It's so lovely out here, and I can't feel the cold.'
I felt I wanted to stay there all day, holding my head up to the
sky which was whirling with snowflakes, drifting and swirling
down. I saw that when they reached the grass they alighted so
gently, as if someone was putting them there one by one. It
wasn't at all like rain, which is very aggressive. It was as if each
had wings.
Eventually I went inside to wait for Robin Brightwell to
arrive, but I made sure that I was always able to see out of a
window and watch the snowflakes. I noticed that as the snow
began to settle and everything turned white, it all seemed to
look brighter and cleaner and there were new reflections inside
the house. This might appear very ordinary and unremarkable
to anyone used to the sight of snow, but it was an astonishing
revelation to me.
34
Robin Brightwell was just how I expected a television
producer to be: tall, dark, with a beard, and intelligent-looking.
We sat and discussed the programme.
'We'd like to come down on Tuesday, if that's all right with
you,' he said.
gyes, fine. What have you got in mind for the filming?'
'Well, I think we'd like to film you on a railway station, and
; possibly in a local shop. I remember you saying on the broadcast
that often you can't relate to objects: you're able to see an
object, but not able to identify what it actually is until you've
touched it. Perhaps we might be able to put that idea over on
film.'
'There's a little shop round the corner,' I told him, 'which
would do very well for that. It's a hardware shop and has lots
and lots of different things in it, and some of them I know I
can't identify.' We laughed, and when Robin had walked
round the corner with me and seen the shop he agreed that it
would be just the place.
The following Tuesday the production team were due at
8.3o am.
'What shall I wear?' I said to Don. 'What do you think I look
slimmest in?' Once I was able to see, I had been able to judge
my figure against other women's, and I had had to admit to
myself that I could do with being a bit slimmer, I had also
learnt that different colours could alter how slim or otherwise
you looked.
I think you ought to wear your navy-blue dress,' said Don.
Right,' I said. 'That does make me look a bit slimmer.'
As I said that I realized once again how, in all sorts of
unpredictable ways, my world and a whole lot of attitudes had
changed with vision. Before, I think I would have chosen something
that I felt comfortable in, something made of material of
which I liked the feel. Now those considerations no longer came
into it. No matter how uncomfortable I might feel, I had to look
my best. I don't know which value is right, but I do know that
visual judgements had by now completely taken over the way I
dressed.
When 8.30 came and the bell rang at the front door I
expected Robin and possibly two or three other people, but
35
I was not prepared for the army assembled on my doorstep!
Robin came in, followed by someone else, followed by someone
else and so on, until a crowd of football-match proportions was
inside the house. Robin introduced them all: the assistant
producer, the cameraman, the photographer, the sound man
... and so on.
'Do you mean to tell me that it takes all of you to make a
film?' I asked.
'Well,' said Robin, 'it does-but we're really short-staffed.'
He sounded a little put out.
Then started the very gruelling, down-to-earth business of
making a film. After that day I knew I never wanted to be a
film star-not that I would ever have the opportunity. I had
never before realized what a tedious and boring business
film-making is.
'We've fixed up to film at the local station, with British
Rail's co-operation,' said Robin. 'We want to film you buying
a ticket and then, on the train, what you're looking at out of
the window. We'll do the wild tracks later.'
'Wild tracks?' I asked. 'What are those?'
'Oh, soundtracks that you fit to the film afterwards.'
Off we went to the station, and Robin told me that if I saw
anything I was not quite sure about or obstacles that I did not
recognize immediately, I was to tell him. This was because at
that time I was still very much learning to translate the identity
of objects into my mind through sight alone. When we got on
to the platform I saw some red things hanging on a wall and
told him about them.
'Fire-buckets,' he said. 'Haven't you come across those
before ?'
'No, I haven't been on many trains, I must admit,' I said.
'At least, not since I've been able to see.'
We went to the ticket office, Emma trotting obediently
beside me, and I bought my ticket. Not once, however, but
about five times. On each occasion but the last something went
wrong: 'The lighting's not right-cut!' or: 'Cut-can you do it
again? Somebody else came into shot.' Only Emma seemed
unperturbed.
We heard the train approaching. 'Come on, everybody,'
36
said Robin, 'we've only got a thirty-second stop.' Apparently
British Rail had organized a special stop just for our benefit,
and had agreed we could hold the train up for precisely thirty
seconds. I was amazed. I just could not see how we could all
get aboard in that time: cameramen, soundmen, with all their
gadgets and lighting equipment, and everyone trailing yards of
cable. I wished I'd had a camera myself and could have filmed
the pantomime of them all trying to bundle through the same
door all at once.
But we made it-well, at least, the train did not go without
anyone!
Once on board, everything I did was filmed over and over
again. Either the lighting was wrong, or somebody got in the
way, or Emma looked in the wrong direction at the wrong
moment, or I did the wrong thing.
By the time we had finished with British Rail and were ready
for the ironmonger's shop, I was exhausted. But a repetition of
the previous minor dramas was to follow. Robin set up everything
inside the shop, tried to make sure that nobody else came
'I want to see you coming up to the door, walking in with
Emma, going up to the counter, having a look round, and
telling us what you see-including anything you can't identify
straight away. Right, off we go. Count ten, and come in.'
Emma and I stood outside the door, I counted ten, and we
walked in.
'No, no. That wasn't right.'
'Why? What did I do wrong?'
'We could see you standing there. You'll have to go further
back, up the shop window a bit before you approach.'
The shop was in a small block in the middle of a council
estate with stretches of grass planted here and there. The ironmonger
was situated on the edge of one of these stretches of
grass. What I had not realized, going in my normal way along
the pavement, was that there was a drop from the shop to the
grass on the side. I went outside again, and stood half way
along the shop window.
Robin appeared out of the door. 'No, Sheila, further back.
Back. . . even more. Further back. . .' So I backed, and Emma
37
backed, and suddenly I disappeared down the drop on to the
grass. Needless to say, Emma still had her paws planted firmly
on the pavement. She looked over at me as if to say: 'Well, I
don't know. You took my harness off, I thought you didn't
need me any more. Now look what you're doing-backing off
down banks, indeed!' I dusted myself off, and started again.
I was never so glad, at half-past eight that evening, when we
had finished the 'wild tracks' in our own living-room, to close
the door on the entire crew and have a bit of peace. For all my
hard work with Emma, and twelve hours of that day, I think
three minutes actually appeared on television. But perhaps, in
the context of the programme, it was all worth while. I hope so.
In any case, it was a day's work over and as Don and I sat
back that evening I was too tired
to consider another work
problem which was looming, which had been nagging at me,
and which I could not resolve. When I was blind I used to give
talks on behalf of Guide-Dogs to all sorts of organizations both
in Nottingham and in outlying towns and villages. Weeks
before, even before my operation, I had booked a date to give
a talk to a Rotary Club. Since I had come out of hospital I had
not given a talk and this was the only one arranged, but I had
been thinking off and on about it. The point was, the Rotary
Club were expecting a blind person with her guide-dog and I
had not told them how circumstances had changed. Not only
could I see, but I was now not sure whether I could get up and
talk to an audience that I could see. It worried me terribly, and
now the talk was only forty-eight hours away.
But, for once, tiredness was a blessing. I couldn't think about
it there and then, nor discuss it with Don, who would be sure to
be helpful. Yet even as I got into bed, I knew the problem
would be waiting for me in the morning.
38
CHAPTER THREE
BREAKFAST-TIME is not my best time for discussing problems.
Some people are fully awake and active from the moment
they get out of bed. I belong to the other half of the human race,
and take a long time and a lot of coffee before I get into gear.
But Don and I managed to make some sense, even at that early
hour, of the threatening business of the approaching Rotary
Club talk, because I really couldn't put it off any longer and I
couldn't solve the problem on my own. My inclination was to
pretend that I was still blind and to take Emma on her harness,
let her curl up in front of them in her usual way, and for me to
give my usual talk, which always went down well and showed
people how marvellous guide-dogs are.
But I knew this would be taking the easy way out, and in my
heart I knew I couldn't do it because it would be deceitful.
Another alternative was to cancel the whole business. I didn't
know, in any case, whether I was really up to standing in front
of an audience and talking to them. It had been all right when
I was blind. I had no idea what the audience looked like and,