The Visitors (7 page)

I say, ‘Do it now.’

I have to wait for the operation. Dr Knapp is very busy and treats many people. The waiting is agony. I feel sad in my eyes all days. A legion of hopes and fears punish me.

I try to imagine what it will be like to see. I turn my face to the light and sense its benevolent warmth and try to stretch my memory back and back to the time before the Time Before, when I was a happy child without cataracts. Yes, my eyesight was bad then, as the doctor called it, high myopia. But I could see things close by, my parents’ faces, the breast, my hands and toes, the blanket, the bottle, the spoon, the dummy, nappy and pin, the hundred little things of a baby’s days and nights. These sights were stored in my infant brain somewhere, but are atrophied through neglect. I cannot apprehend how they looked, what looking was like, how seeing will be. I have talked with Lottie many times about colour and still do not understand it. She helps me by linking colours to other things I know, thus white is clean and black is dirty. But I have great difficulty accepting that a white shirt can become grubby when rubbed in mud, or that a blackbird’s wings can be smooth and speck-free. I feel an object and hold it up to my eyes, try to see myself seeing it, but I cannot imagine comprehending an object through anything but the feel of it, the shape, the weight, the texture and the space it inhabits. Does all this also come through sight, or is it something so different it cannot be conceptualised, as different from touch as smell is? Another country, another language, another arena of sensation? I ache for it. I open my eyes wide and strain to see, to make it happen myself. And all the while, this corkscrew dread, that it will never happen, that the hope will fizzle like spit on a hand iron.

One day, Father brings me a letter from the doctor. He reads it to me: ‘Adeliza Golding is requested to attend at the London offices of Dr Lucius Knapp for an operation of cataract removal, the sixteenth day of October, 1895.’

‘I will be twelve years old by then.’

‘Old enough,’ says Father.

Mother packs a bag for me. She puts in all my nightdresses, as I am to stay in the doctor’s house for the first two to three weeks, or until I am able to travel. Then I will be brought home all the way in a coach and recuperate in my own bed.

‘The doctor must ask us for a fee. And the coach will be very expensive,’ I say to Mother. ‘Where will we find the money to pay?’

I know we are quite well-to-do. I know we are richer by far than Lottie’s family, that we have a large house, fine belongings and land. But we are not aristocrats. And Father always says hop farming is where fortunes are made and lost.

‘Do not worry,’ says Mother. ‘It is all in hand.’

But Mother knows nothing of such things.

I ask Father, ‘Where is the money for the doctor and the coach? Do we sell enough hops for these? Will we go hungry?’

‘We do very well. These past few years we have had high yields and neither the mould nor the flea, and prices are good nowadays. We can pay for the coach. But, very kindly, Dr Knapp has offered to do your operation for free.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he knows you need it and he is a good man. Some people would call him a philanthropist, which is a person who acts kindly towards others for no reward.’

‘Are there such people in the world?’

‘Yes, and Dr Knapp is one of them. Also he is very interested in your eyes and your being deaf. He wants to study you. So he is getting something out of it too, to satisfy his scientific interest.’

‘I am a very interesting person,’ I say. And in this way, we resolve it.

We take the train, as before. A dizzying collection of Visitors calls to me from the streets of London: here a lost boy crying, a young woman with a baby who will not feed, an elderly lady who cannot find her hat with the little birds on it, a man who says the omnibus company must pay, must pay, it is not safe. I realise that after the operation, my eyes will be covered for weeks, and I will not be able to sense the Visitors. I wonder if I will miss them.

When I arrive, I am settled in a bedroom upstairs at Dr Knapp’s house and Lottie helps me change into a nightdress. A nurse comes to show us to the operating room. We meet Father in the hallway.

‘My brave girl,’ he says. I reach to touch his face but he stops me. I insist and feel his wet cheeks.

‘I will be well,’ I say.

He tells me he has to wait outside, as they cannot have too many people in the room. But they have said Lottie can be there to hold my hand and tell me what is happening. I say goodbye to Father and go into the theatre. It smells of disinfectant and metal. I am asked to lie on a hard bed. They place a folded cloth over my mouth and chin, and another across my forehead. My nose is left exposed for easy breathing and, of course, my eyes.

A Visitor is here, another and another. They are all afraid.

They said it would be over now. Why am I still here?

Where is the nurse?

My wound, how it throbs.

Now I am very frightened. I want to say no, I have changed my mind. But I do not want to let everyone down. I think how much easier the lives of everyone I love will be if I could see. I think perhaps they will love me more if I am not blind. And I know I must do this, for everyone. Lottie takes my hand and holds it tight. She asks if I want to know what the doctor is doing.

‘Yes, I want to know everything.’

She signs into my right hand, then leaves it free for me to ask her questions. The doctor talks to her and she tells me what he says.

‘He is going to put some drops in your eyes. The liquid is a mixture of water and something called cocaine. It will make your eye numb. It is called an anaesthetic. When the doctor touches your eye with the knife, you will not be able to feel any pain.’

‘How will he know? Before he touches my eye with the knife, how will he know if the drops have worked?’

Lottie asks the doctor. He pats me gently on my arm.

‘He says he will test it first with something soft. Do not worry. Nothing will hurt.’

We wait while the doctor readies himself and his tools.

‘He is going to give you the drops now.’

I feel the liquid meet one eye, then the other. I blink several times and it runs down one cheek, swiftly swabbed by someone. It is cooling to the eye. It does not sting or smart. I wait.

‘Now, Liza. This is very important. You must not move at all during the operation. You must keep as still as a rock. If you move your head, the doctor could cut in the wrong place or damage your eyes.’

There is a pressure in my right eye, but the medicine has done its job. I cannot feel anything against the eyeball itself.

‘Is he touching my eye now?’

‘Yes.’

‘With what?’

‘Do not worry. It is going well.’

‘Tell me!’

‘Do not agitate yourself, Liza. It may make you restless.’

‘Tell me then.’

‘He is putting a tiny stitch into your eyelid to hold it open … Now he is using a very fine knife to make a cut in your eye … He applies a sharp hook … He takes a tool called forceps in one hand and applies a little spoon with the other … The lens is out! He has taken the lens out of your eye and placed it in a dish. He says this part of the operation is complete. Well done, Liza! Keep still.’

‘Do you feel sick?’ I ask Lottie. She must be able to see the knife cutting into my eye. I wonder if this is gruesome.

‘No, it is very interesting.’

Next comes the same procedure in my left eye. Another success. Lottie says each eye has taken only fifteen minutes to complete. But to me it feels like hours. The moment Lottie tells me it is over, I faint.

I wake in bed. My eyes are bandaged. They are sore. As I cannot open them, there are no Visitors.

Lottie is there. She takes my hand to ask, ‘How do you feel?’

‘It hurts.’

‘Wait here.’

I grab her hand tight. She uncurls my fingers and signs, ‘I need to tell the doctor you are awake. It is not far. Half a minute.’

My eyeballs pulsate.

The doctor comes and feels my forehead. He says to try to sleep. He says I need lots of rest. So that I will heal, I must stay in bed for up to three weeks.

I drift in and out of sleep for the first few days, and suffer baffling dreams which are heavy and stifling. I wake only to drink a little warm milk. Soon I feel brighter. I eat eggs and toast. Some stewed apples, very sugary. After sixteen days, I sit up in bed and I am bored. Now they know it is time for me to go home. Lottie helps me dress. Father comes and I can tell he wants to embrace me heartily but he is careful with me as if I were thin china. I am taken to the door. Here I ask for Dr Knapp and he is there. He shakes my hand.

I instruct Lottie: ‘Please tell him thank you very much for me.’

‘He says you are very welcome.’

‘Say well done for being so careful with the knife.’

Lottie puts her hand on its side in my palm and wobbles it. This is our sign for laughter. I think I amused the doctor.

Father escorts me to the coach. It is much more comfortable than the London cabs; it has softer seats and is less bouncy. A thick blanket is placed around my legs and we begin our long journey home. The coach sways on southwards from the capital through Surrey and into Kent. I have slept most of the way and am grumpy on waking. I burrow my head into Father’s sleeve.

I feel Mother’s hand. She has come to welcome me.

‘You should be in bed,’ I say, as the late sun is cooling.

‘Not me, you. Come and rest,’ replies Mother.

I do not need help to walk but there are many hands around me. I am cared for. I am led to my bedroom where, exhausted by the journey, I sleep deeply. I must remain in my darkened room for another week, black blinds and heavy curtains at the windows. I cannot sense anything behind these bandages. I used to be able at least to perceive sunlight, and I miss its warmth. I am more in the dark than ever.

I recover well. Everyone is thrilled that I have not developed an infection, that the pain in my eyes has receded after only a day or two. I am healthy and happy. Soon, I am bored in my room, bored of sewing and knitting. I ask for lessons again with Lottie. We are learning arithmetic using a special metal frame made for the blind. It helps me count and add numbers. We read the book called
Mental Arithmetic
and a problem may say, ‘If a boy buys five apples and has six friends …’ and so on. And I say to Lottie, ‘But why does the boy buy the apples? Why does he not go scrumping with his friends? And why does he not buy enough apples? Is he not a bad boy to forget one friend so?’ Lottie laughs at my questions, but I become vexed. I am wearisome when learning arithmetic. I am forgetful and my thoughts waste. I frown so much my head aches. I say to Lottie, ‘Are you not very tired of living? Does your heart not tire of beating? Does your head not tire of thinking?’

Lottie says, ‘Let’s end our lessons for today. You can stop thinking now.’

‘How can I stop? Can I close my think as you close your eyes?’

‘Let me explain,’ says Lottie.

I say, ‘No more today. My think is tired.’

When Lottie is not here, I wish to talk with the Visitors. But I cannot, as my eyes cannot open. I am very curious about them now that I know there are others. I want to ask them:
Why do you stay here? Why did you not come with me to London? I met other Visitors on my journey. Do you know them? Are you sure you do not know your name? Why do you not visit Lottie or Father? What do you want with me?

I predict they will never answer my questions, only prattle on about their obsession. I understand them a little more these days. I have an obsession of my own now: my eyes. Every day I use my number frame to count down the days remaining until the bandages are removed. Dr Knapp is coming all the way from London to be there. If I had my choice, I would go to a quiet corner of the garden all on my own and take them off. I do not want an audience. If I have failed I want to find out alone, and will hate the pity of others. But Father will not allow it. It has to be executed with care and the doctor must do tests.

The day is here. Father, Mother and Dr Knapp assemble in my bedroom. The air is stuffy with their breath and expectations. The black blinds have been removed and the curtains are opened. I sit on my hard-backed chair, where Nanny used to tie me. Now I wait upon it for the most important moment in my life. Lottie kneels beside me, holding my hand. I feel the doctor untie the binding at the back of my head. I am relieved to feel the pressure lessen, and want to shake my flattened hair free. But then I am gripped by an almighty terror. I squeeze Lottie’s hand so hard she squirms, then quickly sign into her palm: ‘No. Tell him to stop.’

‘Why?’

‘I am afraid.’

I have lived with my blindness all my life. Only weeks ago, I was given hope that I might see. Now the moment comes I cannot face it. The disappointment would break my heart.

‘Be brave,’ says Lottie. ‘We are all here with you.’

I can feel tears well up behind the bandages. As they loosen, the tears escape. Lottie rubs my hand in comfort, Father and Mother touch my arm. The bandages are off, only two pads remain. Dr Knapp removes one, then the other. I keep my eyes fast shut. I see nothing. I will not open them.

‘It is time,’ says Lottie.

I flutter my eyelids, awash with tears. My hand grips Lottie’s so tightly. I open my eyes.

There is a flickering blur of haze. And I want to cry out, it is a failure, my eyes are still damaged. But I realise immediately that it was my tears, as I open my eyes wide and blink them away. I am hit by light. The most dazzling, incandescent explosion of light assaults me and makes me recoil. I cover my eyes but hate the darkness it brings. I uncover them again, and the colours hit me. I do not know their names yet, but they are irresistible, these shapes; these white ovals with tinted halos that approach me. And I remember these are faces, as the shape of eyes, nose, mouth and hair imposes itself upon my new vision and speaks its name – face. I am surrounded by faces all laughing and weeping, and I lift my hands up and can see my fingers reaching. I touch Father’s cheek and his salt and pepper hair, and next to him Mother’s is faded gold. And the big round face must be Dr Knapp, with a shock of white hair and a beard. And I turn to find my Lottie and her face is the most beautiful of all, with glorious blue eyes so wide and round. And red, red hair, which curls in waves around her pink smiling face, and her eyes shining with tears – how they shine – and I throw my arms around her and I cry and I cry with joy.