Читать книгу Just a Boy: An Inspiring and Heartwarming Short Story - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 6

Kindness is a language which the deaf

can hear and the blind can see.

Mark Twain

Dropping my shopping in the hall, car keys hanging from my mouth, I ran through the house to get to the phone before it cut off.

‘Hello,’ I spluttered, trying to catch my breath.

‘Casey, hi there,’ said a familiar voice. It was John Fulshaw, my fostering-agency link worker. ‘You sound puffed,’ he observed. ‘Are you okay to talk?’

‘To you?’ I replied, laughing. ‘Anytime. Do you bring me good tidings?’ I felt a ripple of excitement about why he might be phoning. Mike and I were between placements at the moment, a state of affairs I became bored with very easily. Perhaps John had a new child for us. Now that would really make my Wednesday. ‘Well?’ I finished.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

I was just about to ask him for chapter and verse when he continued. ‘But only of a temporary nature. It’s a fourteen-year-old boy who lives with his elderly grandparents and needs a place to stay just for a couple of days.’

He went on to explain that this boy, who was called Cameron, wouldn’t be one of our usual kind of children, who mainly came from terrible backgrounds or were already in the care system. This was different. It was a lad who lived in perfectly agreeable family circumstances and who needed a place to go only because his grandmother had been taken ill and hospitalised. Apparently, Granddad, who was disabled, wouldn’t be able to manage on his own, which was why a place needed to be found right away. He also needed to be able to spend time with his sick wife, John finished, and obviously couldn’t be in two places at once.

‘And our lad’s a bit too much of a handful to be home alone then, is he?’ I chortled. I knew what fourteen-year-old boys could be like.

‘Not at all,’ John corrected me. ‘Quite the opposite – he’ll be no trouble at all. There’s just one thing you need to know, really. He’s blind.’

For the first time in my life, I think, I was completely lost for words. I tried to recall if I’d ever even met anyone who was blind before, and couldn’t, and then, of course, my brain starting whirring. What would it be like, having a blind child living with us? Would it be difficult? Would we need to move the furniture?

‘Casey?’ John prompted, obviously mistaking my logistical musings for reluctance. ‘Don’t feel obliged to say yes to this. We can ask someone else, I just thought you might be interested. I know you’re itching to get another child in and I thought this might make an interesting stop-gap for you both. He’s a lovely lad – really funny and doesn’t let his disability faze him. Do you want some time to talk it over with Mike?’

‘God, no,’ I reassured him. ‘Mike will be absolutely fine with it. I don’t need to ask him because I know he’ll say yes.’

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ John said. ‘It would only be from tomorrow to Saturday morning. There’s a family member travelling up to take over then, I believe, and –’

‘Sure I’m sure,’ I told him. So that was that.

As I expected, Mike wasn’t fazed in the least. By the time he’d got home from work that afternoon, I’d already been busy on the internet, fact-finding. And it had been really useful. Taking inspiration from the website of a school for the blind, with their sensory rooms, musical instruments, interactive and soft play areas, I already had lots of ideas.

Mike seemed to find all this amusing. ‘Soft play areas?’ he asked. ‘You said the lad was fourteen, didn’t you? Not four! And if he’s been blind from birth [something else I’d managed to clarify] I expect he’s capable of a lot more than you think. Still,’ he mused, looking around him, ‘it does make you think, doesn’t it? He’s obviously familiar with his own surroundings but I reckon it will still be pretty challenging to navigate himself around here.’ He closed his eyelids. ‘And it’ll certainly be an eye-opener for us, eh?’

Mike’s lame jokes aside, I felt quite excited about the following morning, and also a bit more prepared, having spent half the evening doing more research and finding out that, contrary to what I’d always thought, many blind people could see at least some things; could often distinguish daylight from night-time, and see blurry outlines of objects and people. So my idea of perpetual darkness wasn’t correct at all. And I was about to learn more. I couldn’t wait.

It seemed as if the weather was on my wavelength as well. Thursday morning dawned to match my mood – sunny and expectant. It seemed the British climate had, for a change, decided to be kind. It was mid August and for almost the first time that month, it seemed to be in accord with everyone’s seasonal expectations.

‘Uh-oh,’ said my grown-up son Kieron as he came down to the kitchen. ‘Do I smell bleach? Honestly, Mother, at this time?’ He did. I was on my hands and knees, giving the floor a last once over. We had a dog – Bob – and I was conscious that with a visitor coming to stay, mucky paw marks were a no-no, even if the visitor couldn’t see them.

Kieron stepped over me to get to the cereal cupboard. He had a busy day planned, going off with a mate of his to pick an amp up from some far-flung location; Kieron was in college, but had being earning a few quid over the summer DJing and was doing a disco at the local youth club on Friday night.

‘You do,’ I said, ‘and talking of smells, can you do me a favour? Can you nip out to the garden before you go and pick what you can find for me, flowers-wise?’

It would be nice, I thought, bearing in mind what I’d read about sensory-impaired people relying more on their other senses, to have the place smelling nice for Cameron’s arrival.

Kieron duly did, and, in fact, still hadn’t left when the car containing Cameron pulled up outside. Though not with John – there was no need for John to be involved in this handover. There’d be no reams of paperwork, no ominous-looking manila files to be gone through; just a quick chat with Cameron’s social worker, Jeremy.

I went to the front door and opened it ready, taking stock as the two of them approached. It felt a little weird watching someone so intently when they couldn’t see you, but my eyes were drawn to him as if by a magnet. He was a tall lad – he looked more like sixteen or seventeen than fourteen – and good-looking, too, with a shock of conker-coloured hair. I noticed straight away that he walked without the aid of his social worker and instead had a white cane that snapped into life when he shook it, and sort of hovered, just above ground level, swinging left and right in front of him, as he deftly made his way to our door.

I didn’t know what he could see of me, but Cameron had a huge smile on his face, and appeared to be looking just above my head. This was no surprise really, given the difference in our height. I’m four foot eleven, and this kid had to be six feet tall. I was just about to say hello when I almost jumped out of my skin. Out of nowhere, this robotic-sounding voice had suddenly spoken. ‘Good morning,’ it said. ‘It is 10.00 a.m.’

Cameron laughed and turned his head. ‘That’s a fiver you owe me, Jezza,’ he said to his social worker. ‘Told you we wouldn’t be late, didn’t I?’

Jeremy seemed amused by my startled expression, ‘Talking watch,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘We had a bit of a bet on the way over, because I was getting in a bit of a fluster about being late, and Cameron – he’s a bit of a whizz with numbers, aren’t you, Cameron? – had a wager with me. And it looks like he won.’ He grinned at his charge. ‘But it was for a cream cake, not a fiver. Bit of a chancer, this one,’ he chuckled.

I shook Jeremy’s hand. ‘Come on in,’ I said.

‘And mind the step!’ Kieron added. He and Bob were now just behind me, having obviously come to say hello.

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ Cameron shot back, deftly crossing the threshold unaided. ‘My stick has built-in radar so I knew about that step a few inches before I touched it.’

Kieron and I looked at each other and I was just about to say something dumb when Cameron added, ‘That was a joke, by the way.’

It set the tone perfectly, and it was with jovial spirits that we had our mini-meeting. It seemed Cameron did have some basic vision – dark and light, some fuzzy shapes and muted colours – and, between them, he and Jeremy explained the practical things about safety, as well as what Cameron liked to eat and ‘watch’ on TV. This surprised me. It never occurred to me that a blind person might enjoy television, but apparently he did, very much so. In fact, it turned out he was a whizz with a TV remote, and showed me something I’d never realised; that there was a reason for the little knobble on the number five button – it was the point visually impaired people could navigate from. There was even such a thing as ‘audio description’, which I’d also never heard of – some programmes had a narrator describing the scenes as they occurred to make it easier to picture as you listened to the programme. Amazing! I thought.

Twenty minutes later, Jeremy had to set off, having scribbled down his mobile number for emergencies, handed me a slim file of information, and assured me he would be back on Saturday afternoon to pick Cameron up. We said our goodbyes and then I went back into the dining room where we had left Cameron, to find him engaged in conversation with Kieron.

‘Ah, Mum,’ Kieron said. ‘There are rules to having Cameron here, so listen up.’

I blinked at him. My son is lovely, but his Asperger’s can make him rather inclined to rules and regulations, and I had visions of him interrogating the poor boy relentlessly.

‘Don’t you have to be somewhere?’ I asked him.

But Kieron shook his head. ‘Not till lunchtime now,’ he said, waving his mobile phone at me. ‘Joe’s gotta do some stuff first. Plus I have to walk Bob for you …’

‘For me?’ I asked drily. Bob was very much Kieron’s dog, he being the one who’d just turned up with him, fresh from the dogs’ home, after all. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘we’ve just been chatting and Cam’s been telling me some of the stuff you need to know. And first up is that if you leave a room, you always have to say so. Just so he knows, and doesn’t jump out of his skin when you come back.’

‘Ri-ight,’ I said, noting Cameron’s approving nod. ‘And the next one?’

‘Doors,’ said Kieron. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

Cameron nodded again. ‘Yup. It’s important that they’re always left closed or fully open. Otherwise I have a tendency to bang into them.’

‘Ouch,’ I said, glancing at the door into the hall, which – as ever – was neither one nor the other. I went and pulled it fully open.

‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘Kieron, since you’re the official keeper of the rules, why don’t you give Cameron the guided tour while I make us all some drinks, yes? And – erm – I’m leaving the room now, Cameron, okay?’

Both boys immediately burst out laughing. Which made me relax. This was going to be fine.

As I’d suggested, Kieron gave Cameron the full tour of the house, and as I watched them go upstairs I noticed how methodical Cameron was about it, seeming to calculate steps and distances between things. When they returned I also noticed that he’d come down without his cane.

‘Do you want me to nip back up and fetch it down for you?’ I asked, after pointing it out.

‘No, it’s fine, Casey,’ he assured me. ‘I only need it once for round the house, then I can trail to navigate.’

‘Tail?’ I asked. ‘That sounds like something the FBI might do.’

Both Kieron and Cameron laughed then. Again. ‘He said “trail”, Mum, not “tail”,’ Kieron corrected me.

Cameron grinned. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, walking into the front room and crossing it without hesitation, simply using the back of his hand against the wall, slightly in front of him. Again, I could see he was making constant calculations, having presumably already made a mental map. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Simple! No cane required.’

Kieron looked at his phone again, this time to check the time. ‘And I need to crack on,’ he said. ‘Bob – walkies!’

Bob duly left his basket in the kitchen and trotted in, tail wagging.

‘Have you ever had a guide dog?’ I asked Cameron, as Kieron went to fetch Bob’s lead.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d love a dog, but it would be too much for my grandparents.’

‘Want to come with me to walk Bob, then?’ Kieron asked, coming back in.

‘Erm, I’m not sure that’s …’ I began.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Cameron said. ‘I’d really like that. If it’s all right with you, Casey,’ he said politely.

Still I hesitated. I was in loco parentis, after all. Was he safe outside without me? Was he normally allowed out on his own? But Kieron – nineteen, and a responsible adult – pulled a face at me.

‘Mum, we’ll only be walking to the end of the road and back!’ he pointed out. ‘What’s gonna happen?’

So I went and fetched the cane after all.

The first afternoon and evening went like a dream. Used to dealing with the sort of challenging kids that tested you every step of the way, I enjoyed every moment of getting to know Cameron, and ‘looking after him’ seemed a contradiction in terms.

With the whole ‘sensory experiences’ thing very much in mind, I took him to a local park once Kieron had gone, one that had a big and popular petting zoo. And it was a good choice; Cameron loved petting the goats and alpacas and everywhere we went people were just so nice to him. We then went for ice creams and visited the zoo shop, where I helped him pick out a postcard for his grandmother.

‘I always get her postcards from wherever I’ve been,’ he said. She’s not very mobile any more but loves to be able to see what I’ve been up to. She has quite a collection these days!’

Talking further, it transpired that Cameron got about quite a bit. Though he lived happily at home with his grandparents, his single mum having died in an accident when he was very little, they had worked hard to provide him with a normal active childhood, supported by his school and a variety of organisations which could introduce him to the wider world. For all his lack of street-awareness – which was a big change from the kids I usually fostered – he had a wise and mature head on his young shoulders.

And I was anxious to make sure he had a fun time while he was with us. So when another glance at his file told me the things he most liked doing, I was determined that we’d do one of them, too.

‘Bowling?’ Mike said, as he was putting on his jacket for work the following morning, and I was giving him the run-down on what I’d planned. I’d already told him I thought we should take Cameron out somewhere together before he left us, and that he was to try his very best to get away from work early.

‘Yes, bowling,’ I repeated. ‘He’s rather good at it apparently.’

‘But how can he bowl a bowling ball? It just sounds so dangerous!’

‘Well, you’ll soon find out, won’t you?’ I said to him, laughing. ‘Now remember. Home by four, and no excuses!’

He shook his head as he headed out of the door. ‘Bowling?’ I heard him muttering to himself. ‘Bowling?’

Truth was that I had no idea how he did it either. I only knew that it was a good plan. Cameron was thrilled to hear what we’d be doing and promised me that he was super-good at it and would embarrass us with his skill for sure. I had no doubt he would, at least as far as I was concerned, because I was rubbish. In fact, I had never understood the thrill of picking up a heavy ball, inserting your fingers into holes where someone else’s grubby mitts had been, and then chucking it at a load of pins. Still, it would be fun for Cameron and that was what it was all about. Taking his mind off his sick gran for a bit.

And of course, Cameron had been telling the truth. Eschewing the frame the visually impaired would normally use, he really could seem to ‘feel’ his way to a strike, and duly kicked our butts. Particularly mine, and I was left astounded at how I – equipped with full vision – could be so roundly thrashed by a boy with hardly any. And worse than that, everyone knew it, the bowling alley having thoughtfully employed a system that rang out a loud noise every time a ball hit the gutter, which almost all of mine did.

But perhaps I was becoming too used to being amazed by Cameron’s abilities, because what happened straight afterwards I didn’t see coming.

We were just gathering our stuff, ready to go and grab some dinner, when my attention was diverted by Cameron leaving our booth with his coke can. My gaze followed him, but only in a vague ‘Where’s he off to?’ way when, to my horror, I then saw him casually lob the can at the man sitting reading a newspaper just behind the next booth. Worse than that, even, was that the can wasn’t quite empty, and I watched with dismay as a stream of coke shot from the can and fell like sticky rain all down the man’s shirt.

‘Oi!’ he said, rising and brushing down his shirt simultaneously. ‘Oi! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

By this time, Cameron had already turned around and was walking back to us, seemingly oblivious to what he had just done. But no longer. The man’s voice positively boomed across the lane.

I watched Cameron’s face fall. ‘Oh, no!’ he said, obviously realising what must have happened. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he added, turning back towards the man. ‘I had no idea. I thought you were the bin!’

The man threw down the newspaper he had in his other hand and marched up to Cameron, his face reddening in anger. He grabbed Cameron’s arm. ‘Oh, so you’re a joker as well, are you, you little git?’

Mike was suddenly there then, a reassuring presence. At six foot three, and given the expression on the man’s face, a very reassuring presence. Because he really looked like he was ready to punch Cameron.

‘Hey there,’ Mike said evenly. ‘Calm down, mate, okay? Whatever happened, it was obviously an accident.’

‘Accident?’ the man said. ‘This moron just threw a coke can at me!’

‘It was an accident!’ Cameron added quickly. His head was bobbing about and I could see he wasn’t sure where to rest his gaze now, as Mike and the man must be blurring together. ‘I’m really sorry. But I really did think you were the bin, honest. The way you were sitting, and …’

‘The way I was sitting?’ the man blustered. ‘Oh, that’s rich, that is, you little sh–’

‘Hey,’ said Mike again, positioning himself between both of them. ‘Calm down, will you, mate? He’s blind. Can’t you see that?’

The man was so worked up that it took a couple of seconds for him to register, but when the penny dropped it really did drop. I finally allowed myself to unclench my hands and breathe out.

‘Oh,’ the man muttered, the fight slowly draining out of him, as he realised his mistake. But not completely. He still had a look of aggression about him. And he clearly had a tongue to match, too. ‘Well, you should keep him indoors, then,’ he barked, ‘if he can’t bloody see! Bloody menace! You should ****ing keep him in!’ And with that, he stomped back to his soggy paper, while I stood there, gobsmacked that he could be so cruel.

Cameron was mortified. ‘I need to go and apologise again,’ he said to Mike as we ushered him away. ‘Was he very wet? I should offer to pay for his shirt to be cleaned, at the very least.’

My heart went out to him. His lower lip was wobbling and I could see he was really shaken. As was I. That sort of aggression might be exciting on the telly, but in the real world it was very, very frightening.

‘Love, it was an accident,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘And you have already apologised. Come on, let’s get out of here,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get some tea.’

He didn’t seem convinced. ‘I thought he was the bin, I really did. It was the way he was sitting … I should really …’ He tailed off then and I could see he was struggling not to cry. I was just glad he couldn’t see what Mike and I could: the number of curious pairs of eyes that were on us. Some pitying, some just staring, as if Cameron was a freak show.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there and, as we left, I glanced back towards the man. It was so obvious now how easy a mistake it had been to make. His shirt was almost the same red as the bowling booths themselves, and with the newspaper open in front of him … well, I could easily see how it might have happened. ‘Please don’t be upset,’ I said, squeezing Cameron’s arm. ‘He’s just a very rude man, so –’

‘So he’s lost any right to an apology, in my book,’ Mike finished. His expression was set and grim. ‘What a …’

He just about managed to stop himself saying what he was thinking. Instead he mouthed it. And I heard it loud and clear.

The incident at the bowling alley coloured the rest of the evening, with Cameron no longer the sunny lad who’d arrived the day before. He was quiet, and though we kept telling him to forget all about it, I could tell he was racked with mortification about what he’d done. He spoke to his granddad before bed, and while I was in the kitchen making drinks for us all, I could hear him telling him what a complete dork he’d been.

‘We shouldn’t have taken him,’ I said to Mike once we were tucked up under the duvet.

‘What?’ he said. ‘Casey, that’s just mad, that is, honestly. Whyever not? He obviously goes all the time.’ He grinned ruefully, recalling having been so roundly beaten. ‘So why on earth wouldn’t we have taken him?’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I should have thought it through more. It’s not the bowling alley he’s used to going to, is it? So he didn’t know his way around. If he had it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Nothing happened,’ Mike persisted. ‘That man was just a joke – anyone could see that. The whole thing was just a storm in a teacup.’

‘Trickle in a coke can,’ I corrected. But for all my jesting, I still felt guilty for having taken him, as the things that horrible man had said ran round and round my head.

But I was to come down the following morning to an even greater shock. Waking early, after a broken night, to see that another glorious day had dawned, I was determined that Cameron should leave us on a high note rather than a low one. So, leaving everyone to enjoy lie-ins, I tiptoed across the landing with the idea of cooking up a huge full English breakfast, which I’d serve in the garden, on the patio table.

Seeing Cameron’s bedroom door open, though, and his bed made and empty, I assumed he must have beaten me to it – very atypical for a fourteen-year-old boy, but then, Cameron wasn’t a very typical fourteen-year-old boy, was he? Perhaps he was busy ‘watching’ some TV. But when I got downstairs to find no sign of him there either, I was flummoxed. Where could he be?

I ran back upstairs to double-check he wasn’t in the bathroom, even though I knew he wasn’t – I’d only passed it seconds earlier.

‘Mike,’ I hissed, shaking him awake. ‘Cameron’s disappeared! I can’t find him anywhere. Oh, God, do you think he’s run away?’

Mike rubbed his eyes and sat up. ‘Run away?’ He looked amused. ‘Have you been at the gin, love? Why on earth would he do that? Don’t be silly.’

‘Honest, Mike. He is nowhere to be found. And the back door is on the latch, too. So where is he? Come on, get dressed. We have to go out and try and find him!’

Mike duly pulled on trackie bottoms and trainers and followed me out into the street, blinking in the sunshine like an oversized frightened rabbit. We went all round the block and down several other streets, but he was nowhere to be found, and a familiar gnawing in my gut started up. We’d had runaways before – it was one of the grimmest ‘perks’ of doing fostering – but to lose a placid fourteen-year-old, only in our care for two days, felt like the biggest failure imaginable. I was also fearful about him heading out alone, possibly into traffic. Was he really as independent as he seemed? And why had he gone? Had he just had enough? Was he on some mission? Had he decided to try and make it to the hospital?

‘None of the above,’ Mike assured me, trying to quell my rising panic. ‘He’s a well-brought-up boy and he just wouldn’t do something like that.’

‘But what do we do?’ I asked him anxiously.

‘We go back home and make a plan.’

Mike was right, of course. It was completely out of character for Cameron to run away. But even so – even if he’d just gone on a wander – we still faced the grim task of calling Jeremy and telling him our ‘charge’ was no longer under our charge. And by the time we got back, called his number and left a voice message, I was becoming more and more agitated. He hadn’t taken his holdall, but he had taken his stick. Oh, God, I thought, where had he gone?

It was still early – not far past eight yet – so it wasn’t surprising that it was a while before our anxious reveries were interrupted by the sudden sound of ringing, which made us jump. But it wasn’t the phone, it was the doorbell, which we both rushed to get to, to be rewarded by a reassuring bulky shadow beyond the glass.

Mike opened the door. ‘Cameron!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where’ve you been, lad?’

I took in the scene: Cameron, looking sheepish, and an elderly gentleman I vaguely recognised, who introduced himself as Mr Parsons, and who, though looking only slightly less bemused than we were, had a definite twinkle in his eye.

‘This one belong to you?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, he does. Cameron, what happened?’

Cameron’s face was turning the same colour as next door’s roses. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, frowning. ‘I feel such an idiot.’

‘Found him a couple of streets away,’ Mr Parsons said, ‘on my way back from getting my paper. So I took him indoors, gave him a drink – it’s a hot old morning to be traipsing the streets, eh? And it took a little time to fathom out where he belonged, but between us we got there, didn’t we, son?’

‘I’m sorry …’ Cameron began again.

Mr Parsons chortled. ‘Sorry? Not a bit of it! Most entertaining Saturday morning I’ve had in a long time, believe me. And a pleasure to meet you, young man!’

Waving Mr Parsons off with our undying gratitude, we bundled Cameron back indoors for a debrief.

‘Where were you off to?’ I wanted to know, trying not to sound like I was chastising him. I was conscious that he’d been with us less than forty-eight hours and seemed to be apologising right, left, and centre.

But it turned out he hadn’t been running away. In fact, the idea brought a smile to his lips. ‘Casey, I think I’m the last person on earth who should try running away from anywhere, don’t you?’

All he’d wanted to do was post a letter. Well, more correctly, a postcard, to his gran. It was the one from the petting zoo which, unbeknown to either Mike or me, he’d had Kieron write and address for him the previous evening, just before going off to do his DJing.

‘I know I didn’t need to,’ he said. ‘I could just as easily have given it to her when I go and see her next week. But Granddad had told me she was feeling low last night, and I was awake and the sun was shining and since I’d passed the letter box with Kieron on Thursday, I knew where it was … And I just thought it would be nice for her to get it brought round in the post. But, somehow – I don’t know how –’

‘You got yourself well and truly lost,’ Mike said, chuckling.

Cameron nodded. ‘Exactly. I should have only been gone two minutes. Except –’ he glanced towards his stick, which was resting beside his leg. ‘Flipping radar,’ he said. ‘Rubbish, it is. Rubbish.’

So in the end, Cameron did leave us on a high note, because we all laughed so hard it even roused Kieron from his slumbers, and we had our full English in the garden just as planned. And I think we all learned something good from our encounter. Cameron that his navigation wasn’t quite as infallible as he thought; that in Mr Parsons we have a very nice neighbour; and well, in my case, that I do have a tendency to panic, because I do – as Kieron’s pointed out time and again over the years – take things so much to heart where people being mean to kids is concerned. Cameron had been quiet because he’d been thinking about his gran, not because of what the ignorant man had said at the bowling alley. He told us he’d be mad to – that he wasn’t worth the head-space. ‘Water off a duck’s back,’ he quipped, when he left us.

‘Or coke down a shirt front!’ Mike corrected, which meant I learned something else: my husband’s jokes really don’t get any better.

We got a lovely thank-you card from Cameron a couple of weeks after he left us, and I shall treasure it always. Inside it was a quote from that most famous of blind people, Helen Keller, and a lovely one for anyone to bear in mind: The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.

A lesson for us all. And as Mike predicted, an eye-opening two days.