Name: Mike Howell
Gender: Indisputably male
Age: 67
Country: U.K.
Name of EBU National Member: RNIB
Number of words: 1,099
Living with Braille
CONFESSIONS
RoyalNationalCollege, RowtonCastle, Shrewsbury—
September, 1961
When the pernickety little shorthand teacher became irked by my prolonged morning absence, she called on one of the boys to discover my whereabouts and demand my immediate attendance. Ironically, her choice of messenger was the student who’d earlier given me the joyous news of the lesson’s cancellation. Accepting his glad tidings without question, I’d retired to a peaceful room for continuation of alternative work started the previous day. In private audience with Miss Squires at the end of the lesson, I declined by my silence to provide the name of my colleague who’s given me the mischievous information and was told in judgmental verdict that as I’d absented myself from the building for my own purposes on strength of a cock and bull story, I would have to face the consequences. I was handed a moth-eaten copy of a spelling list which I was asked to copy ten times for presentation at the end of the following morning’s lesson.
A Braille duplicator or sympathetic assistance from some of my classmates would have been more than handy, but without such offered aid, the most viable expedients seemed to be dictation of the list onto my portable tape recorder with an intention of four braillings – three times three sheet duplication on a Stainsbybrailler plus one single copy to be handed over as the top page. My wrists ached from the duplication endeavour and the resultant spikey copies, despite remedial treatment, were unlikely to escape detection. It was also evident from the hour of doom the following morning that my cavalier on-tape dictation had let me down. “‘Acknowledgment’ drops the ‘e’,” I was told curtly. “Benefited only has one ‘t’” came the next scornful castigation, at which point, amid comments about spikey Braille and deception, I was banished for repetition of the work.
The next morning, following a delivery by fabled overnight fairies, I was able to present twelve flawless copies which were greeted with incredulous approval.
RoyalNationalCollege, Albrighton Hall, Shrewsbury—
March, 1964
Though I eventually achieved an R.S.A certificate for shorthand writing at 100 words per minute, the memory of the 80 words per minute examination survives intact. Braille shorthand is embossed on a continuous strip of paper with a dedicated machine which can also be used with great dexterity for the rapid writing of standard contracted Braille. However hard I should have worked at the absolute mastery of shorthand, when the frightening dictation commenced, it was imperative to keep pace in whatever manner my brains and fingers would oblige. What resulted from the two four-minute sessions was an easily transcribable Braille text. Not surprisingly, I left the exam room with 45 minutes in hand, receiving at the door whispered congratulations from the Assistant Typing Tutor who commented warmly on my very careful typing as she ushered me from the building. The Chief Typing Instructor, a whippety little New Zealander, saw things quite differently and was in hot pursuit of me as I wandered triumphantly down the drive. He howled my surname like a wounded fox, rushed up to me and seized my arm in a savage grip.
“What do you mean by this?” Mr. Boull yelled. “That was supposed to be a shorthand exam but I doubt if you wrote any shorthand at all. Don’t you know that we have to submit to the R.S.A what you took down and what you transcribed? Your shorthand’s bound to be far longer than all the others. You could be disqualified or get the College into very serious trouble.”
Nothing more was ever said about the incident but if I’d been of a worrying disposition, I’d have had the whole of the Easter holiday in which to sweat it out. To have gained a Pass with Credit (but not exactly Honours!) got the summer term off to a cracking good start, and my father coughed up an immediate £10 in celebration.
RoyalNationalCollege, Albrighton Hall, Shrewsbury—
July, 1964
It was the last Saturday morning of term when a good friend and I received a summons for immediate appearance in the New Zealander’s room. He couldn’t afford to be angry this time.
“Ah, Christopher and Michael,” he said smarmily. “You ought to feel sorry for College staff. You’re all going home on Wednesday but we’ve got to stay here for the Old Students’ Reunion. Perhaps you’d like to Braille for me the timetable for the weekend which I’ve prepared for the notice board once your holidays have started.” We were issued with a lengthy scrawly text and four large sheets of Braille paper. “Just leave the papers on my desk when you’ve finished. Our best Braille, please gentlemen,” we were urged familiarly as we took our leave.
We made steady progress through the programme of events and eventually reached the agenda for the Annual General Meeting. The battle with the handwriting was arduous. “You will be welcomed in earnest’,” went the hesitant dictation, obediently brailled without demur. “I’m most dreadfully sorry, Wiibun” offered my friend, using my nickname with such sincerity that annoyance would be impossible. “It’s not ‘You will be welcomed in earnest’ but it’s actually ‘You will be welcomed by Ernest Partington.’ The ensuing silence was broken by forced coughing and eventually prankish laughter as we considered available options – re-brailling of the page or the more daring proposition which I voiced:
“We could leave it as it stands so that the whole thing will read: ‘You will be welcomed in earnest by Ernest Partington.’” Even amid our heady laughter as I brailled the remainder of the botched sentence, we realised the consequences. If our work was checked, we could be called on again at short and inconvenient notice for re-brailling of the third page, along with additional admonition for not doing the work properly.
We took the risk, completed the task and delivered the four pages. Hearing no more of the matter, we assumed in our end-of-term goodbyes that our dreadful pun would soon be on the notice board.