Twenty Twenty Vision

“Which circles look clearer to you, the green or the red?”

November 2019. Another trip to the optometrist, and I am going through the routine yet again.

The green and red lights both highlight concentric circles and I know that this test would be curtailed as soon as I agree that both circles look the same.

I’ve been visiting the optometrist for nearly ten years, and, with my degree in Physics, I mostly know what they are looking for. When I was younger, I’d play tricks on them and constantly force the optometrist to try stronger and weaker lenses until they decided on something they believed would suit my peculiar eyesight. I’d always been good at deception, but now I just want to get a prescription and get out of there.

“They both look the same”, I say, and the optometrist makes a note on his pad and reaches for another lens. I know what’s coming. “Is it better one, or two” as he flips the lens over. Yet again the “right” answer is “They both look the same”, but for some reason, that is never offered as an option, so I am expected to choose between them.

“One” I say, without much conviction, and the optometrist fiddles with the lenses already in front of my eyes and tries again.

“Which is better, one or..”

“Two”, I state, even before he has turned the lens over. This catches him by surprise, and he turns it over anyway. “Are you sure?” he says, surreptitiously flicking a switch beneath his console. “I’ll just repeat that. One, or two?” I’ve said “two” even before he makes the flip, and, which is even more annoying, I know he wants me to say there is no difference, which would mean he’d got my prescription and I could escape.

“That’s very interesting”, he says, tweaking the lenses in the contraption until all I can see is the optometrist’s rather gawdy waistcoat. “Have you ever met…”

“No”, I say, with certitude, for, in all my years coming to this office, I have never met Mr Stoodley, the largely silent partner at Stoodley and Staines Optometry. But it seems that now, I was about to, as a small man with a shock of white hair and super-thick half-moon spectacles was emerging from a door that I had never noticed before at the rear of the consulting room. I knew instinctively that this was Mr Stoodley. He didn’t introduce himself to me and simply turned to Mr Staines and said “So, you think you have another, do you?”

“It seems so, Sir. He’s been second guessing me for about five minutes and I really thought that you…”

“Yes, well, you’re absolutely right, of course. What’s the prescription? -5.75, -4.5, yes?”

“Yes, but there is an adjustment for astigmatism which is not typical, so…”

“You thought I’d be best suited to completing things. Thank you, Mr Staines, I can take over now. It seems there is a young lady in the office who is looking for assistance in selecting a pair of spectacles that will facilitate her driving, if you could just attend to her please.”

“Yes, of course, Mr Stoodley. I’ll just leave Mr Crocker to you then, shall I?”

“You will. This matter will require a skilled practitioner to ensure the optimal outcome.”

At this, Mr Staines left the consulting room and I was left in Mr Stoodley’s care, with much of the usual examination still incomplete.

He sat down on a stool next to me, thrust his hands into his pockets and peered into my face as he inquired “So, how much money do you think I have in pockets at the moment?”

This was a question I had never heard before during a sight test, but I had an answer prepared before he even asked it. “£2.67” I said with an unexpected confidence. Mr Stoodley rose from his stool, adjusted the lenses again and sat back down.

“Could you hazard a guess what coins I have?”

I answered, and as I finished with “Four Victorian farthings”, Mr Stoodley had slammed a strange collection of old coins on to the desk and announced “Quite right, in all regards. This really is most remarkable. Most remarkable indeed.”

The history Mr Stoodley was about to reveal to me was fascinating. Stoodley Optiks had been established in the 17th century following the publication of several papers by Dutch polymath, Christiaan Huygens. The practice had set out not only to improve the eyesight of its patrons, but also sought means of improving their foresight. The original Mr Stoodley has believed that by properly constructing a lens, the wearer would not only see better in the present but would also be able to view the future. Despite over 300 years of refinement, his methods had had only limited success, but the practice, over successive generations, had hung on to the belief that optics had the power to foretell the future.

It certainly seemed to be bearing fruit with me. Mr Stoodley related the story in a dry dusty fashion, but I had already seen what he was going to say in my mind’s eye. He then returned to the frame of lenses and selected a couple which looked significantly thicker than my usual prescription. He slotted them into the trial frame and warned me, “These will make it hard to read the letter chart, but I don’t want you to focus on that at the moment. Just consider the next twelve months as if they were laid out in front of you. What do you see?” My usual eyesight was completely useless, just as Mr Stoodley had said, but, somehow, I had a calendar laid in front of me, swimming with colours I had never experienced. As I attempted to focus on this, the future suddenly seemed clear.

“Uh, it’s all a little hazy,” I lied, attempting to buy some time.

“Just do what you can,” said Mr Stoodley, his breath catching with anticipation, “You’re doing really very well.”

I wasn’t, and I knew it. I knew I was holding most of what I could see back, but I felt that I had to offer him at least some encouragement as a reward for the insight he had offered.

“It looks like your business will be taking quite a downturn next year,” I offered. “And if I were you, I would avoid shellfish for the next six months.”

With this revelation, Mr Stoodley averted his gaze and pressed a button under the counter, which I knew would call Mr Staines back to the consulting room.

Sure enough, Mr Staines’ waistcoat appeared accompanied by Mr Staines himself, and Mr Stoodley left with a curt “Not this one, I’m afraid. Back to the Snellen board…”

“Well now, young Mr Crocker, let’s get back to the usual examination, shall we? This consultation will be on the house, as you’ve helped us with some very important research.”

“Thank you” I said, before Mr Staines completed the examination, gave me a prescription that was very close to my existing one and fitted me with a very snazzy set of frames which came with a rear-view mirrored section for use when cycling.

I was anxious to get out and on with my new-found purpose. If what I had seen was accurate, I didn’t have much time to act.

In February 2020 I learned that Mr Stoodley had died after his wife poisoned a shrimp salad he had eaten as part of an anniversary meal.

“No surprises there,” I thought, as I locked up the warehouse for the night, leaving my new stock of surgical masks and ventilation equipment to wait out the next month or so.

And do you know what? I never looked back.