EAR OF WHEAT.
About twenty-five years ago, when I was young and rather inexperienced, the district GP, despite all my protests, sent me to the medical ward at the city hospital.
Back then I was twenty-three, and my husband, Oliver, was twenty-six. Oliver worked as an engineer at a design firm, while I was finishing my studies at university. Wed been married for two years but hadnt started thinking about children yetbabies werent really in our plans at the time.
I saw myself as the ideal wifehardly a fault to my name. But with Oliver, with each passing day, I seemed to find more and more to be dissatisfied about. For instance, I didnt like how much attention he lavished on his motorbike instead of me. I was sure I could change all those traits in Oliver that I didnt approve of. Turns out, I was quite mistaken, and it was me who needed to change.
After a stressful and exhausting set of exams, my body just gave up; my stomach started hurting terribly. I was constantly nauseous and couldnt keep down food or water.
Look after your health while youre young and your clothes while theyre new, said wise old Dr. Humphrey Lawson, adjusting his horn-rimmed spectacles on his nose. And do not try to argue with me, Katie. You need a proper check-up and treatment. Ive done all I canIm washing my hands of it now, my dear. My esteemed colleagues will look after you from here.
He handed me my hospital admission form and, sniffling and wiping away tears, I went off to get checked in.
There were four of us in the wardtwo ladies in their fifties, a tiny old woman of indeterminate age who wore a white polka-dot headscarf, and me. The old lady was called Edith Jenkins; I’ve long forgotten the other two women’s names.
I wasnt interested in talking to anyoneI was cross with the entire world, but most of all with my husband. I thought he just wanted to get rid of me and hadnt fought hard enough for me to be treated as an outpatient.
With my knees pulled up to my chest and facing the wall, I lay sulking on my narrow iron hospital bed, indulging in my own misery and silently blaming everyone for my problems.
Take your jars and tinsIm not eating any of it, I snapped at Oliver whenever he brought me packets of food.
But Katie, the doctor said steamed sea fish is exactly what you need right now, Oliver would say kindly. Just try it, will you? Please? I made some potatoes too, have at least one spoonful.
Oh, dont bother! Id reply crossly. Feed your fish to the alley catsthey probably wouldnt touch that stuff either.
Oliver would sigh in defeat and leave, and Id try to hurt him even more with some cutting remark.
Dont come to see me again, Id tell him every time.
Yet Oliver always camebefore and after workignoring my sulks. Every morning, thered be fresh food on my bedside table, lovingly prepared by his hands. Hed carefully wrap the glass containers in a flannel blanket so theyd stay warm for me. Sadly, I never appreciated his patience and love at the time.
How did he even find the time to cook up such varied meals for me? Now I realise life was not easy for him with me, but back then such trivialities hardly crossed my mind.
Pills, injections, and drips werent helping. I was wasting away before everyones eyeslosing weight, cheeks hollow, huge dark shadows under my eyes. I was poked and prodded in every way and finally diagnosed with chronic gastritis. You might think thats hardly a life-threatening illness, but for me, it was a test of endurance.
After going through all the doctorly instructions, I would lie on my creaky bed staring at nothing. No one wanted to approach me, probably because I radiated nothing but negativity. I knew it, but couldnt do anything to change myself.
One night, the other two ladies in our ward went home, leaving me alone with Edith Jenkins.
Not asleep, are you, Katie? the old lady asked quietly.
No. My stomach hurts, I replied gloomily, turning over.
You know, love, Edith continued, I come in here three times a yearjust for a bit of a check, really. Ive got the very same gastritis as you, which, if Im honest, can be kept in check at home.
What, are you about to give me a lecture on healthy eating? I snapped. Dont waste your breath. Ive heard it all before.
You misunderstand me, Katie, Edith replied calmly. I wouldnt dream of scolding you. The truth is, you remind me so much of my younger self. I used to be just as prickly and stubborn about fifty-five years ago.
I started to listen more carefully and turned towards her.
She was tiny and hunched, not unlike a character from some old storybookyet she radiated such warmth! Her eyes, pale and gentle blue, seemed to glow with kindness.
I remembered then how people from neighbouring rooms often visited hermen, women, staff. Theyd talk and talk, and Edith would just listen, nodding, never interrupting, until the flow of words dried upthen shed say something quietly, and her visitors would nod in understanding.
People left in tears or, more often, with a smile.
Before being discharged, grateful former patients brought her small presentsa packet of biscuits, a bottle of kefir, a rare treat like a box of marshmallows, jars of baby puree, chocolates, or fruit gummies.
Edith thanked everyone warmly and would give them a hug, then, when theyd gone, shed discreetly wipe a tear from her eye.
You know, Katie, if youre willing, Ill tell you a story from my lifesomething Ive never shared, she said, her lips smiling but her eyes deep with unspoken sorrow. The sight made me ashamed of my own rudeness and bad temper.
For a moment, the wrinkles on Ediths face seemed to melt away, and she looked like a scared, vulnerable little girl.
Im sorry for snapping earlier, Edith, I replied. And Id really love to hear your story.
Well, have some meatball soup first, she said, pointing at a jar wrapped in a blanket.
I obediently took the jar. On autopilot, I went to grimace at the first spoonfulbut I stopped myself, and as soon as I tasted it, my stomach eased and the pain lessened. I ate nearly half the soupand it was delicious!
So, the fussy one enjoyed her supper? Edith smiled. Tasty?
Yes, very, I admitted.
Well, dont overdo it at once, or youll knock your stomach for six. You need little and often now, after all the strain. Youll be fine, love, but you need to learn to respect others, especially your husband. He loves you. Dont push him away or be moody. But enough about that. I promised you my storyone Ive never told anyone.
Edith paused for a sip of tea from her battered aluminium mug, dunking a rusk in it.
I grew up in a big familyseven of us children. My oldest brother, Edwin, died in early childhood, and my youngest sister, Mary, passed away from fever when I was about seven, Edith began. Dad worked at the local factory and Mum kept the house, sewing most of our clothes. Half the village wore dresses and shirts made by her.
I was a keen reader and good at school, so after I finished, I went off to teacher training college, then returned to our village as a young, ambitious teacher. Suitors from the village came knocking, but I turned every single one away.
Ugh, Id tell Mum, who is this Frank fellow? A stable hand? I cant marry a stable hand! Id end up covered in mud and smelling of manure! Or Dave from next doorthe drunkard, or Neil the accordion playera waster. Billy the shepherd cant even read, what would we talk about? Id rather be single forever than marry a rough country bloke!
My parents would shake their heads, but never managed to change my mind.
Then one day, a new young headmaster, Charles, was posted to our village from the citytall, slim, blue-eyed, and handsome, he stole my heart straight away. The children adored him: calm, wise, and kind, hed stay after lessons to tutor struggling pupils free of charge.
Soon we married.
Edith stood up, plumped my pillow, and continued.
Mum would always say, Be gentle with your husband, Millie, dont let your pride get the better of you. But I never listened. I insisted on doing everything my way.
Charles and I worked at the school together. Three years after we married, our first daughter, Victoria, was borna fragile little thing with a heart defect. She passed away at eleven, just before the Second World War. Our second daughter, Alice, was the spitting image of her dadbright, beautiful, incredibly talented.
Charles often had to go to conferences in London and would bring me back nice bits of fabric for Mum to sew into new clothes. I was the best-dressed woman in the village, but I was never satisfiedthe pattern was wrong, or the colour not right, the wool too thin or too dark. Whatever Charles did, it was never enough for me.
Then, in 1933, the country was struck by harsh rationing. Each month we divided our meagre food into thirty piles, so it would last. To this day, I never throw away a single melon or pumpkin seed.
Daily, all we had to share was two or three small potatoes, a handful of lentils, an onion, a carrot, a few seeds, a spoon of dripping, and a cup of wholemeal flour. Id stash away our precious rations carefully. If we didnt, wed be left starving within days, like so many neighbours.
Beyond our village was a wheat field, closely guarded night and day. It was so tempting to gather just a little, but the thought of being caught and sent to prison for stealing kept us away.
One desperate night, Charles and I decided to sneak out to the fieldit hurt too much to see our children go hungry, and we were starving ourselves. Id dream of warm, buttered bread and baked potatoes, only to wake up with my stomach rumbling.
We put the children to bed and snuck through the gardens to the field, glancing everywhere, snatching at the ears of wheat in the darkness.
Suddenlythunder of hooves! The night watchman patrolling in his cart! We dropped everything and dashed to the opposite hedge, hiding among the lilacs. Thankfully, he didnt spot us.
We scurried home empty-handed, but once inside, I realised my skirt was missing! Id lost so much weight, it must have slipped off while sneaking through the field, probably when I shook the wheat from it.
Edith fished a sultana-studded rusk from her mug and chewed contentedly.
I listened, hanging on every word.
I broke down that night, knowing my skirt would be recognised and could lead to my arrest. The children woke to the sound of my sobbing, and soon we were all in tears.
Charles sternly told us to hush and go back to bed before the neighbours heard. Ill find your skirt at first light, love, he promised. I didnt sleep, picturing myself in prison and the children left orphans.
At dawn, Charles found my skirt among the sheaves and brought it home. He saved me.
Edith set her empty mug down, tucked my blanket around me, and continued, After that, I treated Charles very differentlywith the respect he truly deserved. I learned to keep my mouth shut and never again criticised him so harshly.
And afterwards? I asked.
Well, life was always a struggle, but by Gods grace, we made it through. In ’41, war broke out, and Charles joined the army. Alice and I were left alone. Soon, the Germans occupied our village. When I refused to cooperate, they burnt down our house and what they did to my Alice
Ediths voice trembled.
They They hurt her terribly. Alice didnt survive it. I was pregnant then, but lost my baby from grief. Charles and I were meant to have a son
Edith began to cry. I stood and gently hugged her.
We stayed like that, arms around each other, until dawn.
What did we talk about? I cant remember.
By sunrise, she said, In ’43, I received a telegram saying Charles was missing, presumed dead. In all the years since, Ive never found out where hes buried.
After the war, I travelled all over the country, teaching in various little schools. When I retired, my niece took me in to her tiny flat in the city. I come to hospital now and then; they take care of me, and I dont bother dear Tamsin as much or spend as much. She loves a sweet, so I buy her chocolate out of each pensioneven though she protests, youd think Id given her diamonds!
I looked at Edith Jenkins, wondering how so much strength, kindness, and goodness could be contained within someone so frail. Shed suffered so much, yet stayed gentle. If I told her this, shed protest! While I, with a loving husband and my family alive, always found something to grumble about.
Soon, I began to recover, eating little by little, free of pain at last.
A year later, I gave birth to our first son, Michael, and four years later to our long-awaited daughter. We named the girl Edith.
Since then, its like scales fell from my eyes. Only then did I really see how good Oliver wasthoughtful, skilled, patient. I had to change so much in myself, to keep my demands in check!
Whenever I find myself annoyed with Oliver, I remember Edith Jenkins story of the wheat, and how well Oliver cared for me when I was at my worst. And when I started helping others, I actually became so much happier.
Sometimes I wonder, did I suffer all that illness because of my own difficult character? What do you think?
