THE EARS OF WHEAT
It happened about twenty-five years ago, when I was still young and a bit headstrong. Despite my protests, the local GP assigned me to the medical ward.
At the time, I had just turned twenty-three, and my husband, Harry, was twenty-six. Harry worked as an engineer at the design bureau, and I was finishing my final year at university. Wed been married for two years, but hadnt yet thought about having childrennappies and cots werent on our minds.
I fancied myself the perfect, dutiful wife, nearly free of faults. But with Harry, it seemed the more I looked, the more flaws I found. What irked me most was how much time he spent tinkering with his motorcycle instead of being with me. I was sure I could remake him into what I wanted. As it turned out, I was sorely mistakenif anyone needed changing, it was me.
After a particularly gruelling set of exams, my body gave out; my stomach hurt terribly, nausea swept over me, and I couldnt keep down a bite or a sip.
My dear, said Dr. Timothy Lawrence with a gentle smile, adjusting his thick spectacles, you must look after your health while youre young, and mind your dresses when theyre new. No arguing now, Emily. You ought to be thoroughly checked and properly treated. Thats final. Ive done all I can, now its in my colleagues hands.
He pressed my hospital slip into my hand, and, sniffling and wiping away tears, I trudged off to be admitted.
The ward held four of us: two ladies in their fifties, a petite elderly woman with white hair and a polka-dotted headscarf called Mrs. Ellen Harris, and me. I dont recall the other womens names.
I had no desire to socialiseI was resentful at the world, but mostly at my husband. I convinced myself he secretly wanted me out of the way and hadnt tried hard enough to keep me home as an outpatient.
Huddled on the narrow spring cot, knees pulled to my chest and facing the wall, I stewed in self-pity and cast silent blame for my misery on everyone.
Take away your jars and bottlesIm not eating any of it, I would snap at Harry whenever he brought in food parcels.
Come now, darling, Dr. Lawrence said steamed cod is just what you need, hed urge, please, just a taste. Theres some mashed potatoes as welljust a spoonful?
Dont bother, Id retort, I dont want it. Feed it to the stray cats outsideif theyll eat such rubbish.
With a heavy sigh, Harry would leave, crestfallen, and, to hurt him, Id fire a cutting remark as he walked out.
Dont come again, I threatened every time.
Yet still, Harry visited before and after work, impervious to my sharp tongue. Each morning, a fresh mealcooked by his own handsappeared on my bedside table. Hed carefully wrap the jars in a flannel blanket to keep them warm for me, but I had no appreciation for his patience or love.
When had he found time to make such varied food? Only now do I realise how tough it must have been for him. At the time, I barely gave it a thought.
Despite the medications, injections, and drips, nothing worked. I was wasting awaymy cheeks hollowed, shadows darkened beneath my eyes. After endless tests, they diagnosed me with chronic gastritis. It may sound trivial, but it proved my own ordeal.
After the prescribed treatments, Id collapse onto my creaking bed and stare blankly at the ceiling. My room-mates kept their distancea cloud of misery hovered around me, and I knew it, but could do nothing about it.
One evening, both women in my ward got permission to spend the night at home, leaving just me and Mrs. Harris.
Cant sleep, Emily? Mrs. Harris asked softly.
No. Stomachs hurting, I muttered, turning away.
You know, dear, she said gently, I end up in this hospital three times a year, just in case. Ive got the same tiresome gastritis youve got; its easy enough to manage at home.
What, planning to lecture me on healthy eating? I snapped. Dont waste your breath. I already know.
Mrs. Harris took no offense. You misunderstand, my dear. You remind me of myself, long agotetchy and proud.
Her words softened me, and I found myself listening. I glanced at her properly for the first time. Short, slight, hunchedlike something from a fairytale. Yet there was a warming glow from her, and her bright blue eyes radiated warmth and light. It seemed she glowed from within.
I remembered then how people from neighbouring wards always drifted in to speak to Mrs. Harris: both patients and staff, confiding in her, gesticulating with excitement or distress. Shed simply nod and listen, saying little, but her words always seemed to calm them. Some left with tears, more left with smiles. Before discharge, a grateful former patient might bring her some shortbread, a carton of milk, a precious bar of chocolatesmall gestures, but received with heartfelt thanks and a gentle hug. When theyd gone, shed dab her eyes with her handkerchief.
If youre willing, Ill tell you a story from my own life, Mrs. Harris said, lips curving into a small smile but her eyes still sad, brimming with deep sorrow. I felt ashamed of my earlier harshness.
Im sorry I was rude, I said. PleaseId like to hear it.
Why dont you have a bit of this soup first? she suggested, nodding to the jar wrapped in the blanket.
Obediently, I reached for the jar. I almost grimaced by habit, but when I took the first spoonful, my stomach unclenched, and the pain eased. I ate nearly half. Miraculously, it actually tasted wonderful.
Well, little miss fussy, enjoyed it? Mrs. Harris asked.
I have. Truly, its lovely.
Careful now, dont overdo itthe stomachs out of practice. Eat small amounts, often. Youll be fine, but remember to respect othersespecially your husband. He loves you dearly. Dont push him away with your tempers. But enough from me. I promised you a story Ive never told anyone.
She fell silent, took a sip of tea from her battered metal mug, and dunked in a little biscuit.
I came from a large family. There were seven of us children. My eldest brother, Ignatius, died of tuberculosis in his youth, and little Martha was lost to fever when I was only seven. My father worked at the local foundry, mother kept house and sewed marvelouslyhalf the village wore her dresses and shirts.
I loved to read and was a good student. After school, I went to college to train as a village schoolteacher, and returned after graduation full of ambition. Suitors came calling, but I turned them down, one after another.
Ugh, Mum, Id say disdainfully. Who is this Fred? The groom? Smells of horses. Vince from next door? A drunk. Nick the accordion player? A layabout. Ben the shepherd? Dim as a post, cant even read! Im not living with a shepherd! Dont push me. Better a spinster for life than a farmhands wife.
My parents shook their heads, unable to change my mind.
Then, one day, a new headteacher arrived in our villageyoung, tall, blue-eyed, and handsome. I lost my heart in an instant. The children adored him; he helped struggling students after hours for nothing, simply because he cared. Soon, we married.
Mrs. Harris paused, fluffed my pillow, and continued: Mother always cautioned meBe gentle with your husband and lose the pride. Hes a fine man, dont be haughty. But I paid little heed, insisting I knew best.
Together, my husbandNathanieland I worked at the school. Three years after we married, our first daughter, Victoria, was born. She was frail and often ill, with a heart defect. Victoria died at eleven, just before the Second World War. Our second daughter, Alice, was the image of her fatherbeautiful and clever, talented beyond her years.
Nathaniel often traveled to town for meetings, bringing back lengths of fabric for me, which my mother would turn into new dresses. I was the villages best dressedbut still I found fault. Not the colour I wanted, not the pattern or the texture. Nothing could quite please me.
In 33, the hunger started. At the start of each month, wed parcel out our food into thirty small heaps to last usthree potatoes a day for the family, a handful of oats or barley, an onion, a carrot, a spoon of dripping, a mug of coarse flour. Id tie up these tiny treasures in handkerchiefs and hide them. Had we not, wed have perished like so many neighbourswho ate everything at once, then had nothing but hunger left.
Beyond our village lay a wheat field, always guarded. Hunger gnawed at us, but the risk was terrifyingcaught stealing and youd land in prison.
One night, Nathaniel and I couldnt bear it any longer. We put the children to bed and snuck out, slinking silently into the field, gathering fallen wheat ears as quickly as we could.
We suddenly heard hoovesthe night watch was making his rounds. We fled into the lilacs at the edge of the field, dropping the wheat, hearts hammering. He didnt see us, thank goodness, but when I got home, my skirt was goneI was so thin, it mustve slipped off as Id shaken out the wheat into the bushes.
Mrs. Harris dunked her biscuit again, chewing thoughtfully.
Despairing, I sobbed uncontrollably. Everyone would recognise that skirtif found, Id be done for. The children woke to my wailing, hugging me and weeping too.
Enough! Hush, all of you, Nathaniel ordered. Off to bed, before you wake the neighbours. Ill find your skirt at first light.
I could barely sleep, seeing myself in prison and the children orphaned. True to his word, Nathaniel recovered my skirt from the field at dawn. Hed saved me from certain imprisonment.
Mrs. Harris set her mug down, tucked my fallen blanket around me, and carried on:
After that, I treated my husband differentlywith the respect and gratitude he had always deserved. I bit my tongue and stopped complaining.
What happened then? I asked.
Well, we just managed to keep going; no one in our family was lost to hunger, thank God. When the war broke out in 41, Nathaniel volunteered and went to the front, leaving Alice and me alone. The Germans occupied our village and, when I refused to collaborate, they burned our home. My poor Alice
She faltered, her voice breaking.
They… they violated her, she whispered. Alice couldnt survive the trauma. She died. I was pregnant at the time, but lost the baby from grief. Wed been expecting a son
I heard Mrs. Harris quietly sobbing. I reached out and gently held her. Side by side we sat, arms around each other, until morning crept in with the dawn.
What we said to each other, I cant quite recall.
When the sun finally stole into the ward, she said quietly,
In 43, I received word Nathaniel was missing in actionpresumed dead. All these years after the war, I never discovered where he was buried. When the Germans left, I travelled from village to village with my few belongings, working in different schools, always moving. When I retired, my niece took me in to her one-bedroom flat in the city. I still come to the hospital now and thenthey patch me up, Im less trouble for Tamara, and it saves a bit of my pension. Tamara loves a treatI buy her chocolate with each payment. She grins like a child, as though it were diamonds rather than Dairy Milk. She always asks me not to spend money on her.
I looked at this extraordinary woman in awe: how could so much gentleness and resilience, warmth and grace, live in someone so frail? She had suffered and lost so much, but never turned bittershe even gave help to others. Had I tried to praise her, she would not have understood! Yet there I was, dissatisfied, though I had everythingmy loving husband, my family alive and safe.
Soon I began to recover; I started to eat properly, and the pain vanished.
A year later, Harry and I welcomed our first child, little Michael, and four years on, our long-awaited daughter, whom we named Ellen.
Since then, its as if a veil was lifted from me. I finally saw what a good man I had in Harrycaring, clever, endlessly patient. I had to change myself, to lower my expectations and truly appreciate him. Whenever I grow angry with him, I recall Mrs. Harriss story of the wheat, and remember the times Harry cared for me in my illness. And since Ive started helping others too, Ive found happiness myself.
Sometimes I wonderwas it my sour temper that made me ill back then? What do you think?
