EARS OF WHEAT
About twenty-five years ago, back when I was young and a bit naïve, the local surgery doctor decideddespite all my objectionsto send me off to the general medical ward.
At that time, I was twenty-three, and my husband, Andrew, had just turned twenty-six. Andrew worked as an engineer at a design office, and I was finishing university. We were two years into our marriage, not quite ready for babies and nappiesthose were plans for the distant future.
I thought of myself as a model wife, nearly flawless, honestly. Andrew, thoughwell, the longer we were together, the more Id start seeing all his little faults. Especially how much time he spent tinkering with his beloved motorbike instead of with me. I was convinced I could change those habits of his that annoyed me. Turns out, I had it all wrongthe one who really needed to change was me.
Following a really stressful term at uni, my body just couldnt take it anymore and my stomach started acting up in a horrible way. I was sick, couldnt eat or drink a thing.
My dear, said grey-haired Dr. Kenneth Withers, perching his glasses on the end of his nose, take care of your health while youre young, and your clothes while theyre new. Dont argue with me, Kate. You need a thorough check-up and proper treatment. Then, giving me a referral slip, he washed his hands of the whole affair and left it to his respected colleagues.
So, wiping tears away as I walked, I checked myself into hospital.
In the ward, there were four of ustwo ladies in their fifties, a petite elderly woman in a faded spotty headscarf called Mrs. Edith Morris, and me. Ive long forgotten the other two womens names.
Honestly, I wasnt in the mood to speak to anybodyI felt hard done by, especially by my husband who, in my mind back then, was secretly glad to see the back of me and hadnt kicked up a fuss about me being looked after at home.
Curled up on my narrow metal bed, facing the wall, I wallowed in my misery, blaming everyone, especially Andrew.
Take away your jars and carriersIm not touching any of that, I would grumble when Andrew brought in homemade food.
But Kate, the doctor said steamed fish is just what you need, hed answer gently, I even made some mashed potatoesplease, just a spoonful?
Dont ask, Id snap, Im not eating that. Give it to the neighbourhood cats, though even they might turn their noses up at it.
Hed sigh and leave, disappointed, and I made sure to add a few parting words to make him feel even worse.
Dont come back, Id declare loudly every time.
Still, Andrew came to see me before and after work, ignoring my whining. Every morning, Id find fresh food he made by my bedside, packed up warmly so I could have a hot meal. But I, in my stubborn state, didnt appreciate his effort or patience one bit.
When did he even have time to make all those different meals? Now I realise how hard it was for him, but back then, it didnt cross my mind.
None of the tablets, injections or drips seemed to help me. I got thinner, my cheeks were hollow, and I had huge dark circles under my eyes. After a thorough check-up, they diagnosed me with chronic gastritis. I know, it doesnt sound dramatic, but for me, it felt like a test I wasnt sure Id pass.
After all the hospital procedures, Id just lie there, staring into nothing. No one wanted to approach me since I was radiating negativity, and honestly, I knew it but just couldnt help myself.
One night, with the other women gone home for the evening, it was just Mrs. Morris and me left.
Not asleep, dear? she asked softly.
No. My stomach hurts, I grumbled, turning away.
You know, love, she continued, I wind up in this hospital three times a year myselfjust to be on the safe side. I have the same thing as you, just gastritis that you can manage at home.
Are you about to give me another lecture on healthy eating? I hissed, Dont bother. I know it all already.
No, Kate, you misunderstand me, she replied, completely calm. You remind me of myself, you know. I was just as prickly and stubborn, some fifty-five years ago.
For the first time, I really looked at her. Tiny, with a stooped back, Mrs. Morris had these bright, pale blue eyes that seemed to glow with warmth. Despite her small size, there was something almost magical about her.
I recalled how people constantly popped in from other wards to see her: men, women, even staff. Theyd share their stories, spilling their hearts out while she quietly listened, never interrupting. Once they finished, shed murmur a few words, and theyd nod in agreement. Some left with tears, but more often with little smiles.
When people left the hospital, theyd always thank her with small presentsa packet of biscuits, a bottle of yoghurt, perhaps a rare box of marshmallows, tins of fruit puree, or some sweets. Shed hug them, bless them, and after, dab her eyes with her hanky.
You know, Katie, if youve got the patience to listen, Ill tell you a story from my life that Ive never shared before, she said softly.
Her words made her wrinkles melt away for a moment, and she suddenly looked like a frightened, fragile little girl.
Im sorry I was so rude, Mrs. Morris, I said honestly, I really want to hear.
Well, why dont you have some soup first? she gestured to the jar wrapped up on my table.
I did as I was told. When I tasted the soup, expecting the worst but forcing it down for politeness sake, I was shocked to find my stomach stopped hurting. I managed nearly half the jar. And it was delicious!
Feeling better, fussy? Mrs. Morris grinned, Tasty, isnt it?
Yes, very, I admitted.
Dont overdo it, now. After starving your belly like that, start slowsmall portions but often. Things will pick up, but you need to learn to respect others, especially your husband. He does love youdont push him away and carry on like Madame Prima Donna. Anyway, enough lecturing. Let me tell you my story.
She paused, sipped her tea from a battered old mug, dipping a rusk into it.
I grew up in a family of seven, she began, My oldest brother, John, died young. Little Maggie, my baby sister, was taken by typhoid when I was just seven. My father worked at the factory, Mum looked after us and everyone elses sewinghalf the village wore her dresses and shirts.
I loved reading and did well at school, went to train as a teacher, and not long after that, came back as a young school mistress. All the local lads tried their luck, but I turned every single one down!
Ugh, I would tell my mother, look at him, whats thatFred the stable boy? Not a chance! Who wants to marry a stable boy, with his arms caked in grime and reeking of the stables? And Joe next dooralways at the pub! Billy, with his accordion, flirts with everyone; Tom the shepherd cant even read, what would we talk about? Dont even! Id rather stay single forever than marry an unpolished lout!
My parents just shook their heads but couldnt change my mind.
One day, our villageRosefield, it was calledgot a new school headmaster from the city. Tall, fit, blue-eyed and handsome, he stole my heart without even trying. The kids loved him, toofair-minded and patient, always giving his time to those struggling, and refusing to take a penny for extra tutoring.
Soon enough, we married.
Mrs. Morris got up and tucked my pillow under my head before settling back down.
My mother always warned meMillie, dont show your full temper to your husband. Be gentle, for goodness sake! Hes a good man, dont let your pride ruin it. Of course, I ignored her and carried on as I pleased
We worked together at the school, and three years into our marriage, our first daughter, Vicky, was born, a delicate child with a heart defect. She died aged just eleven, just before the war broke out. Our second daughter, Valerie, was the spitting image of her dadbright, beautiful, and handy with her needlework. Andrew often went off to London for conferences and would bring back lovely fabrics, which Mum would stitch into blouses and skirts for me. I was the best-dressed woman in Rosefield! Though even then, Id turn up my nosewrong colour, wrong pattern, nothing ever quite right. There was no pleasing me.
Then came the hunger years of 1933. At the start of the month, wed divide what little we had into thirty pilesenough for each day. Even now, Kate, I never throw away the seeds from melons or pumpkins.
Each day, we made do with two or three potatoes, a bit of grain, an onion, a carrot, a handful of melon seeds, a dollop of lard, and a glass of coarse flour. Id tie up our rations tightly and hide them awayif we hadnt done that, wed have eaten everything in one go and starved for the rest of the month, just like many of our neighbours did.
Behind Rosefield was a field of wheat, guarded day and night. The temptation to nab just a few ears of grain was immense, but the fear of being caught, and sent to prison for it, was greater.
One night, Andrew and I, desperate from hunger and not wanting to see our girls starve, decided to sneak into the field and pick a bit of wheat. By night, we crept out carefully, watching all sides, and started gathering ears of wheat.
Suddenlyhoofbeats! Somebody patrolling on horseback! We dropped everything and dove into a lilac bush on the far side of the field, hearts pounding. Thankfully, we stayed hidden.
We returned home empty-handed. Thats when I realised my skirt was missing. Id lost so much weight it must have slipped off as I was shaking out the wheat! And everyone in Rosefield knew that skirt…
Mrs. Morris gave me a humourless smile, chewing her tea-soaked rusk.
Honestly, I broke down. If someone found that skirt on the field, Id face arrestI just knew it. We all started crying, me and the girls, hugging them like we were saying goodbye.
Quiet now! said Andrew, his eyes fierce. Everyone off to bed. We dont need the neighbours waking up. When its light, Ill find your skirt, Millie.
I lay awake all night, picturing myself in a prison cell, the girls left as orphans. But, just as he said, Andrew found my skirt in the wheat in the morning and brought it home. He saved me from prison.
She placed her empty mug aside, tucked the blanket back around me, and continued:
From that day on, I treated him with the respect and gratitude he truly deserved. I learned to bite my tongue and never say a cross word about him again.
And what happened next? I asked.
Oh, we barely scraped by, but thanks to God, no one in our family starved. As things got a bit easier, the war came in 41. Andrew went off to fight. Valerie and I were left alone. Before long, the Germans took Rosefield. Because I wouldnt cooperate, they burned our home… and my daughter
Her voice trembled.
They… they mistreated her. Valerie didnt survive it. At that time I was pregnant… I lost the baby. Andrew and I were to have had a son, but…
In the stillness, I heard her quiet sobs. I stood and gently wrapped my arms around her. We sat like that, together, until the dawn.
What did we talk about? I honestly dont remember.
When the sun finally rose, she said:
In 43, I received a telegram: Andrew missing in action, presumed dead. I never learned where he was buried. After the Germans were driven out, I journeyed from village to village, teaching where I could and living in schools. After retiring, my niece took me in, here in her one-bedroom flat. I come to hospital now and thenfor a bit of a health check, to stay out of her way, and save a bit of my pension. I like to buy Tamara sweets, you knowshe gets so excited, as if theyre diamonds, not just chocolate. She always says I shouldnt fuss over her.
I looked at radiant, fragile Mrs. Morris and just couldnt fathom how she had survived so muchhow she held so much strength, kindness, and goodness despite everything shed been through, and still found the time to help others. If Id tried to tell her how remarkable she was, she wouldnt have understood a word of it. And here I was, always griping, though I had everythinga loving husband, family all alive…
Not long after, my own health started to turn around. I could eat again little by little, and the pain vanished.
A year later, Andrew and I had our first son, Michael, and four years after that, our long-awaited daughterwhom we named after Mrs. Morris: Edith.
You know, since then, it was like scales had fallen from my eyes. At last, I saw how lucky I was with Andrewa caring, handy, and patient man. I had to do a lot of changing myself and let go of my silly complaints.
Whenever I get cross with my husband, I remember Mrs. Morriss story of those ears of wheatand how Andrew cared for me when I was at my lowest. And the more I started to look for ways to help others, the happier I became.
I cant help but wonder if all that illness back then was just down to my rotten temper. What do you think?
