EAR OF WHEAT
About twenty-five years ago, when I was young and callow, the local GP, regardless of my protests, assigned me to the medical ward. I was twenty-three then, and my husband, Oliver, was twenty-six. Oliver worked as an engineer at a design bureau, while I was finishing university. Two years married, we hadnt started a family yetnappies and cots werent part of our immediate plans.
I fancied myself a proper, faultless wife, but with each passing day, I saw more of Olivers flaws, as if he were a tarnished mirror. It irked me how much time he spent fussing over his motorbike instead of me. I was convinced I could change him, correct those things I found grating. But as it turned out, the one who needed changing was me.
After a grueling term, my body gave out. My stomach ached violently; I felt constantly nauseous, unable to eat or drink.
Take care of your health while youre young, and your dresses so that theyre new as well, said old Dr. Clement Hawthorne, perching his tortoiseshell glasses atop his nose. Dont you go arguing with me, dear Emily. You need a full work-up and proper rest. Off you go now; Ill wash my hands of ityour cares in the hands of my trusted colleagues.
He handed me a hospital form, and, sniffling and wiping away tears, I trudged off to be admitted.
There were four of us in the wardtwo ladies in their fifties, an ancient granny shrouded in a polka-dot cotton headscarf, and me. The old woman was called Edith Mary, and I cant recall the others names.
I wanted nothing to do with anyoneI nursed a burning grudge against the whole world, especially my husband, who, I believed at the time, wished to cast me off and hadnt insisted I be treated as an outpatient instead.
Curled up on my noisy iron cot, knees pulled into my aching stomach and my back to the room, I wallowed in my own misery, silently blaming everyone for my troubles.
Take your jars and tins awayI wont eat this, Id snap at Oliver when he brought me food parcels during visiting hours.
Emmy, come on now. The doctor said steamed cod is just what you need, he pleaded warmly. Just try it, please. I put so much effort into this! How about a little potato too, just a spoonful?
Dont ask, Id reply curtly. I dont want any. Give the fish to the stray catsthough even they probably wouldnt touch this slop.
With a heavy sigh, Oliver would leave, hurt, and Iwanting to cut deeperwould hurl another jibe after him: Dont come again.
But he returned unfailingly, before and after work, always ignoring my stony silence. Every morning, fresh meals, prepared by his hands, would appear on my nightstand, carefully packed and wrapped in a flannel blanket to keep them warm. But I, blind and bitter, couldnt appreciate his patience or love.
When did he manage all this? Looking back, I see now how difficult I made things for him, but then, such things hardly crossed my mind.
The pills, injections, and IVs did nothing. I wasted awaymy cheeks hollowed, bruises formed beneath my eyes. Tests revealed chronic gastritis. Perhaps not the direst diagnosis, youd say, but for me it became a test of character.
After following all the treatments, Id flop onto my creaky bed and stare at nothing. No one would approach me, my negativity radiating like ice. I knew it, but felt helpless to change.
One evening, with the other ladies having gone home for the night, only Edith Mary and I remained.
Cant sleep, Emmy? the old lady asked softly.
No. My stomach hurts, I mumbled irritably, turning away.
You know, dear, Edith continued gently, I stay here thrice yearly, just for a check-up. Ive the same old gastritis you doeasily kept in check at home.
Youre not going to lecture me about healthy eating, are you? I shot back, sharp as a knife. Dont waste your breath. I know all that already.
You misunderstand, Emily, came her humble reply. I mean no insult. You just remind me of myselfbristly and opinionatedabout fifty-five years ago
I listened, unexpectedly drawn in, and turned to look at her properly for the first time. Edith Mary, hunched and small with a pronounced stoop, could have stepped from a forgotten fairy tale. But an extraordinary warmth radiated from herher sky-blue eyes shone with an inner light.
Neighbours, nurses, and doctors often slipped into our room, speaking earnestly with Edith. Shed listen quietly, nodding in sympathy, rarely interrupting. When tears were spent and conversation ended, shed offer quiet words, and her visitors would invariably leave, sometimes still teary, but more often with relieved smiles.
In gratitude, discharged patients brought gifts: a packet of digestives, a bottle of milk, the scarce luxury of marshmallow sweets in a cardboard box, or jars of stewed fruit, chocolates, and jelly sweets. Edith received each with hugs and thanks, dabbing away grateful tears with her faded hanky.
If youll listen, Emily, Ill tell you a storya true one, she said, forming a smile, though her eyes remained mournful, deep with untold sorrow. Suddenly she looked fragile, as defenseless as a little girl.
Im sorry for being so rude, Edith Mary, I replied, guilt making me earnest. Please, Id really like to hear your story.
Start by eating your soup, first, she said, pointing to a jar wrapped in blankets.
Obediently, I took a spoonful, expecting to grimace, but instead the pain in my stomach eased at once. To my surprise, I finished almost half the portionand liked it!
Well, picky, how does it taste? Edith asked, smiling.
Its lovely, I admitted, honestly.
Go slow now, thoughyouve starved your poor stomach long enough. Eat little and often now, you hear? Youll be fine, but you must learn to respect othersespecially your husband. He loves you, Emily. Dont push him away or be so prideful. Enough of this; I promised you my story.
She sipped tea from an aluminum mug and soaked a slice of rusk in it.
I was one of seven siblings. Our eldest, Ignatius, died in childhood, and the youngest, Martha, passed away with a fever when I was seven, she began, her voice steady. My father worked at the mill, my mother kept house. She was a skilled seamstress; half our village wore dresses made by her.
I loved books, excelled in school, and trained as a teacher. Ambitious and fresh out of college, I returned home to teach. Suitors from the village came calling, but I sent them all packing.
Ugh, Id sneer to Mother, Who is this Fred? A stablehand? I shant marry him. Id rather stay single than be a cattlemans wife, smelling of muck. Or Ivan? A drunk. Nathaniel, the accordionist across the lanea cad. Godfrey, the shepherd, cant even read! I cant live with such men! Please, spare me!
Mother and Father shook their heads, unable to compel me.
One day, the city sent a new headmaster to our village of Little Ashton. Tall and dashing with clear blue eyes, he charmed me at once. He was calm, patient, and kindthe children adored him. After lessons, hed tutor struggling pupils, never asking a shilling for it.
We married soon after.
My mother often advised me, Now, Edith, show your husband a gentle face, none of your stubbornness. Hes a good man. Dont let pride ruin things. But I paid her little mind.
Both schoolteachers, we welcomed our first daughter, Victoria, three years into marriage. Vic was delicate and often ill; she had a heart defect. She died aged eleven, just before the Second World War. Our second, Valerie, was the image of her fatherbright, beautiful, ever so clever with her needle.
My husband, Charles, frequently travelled to London on business and always brought me fabricsMother would sew me stylish dresses. I became the village trendsetter! Yet I turned up my nose: the patterns werent quite right, the textures too drab. Not once could Charles please me.
In 1933, a dreadful famine swept the land. Every month, wed divide our stores into thirty fair pilesto last us through. Even now, Emily, I never throw away melon or pumpkin seeds.
For the whole family, wed have two or three potatoes a day, a handful of grain or seeds, an onion, a carrot, few precious melon seeds and sunflower seeds, a spoon of dripping, and a mug of dark flour. Id tie the provisions up in little cloth bags and hide them away. If wed eaten everything at once, we would have perished, like so many neighboursdevouring their stores, then left with nothing but empty stomachs.
Beyond our village was a field thick with wheat, guarded day and night. The temptation to snatch a bundle of stalks was immense, but fear of getting caught and thrown in jail for theft kept us at bay.
One night, desperate, we crept out. The children were in bed, and Charles and I stole to the field, heart pounding. We bent low, plucking ears of wheat, when suddenly hoofbeats thunderedan overseer patrolling his land!
We fled, dropping everything, cowering in a lilac bush. We werent seen, but when I returned home, I realised my skirt was gonelost in flight. Thin as a beanstalk from hunger, it must have slipped off as I shook wheat from my hem!
Edith pulled a raisin-studded rusk from her mug and nibbled thoughtfully. I hung on her every word.
In utter despair, I wept and wailed. If someone found my skirtwell-known in the villageId surely be arrested! My wailing woke the children, and soon we all sobbed together.
Enough of this! Charles barked, his voice stern. To bed, all of you! Dont wake the neighbours with your tears. Ill fetch your skirt by morning, Edith, I promise.
I lay awake all night, haunted by visions of prison bunks and my children as orphans. At dawn, Charles brought my skirt home, rescuing me from arrest.
Edith placed her empty mug on the table and gently tucked my fallen blanket around me.
I learned after that to treat my husband with the respect he truly deserved. I bit my tongue and never spoke ill of him again.
And after that? I ventured.
We barely scraped by, but by Gods grace, none of us starved. Once the war came in 41, Charles enlisted. Valerie and I were left alone. The Germans seized Little Ashton, and because I refused to collaborate, they burned our cottage. Then
Her voice trembled.
Theyharmed my daughter. Valerie couldnt endure her suffering and passed away. I was pregnant then, and from grief lost the child. Charles and I were to have a son
I sensed Edith crying, and gently hugged her. We sat, arms around each other, until first light.
What did we talk about? I dont remember.
When the sun finally rose, she said, In 43, I received word Charles was missing in actionpresumed dead. I never learned where he was buried. After the war, I travelled from village to village, working and living where I could. When I retired, my niece took me in to her small city flat. I still come to hospital for treatmentits easier on dear Tamara, and I manage to save a little. Tamara loves a sweet, so I buy her chocolate from every pension. She beams, like its treasure, not just chocolate! Dont spend money on me, she always protests.
I wondered at this frail womansuch strength, kindness, and virtue in one so battered by life, yet unbroken, always helping others. And there was I, discontent with everything, though I had a loving husband and family safe.
Soon, I began to recover. My appetite returned; the pain faded.
A year later, Oliver and I welcomed our firstborn, Michael, and four years after that our much-hoped for daughter, whom we named Edith.
Since then, I feel like scales have fallen from my eyes. At last, I see how wonderful Oliver truly isskilled, caring, endlessly patient. I had to change so much about myself and let go of all my petty grievances.
Now, whenever I begin to bristle at him, I remember Edith Marys story of the wheat, and how Oliver nursed me when I was at my lowest. The more I help others, the lighter and happier my heart becomes.
Sometimes I wonderwas it my own fractured character that made me so ill back then? What do you think?
