THE EARS OF WHEAT
About twenty-five years ago, when I was still quite young and, frankly, rather naive, the local GP packed me off to the medical ward, despite all my objections. I was twenty-three at the time, and my husband, Peter, was twenty-six. Peter was an engineer at a design firm, while I was finishing up my university studies. We’d been married for two years, but we hadnt really thought about children yetbabygros and nappies just didnt fit into our plans at that point.
I thought of myself as a model wife, almost faultless, really. But Peterwell, the longer we were together, the more I noticed his so-called “flaws.” For instance, I couldn’t stand how much time he spent fiddling with his motorbike rather than being with me. I was absolutely convinced I could change all those little things that irked me about him. Turned out, I was only kidding myselfand it was me who needed to change.
After a gruelling round of exams, my body just gave up on meI got really bad stomach pain, felt awfully sick, and couldnt eat or drink a thing.
Look after your health now, my dear, and your dress when its new, said silver-haired Dr. Clement, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses on his nose. Listen here, Katiedont argue with me. You need a thorough check-up and a proper rest in hospital. No ifs or buts, he said, thrusting a referral note into my hand and leaving me to be dealt with by his esteemed colleagues. So, half sobbing, I set off for the hospital, dabbing away my tears as I went.
There were four of us in the ward: two ladies around fifty, a little old lady of indeterminate age in a white polka-dot headscarf, and me. The old ladys name was Dorothy; I can’t recall the names of the other two. At first I didnt want to talk to a soulI was in a foul mood, deeply hurt by Peter, who, I thought, just wanted to be rid of me and hadnt fought to get me treated at home instead.
There I was, knees drawn to my stomach, facing the wall on my narrow, creaky bed, wallowing in my misery and blaming everyone in the world for my troubles.
Take your jars and pots backIm not eating any of that, Id snap at Peter, whenever he came with his carefully packed meals.
But Katie, the doctor said steamed fish is exactly what you need right now, hed plead. At least try a bit. I made some potatoes toojust a spoonful, please.
No! I dont want it! Id bite back. Give the fish to a stray catdoubt even theyd touch that stuff.
Peter would sigh heavily and leave, clearly upset. Making matters worse, Id throw some cruel words his way as he walked out.
Dont bother coming again, Id mutterevery single time.
But he still showed up, before and after work, carrying on regardless of my sulking. Every morning, thered be freshly cooked food waiting on my bedside table, still warm, lovingly wrapped up in a flannelette blanket. YetIm ashamed to admit itI neither appreciated his efforts nor his love.
Looking back now, I can see that Peter had a tough time because of me, but at the time, I couldnt care less.
The pills, injections, and drips did nothing. I was wasting away before everyones eyeshollow cheeks, dark circles under my eyes. I was prodded and scanned every which way, diagnosed with chronic gastritis. You might say, Not the worst thing, but for me, it felt like a real test.
After my treatments, Id lie on that squeaky bed, staring into nothing. No one bothered with meI was such a misery. I knew it, but I couldnt seem to stop myself.
One night, the two other ladies in my ward went home to sleep, leaving just Dorothy and me.
Cant sleep, dearie? Dorothy whispered gently.
No. My stomach hurts, I replied darkly, turning away.
You know, Katie, I come into this hospital a few times a yearjust for a bit of preventative care. Like you, I have plain old gastritis; you can usually manage it at home.
Oh, youre not going to give me a lecture on healthy eating, are you? I snapped. Please, dont waste your breath. I know all about it already.
Dont get me wrong, Dorothy answered softly. Its justyou remind me of myself, fifty-odd years ago. I was just as prickly.
Something about the way she spoke made me listen. Dorothy was tiny, frail, hunched over with a pronounced curve in her backshe reminded me of a gnome from a forgotten fairy-tale. But the warmth that came off her! Her gentle blue eyes seemed to glow.
I remember how people would constantly pop into our ward just to see Dorothymen, women, staff. Theyd pour out their stories, and shed just listen, nodding patiently, never interrupting. Then, in a quiet, soft voice, shed say a few words that seemed to make everything better. Some people left in tears; most walked out smiling.
Often, as a thank you, her visitors would bring Dorothy little giftsa pack of biscuits here, a bottle of yoghurt there, sometimes a rare box of marshmallows or a jar of baby food. She was always genuinely grateful, hugging each visitor goodbye, dabbing her damp eyes with her kerchief when theyd left.
You know, Katie, she said, smiling gently, though her eyes looked sad, if youre willing to hear it, Ive a story from my own life to tell.
I felt strangely humbled by her mannerher wrinkles seemed to melt away for a moment, making her look like a scared, vulnerable little girl.
Im sorry for being so rude, Dorothy. Id love to hear your story, I replied.
Have some soup first, she said, nodding toward the jar wrapped in a blanket.
I spooned up some of Peters soup. Out of habit, I braced myself to hate it, butthe first sip soothed my stomach. I devoured nearly half the jar, and, to my surprise, I actually liked it.
There now, madam pickytasty, isnt it? Dorothy teased.
Yes. Really tasty.
Just take it easydont overload your poor tummy after so long. Small, regular meals, love. Youll be all right, but you really must start respecting others, especially your husband. He loves youdont push him away. Now, enough of that. Let me tell you something Ive never really spoken about.
She paused for a sip of tea, dunking a rusk into her battered metal mug.
I was one of seven children, Dorothy began. My eldest brother, Patrick, died young from TB. My baby sister, Barbara, was taken by typhoid when I was about seven. Dad worked at the factories; Mum ran the home and sewed for half the village. Her dresses and shirts were worn by everyone.
I loved reading, did well at school, and after I finished, I went to college to train as a primary teacher. Once I qualified, I returned home to teach. Lads from our village started coming round, hoping to court me. Id turn them all down flat.
‘Oh, Mum, not him! He works with horses, always smells of the stablesno, thank you. Or that oneup at the pub every night. The otherplays his accordion all night but never lifts a finger. And as for the shepherdhe cant even read! What would I talk to him about? Id rather stay single forever than marry someone rough and uneducated.’
My parents tried to talk sense into me, but I wouldnt listen.
Then, one day, a new headmaster arrived at our village school from Leeds. Tall, smart, blue-eyedhe stole my heart right away. The kids loved him. He was patient and kind, often staying after school to help those who struggled. He did it for free, out of his own goodwill.
Before long, we married.
Mum warned me, Dorothy, dont show your temper. Be gentle and patienthes a good man. Dont let pride get the better of you.
But I didnt listen.
We taught at the school together. Three years after our wedding, our first daughter, Alice, was bornpoor thing, she was frail from the start, had a heart defect. She died when she was eleven, right before the war. Our second daughter, Emily, was the image of her father, clever and beautiful.
Peter (my husband was called Peter toofunny, isnt it?) often went to meetings in town and always brought back bundles of fabric for Mum to sew into new clothes for me. Yes, I was the village trendsetter! No one else had blouses or skirts like mine.
But I kept turning up my nosewrong pattern, wrong material, too dark, too bright, too this, too that. Nothing Peter did seemed enough.
In 33, there was a terrible shortage of food. We had to divide every bit we had so it would last out the monthtwo or three potatoes a day between us, a handful of barley, a carrot, a bit of onion, some watermelon and sunflower seeds, a spoonful of lard, and a cup of flour. We stored everything carefully away. If we hadnt rationed so tightly, wed have ended up starving like so many around us who just ate everything in one go.
Behind our village was a field of wheat, guarded day and night. The temptation to sneak just a few ears of wheat was strong, but so was the fear of being caughtprison for thieving from the farm.
One night, desperate, Peter and I crept out to the wheat field, aching with hunger, hearts breaking to see the children like that. I dreamt of potatoes and bread dunked in sunflower oil. Most mornings I woke up sick with hunger.
We put the girls to bed and slipped out through other peoples gardens, scanning for anyone watching. We started picking ears of wheat as neededthen suddenly, we heard the sound of hoovesa watchman patrolling the fields!
We dropped everything and dashed to hide behind a bush. He didnt spot us, thank heavens!
When we got home, though, I realised Id lost my skirtprobably it slipped off as I was shaking the wheat into my pockets, me as skinny as a rake back then.
Dorothy paused, fishing a raisin rusk out of her mug, chewing it with delight.
I broke down and bawled, knowing someone would find my skirteveryone in the village knew itand if they did, prison for sure. My crying woke the girls; we ended up all three of us sobbing.
Peter put his foot down. Right, thats enoughoff to bed, everyone! he said sharply. No need to wake the neighbours. Ill find your skirt in the morning.
I didnt sleep, plagued by visions of prison bars, my girls as orphans. But Peter, true to his word, found the skirt and brought it home. He saved me from jail.
Dorothy set down her empty mug, gently tucked the blanket under my chin, and continued:
From then on, I treated my husband differently, with real respecthed earned it. I learned to bite my tongue and never spoke poorly of him again.
What happened after that? I asked.
We scraped through, really, but none of us starved, thanks to God. Things eased for a whilethen war broke out in 41. Peter went off to fight, and soon after, the Germans occupied our village. Because I wouldnt cooperate with them, they torched our cottage. They hurt my sweet Emily so badly she didnt survive. I lost the baby I was carrying at the timea son, wed hoped.
Dorothys voice wavered and she began to cry. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. We sat like that the whole night, talking quietlyI can’t remember our words.
By sunrise, Dorothy told me, In 43 we got a telegramPeter was missing, presumed dead. Ive never found out where hes buried, all these years since.
After the war, I travelled all over the county, teaching at village schools wherever I could. When I retired, my niece took me insmall flat, but enough for me. I still come to hospital now and thennot just for my health, but to give poor Tamsin a break, save her a bit of money. I always buy her a chocolate bar out of my pension. She acts as if its diamonds, not chocolate, and begs me not to fuss.
I regarded this tiny, frail woman in wonderhow could someone so physically weak hold so much warmth, courage, and kindness? After all shed endured, she was never bittershe even found ways to help others. If Id said that to her face, I know she wouldnt have understood. Yet there I was, moaning about everything, with loving family and health.
Soon, I started getting better. I could eat a little at a time, and my pains eased.
A year later, Peter and I welcomed our first child, Michael, and after another four years, our long-awaited daughterwhom we named Dorothy.
Honestly, it was like I was seeing clearly for the first time. I finally realised what a good man Peter waspatient, caring, clever with his hands. I changed my ways and stopped demanding so much of him.
Whenever I feel myself getting annoyed with him, I think back to Dorothys story of the wheat and how Peter looked after me when I was illand when I started helping others, I became so much happier myself!
I sometimes think, looking backmaybe I got ill in the first place because of my rotten attitude. What do you reckon?
