THE EARS OF WHEAT
About twenty-five years ago, when I was young and naive, the local GP, ignoring all my protests, assigned me to the medical ward.
By then, I had just turned twenty-three, and my husband, Tom, was twenty-six. Tom was an engineer at a design firm, and I was finishing my university studies. We had been married for two years but had no children yet nappies and rattles werent on our agenda at the time.
I fancied myself a proper, exemplary wife, nearly flawless. But every day, it seemed Toms faults glared brighter, like stains in a mirror. I hated how much time he spent tinkering with his beloved motorbike instead of paying attention to me. I was certain I could make him change the things I disliked. It turned out I was wrong the one who needed to change was me.
After a difficult and stressful term, my body gave out, and I was struck with awful stomach pain. I was nauseous, unable to eat or drink.
My dear, said white-haired Dr. Kenneth Lewis, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose, look after your health while youre young, and your dress when its new. Dont you dare argue with me, Katie. You need a thorough examination and proper treatment. I wash my hands of it, love, now my well-respected colleagues will care for your health.
He handed me my hospital papers, and, sobbing and wiping away tears as I walked, I shuffled off to be admitted.
There were four of us in the ward two ladies in their fifties, a petite elderly woman wrapped in a polka-dot kerchief, and me. The little old ladys name was Mildred Thompson; the other womens names escape me now.
I wanted nothing to do with anyone. I was raging against the world, especially my husband, who, as I saw it, simply wanted rid of me and hadnt insisted they let me be treated at home.
Hugging my knees to my chest and facing the wall, I lay on the narrow, creaking hospital bed, drowning in self-pity and blaming everyone for my misery.
Take your pots and jars away I wont eat this, I snapped at Tom each time he brought bags of food on his visits.
Katie, love, please the doctor said steamed cod is just what you need now, Tom pleaded, at least try it. I did my best! And some new potatoes, please, just a little?
Dont bother, I replied coldly. I dont want it. Give the fish to the stray cats outside, though I doubt even theyd eat this rubbish.
Tom would sigh heavily and walk away, hurt, and yet I sought to wound him even more, throwing spiteful words at his back.
Dont come anymore, I said each time.
Yet Tom came, morning and night, ignoring my petulance and whining. Freshly prepared meals appeared on my bedside table each morning, still warm, jarred and wrapped lovingly in a fleece blanket. But I, blind to his patience and love, took it all for granted.
When did he have time to prepare all that delicious food for me? Now I realise how hard I made his life, but back then, I cared for little else but my pain.
Tablets, injections, drips nothing helped. I wasted away before everyones eyes weight falling off, hollow cheeks, great bruises beneath my eyes. After a full round of tests, they diagnosed chronic gastritis. Not so serious, you might think but for me, it was a real trial.
After each miserable hospital procedure, Id lie on my squeaky bed, staring into nothingness. No one came near I radiated so much misery. I knew it but couldnt stop myself.
One night, the other two women went home, and Mildred and I were left alone.
Cant sleep, Katie? Mildred asked gently.
No. My stomach hurts, I growled, turning away from her.
You know, my dear, she continued in her gentle voice, I check into this hospital three times a year just for a bit of a check-up. Ive got a stubborn gut like you, really. Entirely manageable at home.
Oh, are you about to lecture me on proper nutrition? I snapped. Dont waste your breath. I already know.
Thats not my aim, love, Mildred replied humbly. You just remind me of myself. I was once as prickly and stubborn as you, fifty-five years ago.
I started listening. I turned to look at her for the first time. She was tiny and hunched, an odd little woman, butthere was a warmth about her, a light in her pale blue eyes, as if she glowed from within.
I remembered that people from other wards, staff and patients alike, often dropped in to speak with Mildred. They came pouring out their troubles; she listened without interruption, nodded understandingly, and said a few quiet words and theyd leave, often wiping tears, but more often smiling.
Before discharge, ex-patients brought her small tokens of gratitude a pack of biscuits, a bottle of kefir, an elusive box of marshmallows, tins of baby food, a bar of chocolate or a bag of jelly babies. Mildred thanked each with heartfelt hugs, and when they left, she dabbed away happy tears with her kerchief.
Listen, love, if youre willing, Ill tell you a story from my own life, Mildred said, her lips twisting into a smile while her eyes stayed mournful.
Her wrinkles smoothed for a moment, and she looked like a frightened, defenceless little girl.
Forgive my rudeness, Mildred, I whispered, ashamed. I truly want to hear your story.
After a nod, she gestured towards a jar wrapped in my blanket. Eat your soup, dear proper homemade meatball broth.
I picked up the jar. Ready to grimace at the first spoonful, old habits lurking, I forced myself and, to my amazement, my stomach calmed, the pain eased. I ate half the soup, and even liked it.
Well then, Miss Fussy, was it good? Mildred asked with a wink. Tasty?
Yes, actually. Very.
Dont overdo it. Your stomachs not ready yet. Youll eat a little, but oftenitll all be alright, but you must learn to respect others, especially your husband. He loves you. Stop pushing him away, and dont play the martyr. Enough of that now, let me tell you what I never told anyone.
She paused, sipping tea from her metal cup, dunking a rusk.
We were seven children at home, Mildred began. Our eldest, John, died of tuberculosis when I was young. Little Maisie, the baby, died of fever when I was seven. Father worked in the local mill. Mum kept the house and children, and was a brilliant dressmaker. Most folk in our Dorset village wore clothes she made.
I loved reading and excelled at my studies. After school, I went to train as a village teacher. When I returned home, I had a line of suitors from the farm lads. I turned them all away.
Ugh, Id tell Mum, not hiding my scorn. Whos this Tommy? The stable lad? I wont have him. Smells of horses. And Billy? Our neighbour always in the pub. Alf across the road? Can barely read, plays his concertina all day. And Ben? Hes a shepherd Id never cope living with a shepherd! Dont you dare try to marry me off, Mum.
My parents shook their heads but didnt press the matter.
One day, a new headmaster came to our village, sent by the council. Tall, fair, blue-eyed he stole my heart. The kids adored him. Quiet, wise, endlessly kind, he tutored struggling pupils after class for free.
We soon married.
Mildred stood to prop my pillow, then settled in, her voice steady.
Mum always cautioned meMilly, dont show him your temper. Be kind, show a little softness. Hes a good man. Mind your pride. But, headstrong as ever, I did things my own way.
Together with my husband, Arthur, we taught at the village school. After three years, our first daughter Emma was born, frail and sickly, her heart not strong. She passed away just shy of eleven, before the War. Our second, Lily, was the image of her father clever, beautiful, ever so gifted with her hands.
Arthur often travelled to London for meetings, and brought back fabric for new dresses. Mum stitched them into the latest fashions. I was the best-dressed woman in the parish! Yet I always criticised wrong colour, wrong print or cloth. Nothing suited me, poor Arthur could never please.
In 33, the great depression hit us hard. At the start of each month, we divided our rations into thirty piles to last us through. Even now, I keep every pumpkin or sunflower seed cant bear to throw away food.
All the family got, each day, were two or three potatoes, a handful of grain, an onion, a carrot, a few seeds, a spoonful of lard, and a mug of rye flour. Id tie up those little bundles, hiding them well. If we hadnt, wed have starved like many in the village. Some neighbours ate all their food in one go, and after that, nothing.
Behind our street stretched a wheat field, always watched day and night. The temptation to gather just a few ears of wheat was unbearable, but the fear of being caught and sent to prison clamped us in terror.
One night, Arthur and I couldnt take it anymore the hunger had unhinged us. We laid the children to bed, and crept, under cover of darkness, into the field to gather wheat.
Wed barely started when we heard hooves the night watchman! We dropped everything and hid in the hawthorns along the far edge. Luckily, he didnt see us, but we went home empty-handed. When we got in, I saw my skirt was gone. Gaunt as I was, it mustve slipped off as I scrambled away. I was terrified everyone knew that skirt. If someone found it, prison was all but certain.
Mildred fished a raisin out of her tea, popped it in her mouth, and continued.
Hopeless, I bawled like a lost child. If my skirt was found, what would happen to the children? They woke to my sobbing; soon the three of us wept together.
Emma and Lily clung to me, and I kissed them, believing it was goodbye.
Hush, all of you! Arthur commanded, stern and kind. Bed. No need to wake the neighbours. At sunup, Ill go find your skirt, Milly.
I didnt sleep a wink, picturing myself in a jail cell, the girls left orphans.
Arthur kept his word. At dawn, he returned with my skirt hed found it, hidden under ears of wheat, and handed it back without a word.
Mildred placed her empty cup on my table, gently set my fallen blanket back over me, and went on:
From that day, I looked at my husband differently. With the respect and gratitude hed earned many times over, I learned to hold my tongue, never to insult him again.
What happened after? I asked quietly.
We barely scraped by, but by some grace, our family survived the depression. Food got easier; then, in 41, the war began. Arthur went to the front, leaving me and Lily alone. The Germans soon overran our village. They burned our cottage after I refused to collaborate, and they my Lily didnt survive their cruelty. I lost the baby I carried. Arthur and I were meant to have a son
Her voice shivered. Tears pooled in her eyes.
They did wicked things to her. Lily couldnt bear it, and died soon after. Grief took my unborn child too.
I got up and quietly hugged her, letting her cry it out. We sat, wrapped in each others arms till dawn.
What did we talk about? I cant remember.
When the sunlight finally crept over the windowsill, Mildred spoke:
In 43 I got the telegramArthur, missing in action, presumed dead. All my travels, in peace and war, searching Englands hamlets for him I never found where he lies. After the war, I taught in different village schools, living on the premises. When I retired, my niece took me to live in her tiny London flat. I come to hospital now and again for a bit of care, to give Tamara a break, and to save her some pennies. She loves her sweets, you know, so I buy her chocolates with my pension. Youd think it was jewellery, shes so overjoyed. Shell beg me not to spend on her, every time.
How, I wondered, could so much kindness, compassion, and strength fit into such a frail woman? After all shed survived she still gave her warmth to everyone, never bitter. Meanwhile, I, with my loving husband and family, found things to grumble about, blind to my own fortune.
Soon, my illness began to ease. I started eating; the pain subsided. Within a year, Tom and I welcomed our firstborn, Michael. Four years later, our precious daughter arrived we named her Mildred, after the remarkable woman who changed my life.
Ever since, its as if a veil was lifted from my eyes. I finally saw how wonderful Tom was caring, skilled, endlessly patient. I had to change, to let go of my complaints and demands.
Whenever Im cross with Tom, I remember Mildreds story of the ears of wheat. I remember the love and forbearance Tom showed me at my lowest, and how helping others brought true happiness.
Sometimes I wonder maybe my illness was a lesson for my own sour temper. What do you think?
