Golden Ears of Wheat

THE EARS OF WHEAT

About twenty-five years ago, when I was still young and inexperienced, the local GP, despite all my protests, sent me off to the medical ward. I was twenty-three at the time, my husband, Andrew, twenty-six. Andrew worked as an engineer at a design bureau, and I was just finishing my final year at university. Wed been married two years and hadnt even started thinking about children yetbabygrows and nappies simply werent in our plans.

I saw myself as a model wife, practically flawless, but with each passing day I noticed more and more things about Andrew that seemed to annoy me. I didnt like that, in my view, he was spending too much time with his beloved motorbike instead of with me. I was certain I could compel Andrew to change those habits I disliked in him. As it turned out, it was me who needed to change.

After a tough, exhausting final exam session, my poor body gave outmy stomach ached terribly. I was nauseous all the time and couldnt manage to eat or drink a thing.

My dear girl, said silvery-haired Dr. Bernard Llewellyn, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose, look after your health now, and youll thank yourself later. And dont you dare argue with me, Catherine. You need a proper examination and treatment. Thats it. No more playing the sympathy card, Im washing my hands of it. My esteemed colleagues will take it from here.

He handed me the referral, and I, sniffling, wiping away tears, made my way to be admitted to the ward.

There were four of us in the roomtwo women in their fifties, an elderly lady of indeterminate age always in a white spotted cotton headscarf, and me. The old lady was called Mildred Thompson; I cant remember the other womens names.

I had no desire to chat to anyoneI was fed up with the entire world, especially my husband, who I wrongly thought was trying to get rid of me and hadnt even insisted I be treated as an outpatient.

I lay curled up on my narrow metal bed, my back to the room, wallowing in my own misfortune, mentally blaming everyone for what was happening.

Take your jars and tubsIm not eating this, Id mutter at Andrew whenever he brought me bags full of homemade food.

Catherine, doctor said steamed cod is just what you need right now, Andrew would gently plead. Please, just try a little. I put so much effort into this. And a bit of mashed potato toojust a spoonful?

Dont bother! Give your fish muck to the stray cats, though I doubt even theyd eat it, Id snap in return.

Andrew would sigh heavily and leave, upset, but Id just hurl another cutting remark after him for good measure.

Dont come again, Id always say.

But Andrew kept coming anywaybefore and after work, regardless of my complaints. Each morning, fresh home-cooked food would await on my bedside table, carefully packed in blankets so it stayed warm. But I never appreciated my husbands patience or devotion.

How did he manage to cook such a range of meals with his workload? Now, I can see I was a handful. At the time, none of this crossed my mind.

Tablets, injections, IV dripsall failed to help. I was fading before my own eyes: lost weight, hollow cheeks, dark circles. They ran every test possible and settled on a diagnosischronic gastritis. You might think its not that serious, but for me, it was a real test of endurance.

Once the doctors had done what they could, Id lie on the squeaky bed staring blankly, driving everyone away with my miserable mood. I knew it but couldnt help myself.

One evening, when the other two women had been given overnight leave, only Mildred and I were left together.

Cant sleep, love? Mildred asked gently.

No, my stomachs killing me, I grumbled, turning over.

You know, Cathy, she went on quietly, I come here three times a year as a preventative. Chronic gastritis, just like you. Could easily manage it at home.

Oh, are you going to lecture me on healthy eating? I muttered sarcastically. Save your breath. I know all that.

No, dear, Mildred replied calmly. Im not trying to be critical. You remind me of myself, fifty-five years agoprickly and stubborn as anything.

For the first time, I really paid attention to her. She was small, frail, with a hunched back like one of those gnomes from bedtime stories, but she emanated such warmth. Her soft blue eyes seemed to glow with kindness.

I realised Mildred was always having visitorsmen, women, nurseswhod confide in her, pouring out their troubles while she simply listened, nodding in understanding. Afterwards shed offer a quiet word, nodded to by her visitors, sometimes leaving in tears, sometimes smiling.

Before being discharged, grateful patients would bring her little giftsa pack of biscuits, a bottle of milk, a rare chocolate marshmallow cake, perhaps a jar of fruit puree or a few sweets. Shed thank each giver with a warm embrace and wipe her eyes when theyd gone.

You know, Cathy, if youre willing, Ill tell you a story from my life, Mildred smiled, her eyes still sad.

Her wrinkles smoothed, and for a moment she looked like a scared, fragile little girl.

Im sorry for being rude, Mildred, I said. Id like to hear your story.

But first, have some of that meatball soup, Mildred gestured at a jar Andrew had brought, still swaddled in the blanket.

Obediently, I took a spoonful, bracing for the worstbut as the warm soup slid down, my stomach unclenched, the pain eased. I ended up eating nearly half the jarenjoying it, if you can believe it.

Got you, fussy thingtastes good, doesnt it? Mildred grinned.

Its lovely, I admitted.

Dont eat too much at once, now. Your bellys had enough torment. Just take it little and often. Youll get better, but you must start to respect othersespecially your husband. He loves you. Dont push him away or make drama. Enough of that. I promised Id tell you things Ive never told another soul.

She took a sip of tea from an old enamel mug, dunked a rusk in it, and began.

I grew up one of seven children; my eldest brother, Ignatius, died young from TB, my baby sister Martha succumbed to scarlet fever when I was seven, Mildred began. Dad worked at the local mill, Mum kept the house, sewed for half the village. I loved books and did well at school. After teacher training college, I returned to the village, young and full of ambitions. All sorts of young men would come calling, but I turned them all down.

Ugh, Mum, Id say, Who is this Fred fellow? A stable boy? Im not marrying him. He reeks of horses and muck. Or John our neighbouralways drunk! Neville, the accordionist, is a womaniser; Bob, the shepherd, cant even read! Dont ask me again, Id rather stay an old maid forever than wed one of these country bumpkins!

Mum and Dad just shook their heads; they knew trying to persuade me was pointless.

One day, our little village in Yorkshire got a new school headmasterfresh from the city, tall, handsome, with striking blue eyes. Instantly, he stole my heart. The kids adored himcalm, thoughtful, always helping slower pupils after school, never asking for a penny.

Soon enough, we married.

Mildred stood to adjust my pillow, smoothing the crumpled edge, and went on.

Mum advised, Mind, Millydont always show your temper to your husband. Try being kind, and dont be so full of yourself. Hes a good man, so swallow your pride.

But I, of course, didnt listenI just did what I wanted.

We both taught at the village school. Three years after our wedding, our first daughter, Victoria, was borna weak, sickly child with a heart defect. She died at eleven, just before the war. Our second daughter, Valerie, was the spitting image of her fatherclever, beautiful, a talented seamstress.

Andrew often attended conferences in London, bringing back lengths of cloth. My mother would turn them into lovely new clothes for me; I was the best dressed in the village! Still, Id always find something to grumble about: the material the wrong shade or pattern, the wool too dull or thin. Nothing ever pleased me.

In 33, the family went hungry. At the start of each month, wed painstakingly divide food into thirty even pilesjust enough to scrape through. A handful of oats, three potatoes, an onion, some carrot, a few melon and sunflower seeds, a spoonful of lard, and a cup of dark flourcarefully wrapped and hidden. Thats how we survived when so many neighbours starved, having eaten everything in one desperate meal and then having nothing left.

Beyond the village lay a field of wheat, guarded both day and night. The temptation to sneak out and gather just a few ears of wheat was overwhelming, but the fear of being caught and sent to prison for theft of farm property was just as strong.

One dark night, my husband and I finally decided to risk it; the hunger was too much, and I couldnt bear watching the children starve. Sometimes Id dream of eating baked potatoes with bread dipped in sunflower oil, waking up sick and hollow with longing.

So, after the kids were asleep, we crept through the gardens and out to the field.

Looking about nervously, we began to gather the wheat. Suddenly, the sound of hooves! The farm warden making his rounds! We dumped the wheat and dashed to hide, flattening ourselves into the lilac bushes on the far side. By sheer luck, he never saw us.

Back home, I realised my skirt was gone. Id grown so thin, it must have slipped off while I shook the wheat from the hem.

Mildred fetched the soaked rusk and started chewing thoughtfully.

In my despair, I began to wail like a banshee. If they found my skirtso recognisable to all the villageI knew Id be arrested.

My sobbing woke the girls, and soon we were all in tears. Victoria and Valerie tried to comfort me, and I hugged and kissed them, apologising.

Enough now! said my husband sternly. Go to bed, all of you, before you wake the neighbours. Come morning, Ill find your skirt, Milly.

I didnt sleep a wink, picturing myself on a prison cot, my girls orphaned.

True to his word, Andrew found my skirt hidden under some wheat and brought it home. Hed saved me from jail.

Mildred placed her mug on the table, tucked the blanket carefully around me and continued:

After that, I finally saw my husband in a new light, with the respect and gratitude he deserved. I bit my tongue and never spoke ill of him again.

And after? I asked.

We scraped by, justby the grace of God, none of us starved to death. Times got a bit easier, then the war broke out. My Andrew enlisted. Valerie and I stayed behind. Soon after, the Germans came to the village. Because I refused to work with the Nazis, they torched our cottage. My poor girl

Her voice trembled.

They they… did terrible things to her. Valerie couldnt bear it and died from her suffering. I was pregnant at the timelost the baby from the grief. We would have had a son.

I could hear Mildred sobbing. I got up and gently put my arms around her.

We sat, like that, in silence until morning. What did we even talk about? I dont remember.

When the sun was finally up, Mildred spoke again:

In 1943, I received a notice: Andrew was missing, presumed dead. After the Nazis were driven off, I travelled all over Yorkshire, working in country schools and living in them. When I retired, my niece brought me to the city, into her little flat. I come to the hospital from time to time for a check-upand to give Tamara a break, and save a bit on the gas. Tamaras got a sweet tooth, so every pension day I buy her chocolate. Shes happy as a child, as if Id given her diamonds, and always tells me not to spend money on her.

I gazed at this remarkable woman, stunned at the strength, kindness, and goodness that fit in such a frail frame. Shed suffered so much, yet was never bitterand somehow still found energy to help others. If Id said so aloud, shed never understand. Meanwhile, I was always dissatisfied with something, and yet had everythingmy loving husband, my family safe.

Soon after, I began to recover. I managed to eat a little, the pain stopped.

A year later, Andrew and I welcomed our firstborn, Michael; four years later, a daughter, whom we named Mildred.

Since then, its as though Ive had the scales removed from my eyes. At last, I could see what a wonderful man Andrew wascaring, capable, endlessly patient. I had to change a lot in myself, and stop levelling pointless complaints.

Whenever I lose my temper with Andrew, I remember Mildreds story about the ears of wheat and how my own Andrew looked after me when I was ill. I discovered that helping others made me much happier, too.

You know, sometimes I wonder if I was so ill back then simply because of my own horrid temper. What do you think?