Golden Ears: Tales of Wheat and Harvest in the English Countryside

THE EARS OF CORN

Roughly twenty-five years ago, when I was young, daft, and thought the sun shone out of my sensible shoes, the local GP ignoring all my pitiful objections assigned me to the medical ward.

Back then, Id just turned twenty-three, and my husband, Edward, was a ripe old twenty-six. Edward was an engineer at a design firm, and I was still finishing up at university. Wed been married for two years, with not a nappy or babygrow to our name parenthood simply didn’t feature on our horizon just yet.

In my own eyes, I was the model wife with barely a flaw, while Edward, like an unwiped mirror, kept showing up more and more smudges with every passing day. I was particularly irked by how much time he lavished on his beloved motorbike rather than lavishing it on, well, me. Naturally, I was convinced I could reform Edward and cure all those irritating habits of his. It turned out I was kidding myself the one who needed to change was me.

After a tough, sleepless term at uni, my body simply caved in; I got dreadful stomach pains and couldnt keep down anything, not even a cup of tea.

My dear child, said Dr. Cornelius Greene, glasses perched on the edge of his rather noble nose, take care of your health while youre young and your dress while its new. And dont you argue with me, Katherine. You need a proper checkup and treatment. Thats final. Now, dont try to tug at my heartstrings. Im washing my hands of this, ducky. My esteemed colleagues will see to you.

He handed me my admission slip, and with much sniffling and dabbing at my eyes, I trudged down the corridor to get myself checked into the hospital.

There were four of us in the ward two ladies of around fifty, an ancient old dear of indeterminate vintage with a white scarf dotted with navy blue spots, and me. The old lady was called Dorothy Appleton, and Ive long forgotten what the other women were called.

I wasnt in the mood to talk to anyone. I was feeling betrayed by the whole world, and most especially my husband, whom I was quite certain had pawned me off just to avoid the fuss of having me treated at home.

Curled up on my narrow iron bed facing the wall, I took a rather childish pleasure in my misery and mentally blamed everyone around for my ailments.

Take your jars and your tins Im not eating that, I snapped at Edward, every time he visited with bags of food.

But, Katie, the doctor said steamed cod is just what you need right now, Edward protested, earnestly. Honestly, just try a bite. And have a little mashed potato, please?

Dont even bother, I shot back with all the venom I could muster. Give the fish to the neighbourhood cats though even theyd probably turn their noses up at that revolting stuff.

Edward would sigh deeply and trudge off, wounded, while I lobbed a few more barbs after him, just to be sure my husbands day wasnt altogether too pleasant.

Dont bother visiting again! Id announce, like an especially dramatic character in an ITV period drama.

Nonetheless, Edward kept turning up before and after work, stoically unfazed by my relentless moaning. Every morning, a fresh meal, carefully bundled in a towel to keep it warm, materialised on my bedside table all cooked by his hands. Not that I showed the slightest appreciation or patience for his efforts. Thinking back, heaven knows when he found the time to whip up such culinary smorgasbords. At the time, though, such details escaped me entirely.

Tablets, injections, and drips brought no relief. I withered visibly lost weight, sank into my own cheeks, with purple shadows under my eyes fit for a Halloween party. The doctors did a thorough run-round and declared the verdict: chronic gastritis. Not a crisis, you say? Well, for me, it felt like an existential challenge.

After enduring all the prescribed treatments, Id lie on my creaky bed, staring at nothing. No one wanted to come near me, so toxic was my black mood. I realised it, but felt powerless to change.

One evening, the two fifty-somethings disappeared home for the night, leaving me alone with Dorothy.

Cant sleep, Katherine? Dorothy asked quietly.

No. My stomach hurts, I mumbled darkly, rolling over to avoid her gaze.

You know, dear, Dorothy continued, I check into this hospital three times a year for a spot of preventive care. Ive got your regular common-or-garden gastritis nothing you cant manage at home, really.

Youre not about to give me a lecture on healthy eating, are you? I hissed. Save your breath. I know all that already.

You misunderstand me, Katherine, Dorothy replied, gentle as a spring breeze. You just remind me of myself. Once upon a time. Prickly and stubborn, oh, some fifty-odd years ago.

For the first time, I actually listened. Turning back, I really looked at Dorothy. Petite, frail, bent with a hunched back, Dorothy Appleton looked like a character from some long-lost English fairy tale. Yet, what warmth radiated from her! Her pale blue eyes shone with inner light. She seemed aglow from the inside.

I suddenly realised the whole hospital came to her men, women, doctors, nurses. Theyd share their woes and Dorothy would listen, nodding quietly, saying little, but always understanding. Sometimes people left our room wiping their eyes, but more often, they departed with a smile.

Before discharge, grateful ex-patients brought Dorothy little gifts a packet of digestives, a bottle of semi-skimmed milk, or perhaps a rare box of marshmallow teacakes. Some gave her tiny pots of baby food, chocolate truffles, or jelly sweets.

Dorothy would thank everyone sincerely, offering cuddles in return. Once her visitors left, shed dab at her eyes with her hanky, chasing away happy tears.

Katherine dear, if youre prepared to listen, Ill tell you a little story of my own, Dorothy offered, her lips managed a smile, though her eyes remained deeply sad.

Wrinkles on her face seemed to melt away, making her look, fleetingly, like a frightened little schoolgirl.

Im sorry I was rude, Dorothy, I said. Id love to hear your story.

But first, have a bit of soup with meatballs, Dorothy gestured to a jar snug in its blanket.

Obediently, I lifted the lid. Habitually, I was about to pull a face, but I resisted. To my astonishment, after just one spoonful, my stomach relaxed the pain faded! I ate half the soup. And small miracle I actually liked it.

Well? Food critic! Enjoying it? Dorothy asked, twinkle in her eye.

Actually, yes, I admitted, shocked.

Dont overdo it your poor stomachs been on strike for weeks! she warned. Start with small bits, often. Youll soon be right as rain, but only if you learn to respect others, especially your husband. Love him, dont push him away and dont get in a strop. Enough about that I promised a story, didnt I?

Dorothy paused for a sip of tea from a battered metal mug, letting a piece of rusky bread soak.

I was one of seven yes, seven children, Dorothy began, born to humble parents. My father worked in the local mill, my mother kept house and stitched for everyone in the village. Half of Lower Peaslake wore her homemade frocks and blouses.

I was a good student and loved nothing more than books. I left school and went off to train as a village schoolteacher. Eventually, I returned home a real professional. Suitors started appearing by the dozen, but I turned them all down all, every last one.

Pah! Id sneer at Mum. Whos Barry the groom? Reeks of manure. Or Jack next door hopeless drunk. Or Ted the accordionist nothing but a rogue. Id rather stay single and read Jane Austen than marry any of those clumsy country bumpkins!

My parents just shook their heads. They couldnt persuade me otherwise.

Then, one day, the vicar announced a new schoolmaster was coming straight from the city! Tall, neat, blue-eyed, handsome, he soon won my heart. The village children adored him calm, wise, endlessly gentle, hed stay after school to help the slow learners, never taking a penny for it.

Naturally, I married him.

Dorothy shifted, arranging my pillow.

Mum always said, Mind you dont show your temper, Dorothy. Be gentle with him, and drop the nonsense. Remember your manners. Hes a good man dont get above yourself.’ But I, stubborn as a mule, ignored all her advice.

We taught together for years. Three years into marriage, we had our first daughter, Victoria. She was sickly from the start. Heart condition. Poor Vic didnt even make it past eleven she died just before the War. Our second daughter, Violet, was the image of her father clever, beautiful, and handy with a needle.

My husband, Neville, often travelled to London for meetings and always brought me back lengths of fine fabric. Mum would sew me new dresses and blouses. I was quite the trendsetter in our village! But I always found fault not the right material, not the right pattern or shade. Neville never could win.

Then came the terrible year of thirty-three. The Great Depression. Every month, we divided up what food we had, hoarding it as carefully as crown jewels. To this day, I still save every pumpkin and melon seed.

Wed rationed ourselves to two or three potatoes a day, a handful of oats, one onion, a carrot, a spoonful of lard, a cup of wholemeal flour. I’d tie up those rations and hide them well, or we’d have starved like so many of our neighbours who ate everything at once and were left with nothing.

Then, there was the big wheat field outside our village. Heavily guarded, day and night. The temptation to steal a handful of ears of corn was desperate but the fear of prison put a chill in your bones.

One night, Neville and I, hungry beyond sense, decided to risk it and collect a few stray stalks. The children were always hungry. I dreamt of roast potatoes and bread dipped in sunflower oil. But in the cold light of day, I woke to hunger pangs and an empty belly.

That night, once the little ones were asleep, we crept into the field. Hardly had we begun gathering corn before we heard the thudding of hooves the land warden, making his rounds!

We dropped everything and hid in the lilac bushes, not daring to breathe. Luckily, he didnt see us but we returned home empty-handed. And only when safely inside did I realise my skirt was missing. Id lost so much weight it must have simply slipped off while I was gathering corn!

Here Dorothy took another bite of her tea-soaked rusky.

I wailed then, like a banshee. If anyone found my skirt everyone knew it I mightve ended up in jail!

My crying woke the children, and then all three of us were howling. Vic and Violet hugged me, and I kissed and clung to them like theyd slip through my fingers at any moment.

Thats enough! Neville said sternly. Everyone to bed last thing we need is the neighbours thinking were raiding the brandy.

When dawn broke, Neville true to his word found my skirt under the corn and brought it back. He saved me from jail.

Dorothy carefully placed her empty mug on the table, tucked me in with the blanket Id kicked off, and continued:

After that, I learned to hold my tongue. I respected my Neville and treated him as he deserved. I never again went looking for faults.

And after that? I asked.

Well, somehow we scraped by. No one in our family died of hunger. We muddled through. Then the War began. Neville volunteered and left for the front. Violet and I were left on our own. Before long, the Germans rolled in and occupied our village.

I refused to cooperate, and they burned our cottage. My Violet… oh… they… Dorothys voice trembled.

They… they hurt her. Violet didnt survive. I was pregnant at the time, and lost the baby from grief. Neville and I were looking forward to a son…

Dorothy began to sob, quietly but hopelessly. I got up and carefully put my arms around her.

We sat together like that until dawn, holding each other. I have no memory what we talked about by then.

When the sun finally crept in and splashed us with its first kiss of light, Dorothy said:

In ’43, I received a telegram Neville was missing, presumed dead. I spent years searching across the county, bouncing from school to school, living as a teacher wherever I could, chasing rumours and hope.

After retiring, my niece took me to her tiny flat in London. I still come to this hospital now and then for a bit of care, a break for my darling Tamara, and to save a penny or two. Tamara loves her sweets, so I buy her chocolate with every pension cheque. She lights up like its the Koh-i-Noor diamond! And always scolds me for spending money on her.

I looked at this remarkable woman, dwarfed and frail, and wondered how such spirit and goodness could fit inside such a tiny frame. Shed been through so much, yet stayed warm-hearted, never bitter, always helping others. If Id told her how much she inspired me, she wouldnt have understood. But there I was always grumbling, despite my loving husband and healthy family.

Eventually, I started to get better. I ate little and often, and the pain faded.

A year later, my husband and I had our firstborn, Michael, and four years after that at last, a daughter. We called her Dorothy.

You know, ever since then, its like someone took the blinkers off. I finally realised how wonderful my Edward is thoughtful, capable, and endlessly patient. I had to change myself and cool my indignation at last.

Now, whenever I start to scold my husband, I remember Dorothys tale of the ears of corn and my own memories of Edward caring for me when I was ill. And you know, as soon as I began helping others, I discovered happiness myself.

Sometimes I wonder if all that illness was just my bad attitude trying to teach me a lesson. What do you think?