About twenty-five years ago, when I was young and naive, the local GP insisted—despite my protests—that I be admitted to the hospital’s medical ward.
At the time, I was twenty-three, and my husband, Tom, was twenty-six. Tom worked as an engineer at a design firm, while I was finishing my university degree. We’d been married for two years, and children weren’t part of our plans just yet—nappies and baby clothes were the last thing on our minds.
I considered myself the perfect wife—flawless, or nearly so. But in Tom, I saw only flaws, magnified with each passing day. It irritated me that he spent so much time tinkering with his motorbike instead of paying attention to me. I was convinced I could change him, mould him into what I wanted. As it turned out, I was the one who needed changing.
After a gruelling exam session, my body gave out. My stomach ached so badly I couldn’t eat or drink without feeling nauseous.
“Listen, love,” said Dr. Henry Whitaker, a silver-haired man adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, “look after your health while you’re young—mend your clothes while they’re still new. And don’t argue with me, Katie. You need proper tests and treatment. That’s that—no more fuss. I’ve done all I can.”
He handed me the admission slip, and sniffling, I shuffled off to the hospital, wiping my tears along the way.
There were four of us in the ward—two middle-aged ladies, an elderly woman in a polka-dot headscarf, and me. The old lady was called Edith Marshall, though I’ve long forgotten the names of the other two.
I was in no mood to talk. I felt wronged by the world, especially by my husband, who—I was convinced—had wanted to be rid of me and hadn’t pushed for outpatient care. Curled up on the narrow hospital bed, I wallowed in self-pity, blaming everyone for my misery.
“Take your jars and nonsense away—I won’t eat any of it,” I snapped when Tom brought me food yet again.
“Katie, come on,” he said gently. “The doctor said steamed cod is exactly what you need. Just try a little. And a spoonful of mash—please?”
“No. Stop asking,” I snapped. “Throw it to the alley cats—though I doubt even they’d touch it.”
Tom sighed and left, shoulders slumped. I made sure to hurl a few more insults after him for good measure.
“Don’t come back!” I’d shout each time.
But he still visited—before and after work, ignoring my whinging. Every morning, fresh food he’d cooked himself appeared on my bedside table. He wrapped the jars in a flannel blanket to keep them warm, but I was too bitter to appreciate his effort.
The pills, injections, and IV drips did nothing. I withered away—cheeks hollow, dark circles under my eyes. After endless tests, the diagnosis was chronic gastritis. You might think it’s nothing serious, but for me, it was a test of endurance.
After treatments, I’d lie on the squeaky bed, staring blankly. No one came near me—my negativity drove them away. I knew it, but I couldn’t help myself.
One evening, the other two women went home overnight, leaving just Edith and me.
“Still awake, Katie?” she asked softly.
“Yes. Stomach hurts,” I muttered and turned away.
“You know, dear,” she continued, “I come here three times a year—just for check-ups. Like you, I have gastritis, but I manage it at home.”
“Are you lecturing me now?” I snapped. “Save your breath. I know all about diets.”
“You misunderstand,” she said gently. “I’m not trying to scold you. You remind me of myself—fifty-five years ago.”
Something in her tone made me turn.
Edith sat upright, watching me with kind eyes, and for the first time, I really saw her.
Small, frail, with a pronounced hunch, she looked like a character from a forgotten fairy tale. But warmth radiated from her. Her pale blue eyes shone—she seemed to glow from within.
I suddenly remembered—people always visited her. Nurses, patients, even strangers. They’d pour out their troubles, and Edith listened without interrupting. Then she’d whisper something, and they’d leave comforted—sometimes in tears, but usually smiling.
Before discharge, grateful patients brought her little gifts—biscuits, yoghurt, or sweets—rare luxuries back then. She thanked each one with a hug, dabbing her eyes after they left.
“Katie, if you’ll listen, I’ll tell you a story—one I’ve never shared,” she said, her lips smiling but her eyes still sad.
Looking at her then, I saw a lifetime of sorrow etched in her face—shame washed over me for my earlier rudeness.
“I’m sorry for being sharp earlier, Edith,” I mumbled. “I’d like to hear it.”
“Eat your soup first.” She pointed to the jar wrapped in a blanket.
I obeyed. The first spoonful soothed the ache in my stomach. I nearly finished half—and it tasted good.
“Still fussy?” She chuckled. “Good?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Don’t overdo it—your stomach’s suffered enough. Small portions, often. And learn to appreciate your husband. He loves you. Don’t push him away.” She sighed. “But enough of that. My story.”
She sipped tea from a tin mug, dunking a biscuit thoughtfully.
“I grew up with six siblings. My eldest brother, George, died young from tuberculosis. My youngest sister, Margaret, was gone by the time I was seven—typhoid. My father worked at the factory; my mother sewed for the village. Half the town wore her dresses.
I loved reading and did well in school. After teacher training, I returned home. Local lads came courting—I sent every one away.
‘Ugh!’ I’d scoff. ‘That Frank? A stablehand? Never! And John? A drunk! Nicholas the fiddler—a wastrel! William the shepherd? Illiterate! What would I even say to him?’
My parents shook their heads but didn’t force me.
Then a new school headmaster arrived—tall, handsome, kind. The children adored him. He tutored struggling pupils for free. Soon, we married.
Edith adjusted my pillow and continued.
‘My mother warned me—‘Mind your temper, Edie. He’s a good man—don’t let pride ruin it.’
But I didn’t listen.
We worked together at the school. Three years later, our first daughter, Victoria, was born—frail, with a weak heart. She passed at eleven, just before the war. Our second, Valerie, was her father’s image—clever, beautiful, skilled with her hands.
My husband, Peter, often brought fabric from town. Mother sewed my clothes—I was the best-dressed in the village! Yet I still complained—the prints were wrong, the wool too thin. Nothing pleased me.
Then came the famine. We divided our food into tiny portions—just to survive. Two potatoes, a handful of grain, a spoon of lard—each day a battle. Others ate all at once and starved.
Beyond the village lay a wheat field, guarded day and night. One night, Peter and I crept out to gather stray ears—hunger drove us mad.
Hoofbeats—the patrol! We dropped the grain and hid in the lilac bushes. He passed without seeing us.
At home, I realised my skirt was gone. I’d grown so thin, it must have slipped off. If it was found, I’d be arrested for theft.
I sobbed, waking the children. We cried together—until Peter silenced us.
‘I’ll find it at dawn,’ he promised.
I didn’t sleep, imagining prison, my girls orphaned.
At first light, Peter returned with the skirt—hidden under grain. He’d saved me.’
Edith set down her empty mug, tucking my blanket back over me.
‘From then on, I treated him with the respect he deserved. I bit my tongue—no more sharp words.’
‘What happened after?’ I asked.
‘We scraped by. Then war came. Peter volunteered. The Germans took our village. When I refused to cooperate, they burned our house. My Valerie…’
Her voice broke.
‘They… they… She didn’t survive. I was pregnant—our son. I lost him too.’
She wept silently. I held her—we stayed like that till morning.
When the sun rose, she whispered, ‘In ’43, Peter was declared missing. I never found his grave.’
After the war, she moved from village to village, teaching. Retired, she lived with her niece, Tammy, in a tiny flat.
‘I visit the hospital often—check-ups, and it gives Tammy a break. She loves chocolates—I buy her some with my pension. She actsShe smiled at me then, her eyes glistening, and said quietly, “So you see, my dear, happiness isn’t in having everything—it’s in cherishing what you do.”
