The Sun After the Rain…
“Alice, come in. My Tom’s been down the cellar and gathered some potatoes for you.”
Alice turned towards her neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Auntie Mary. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“Pay me back with what, love? Oh, bless you. Pay me back, indeed. Should’ve thought twice before havin’ so many little ones. That Tom of yours was never a proper man.”
Alice swallowed the bitter words because she knew there was still a week until payday, and milk alone wouldn’t keep them fed for long. Never mind herself—but at home, three children were waiting. Tom, the man the neighbour spoke of, had once been her husband. Now he was gone. Last year, he’d learned that the government wouldn’t hand them a house or a car just for raising three children. So he packed his things in a hurry and declared he wouldn’t live in such squalor. Alice had been washing dishes at the time and even dropped a plate.
“Tom, what are you sayin’? You’re a grown man. Get a decent job, one that pays proper, and there’ll be no squalor. These are your children. You always said you wanted more—that you wanted a big family.”
“I did, but I didn’t know the country would turn its back on folks with too many mouths to feed. What’s the point of workin’ for nothin’?” Tom had replied.
Alice let her hands fall.
“Tom, what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Alice, I don’t know. And anyway, why didn’t you put your foot down? One child would’ve been enough. You’re the woman—you should’ve known better.”
Alice hadn’t managed another word before Tom bolted out the door and nearly sprinted to the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes, but then she saw three pairs of little eyes watching her. Jack was the eldest, due to start school that year. Little Michael was just five, and their bright-eyed star, Margaret, was barely two. Alice swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Right then, who’s up for pancakes?”
The children squealed with delight, though that evening, Jack asked quietly, “Mum… is Dad comin’ back?”
Alice struggled for an answer but finally whispered, “No, love.”
Jack sniffed for a while before saying, “Well, we don’t need ’im. I’ll help you.”
When Alice returned from the evening milking, she knew the little ones would already be fed and tucked in. And she marvelled at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
Thanking Auntie Mary again for the potatoes, Alice trudged home. “Lord, when will it warm up? This winter’s been unnatural.” The potatoes might’ve lasted, but one night the frost bit so deep even the cellars couldn’t save them. The village pitied her, of course—country folk were kind—but they never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. A fool? Maybe. But now she couldn’t imagine life without any one of her children. Hard as it was, they managed. New clothes and toys would’ve been nice, but the children never asked. They knew Mum would buy what she could when she could. This year, she and Jack had even planned a proper greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but they’d worked out how many more jars of pickles and tomatoes they could put up for winter.
Shifting the bucket to her other hand, Alice suddenly spotted a small crowd—in a village like theirs, even three folk gathered was an event. They were standing by her fence. Before she even reached them, she heard the murmurs.
“Big thing, that. Looks like a huntin’ dog.”
“Reckon a boar got ’im. No, he’s done for.”
Alice followed their gazes and gasped. “What’re you all standin’ about for? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned to her. One man shrugged. “Alice, love, look at them fangs. Who’s goin’ near ’im? And anyway, it’s too late.”
“Too late? He came to us for help!”
On the snow lay a dog—whether a hunting breed or not, Alice couldn’t tell—but his side was badly torn. The creature was enormous, yet Alice felt no fear. The pain in his eyes was too much. The crowd chuckled and soon dispersed. No one wanted trouble.
Gently, Alice ran her hand between the dog’s ears. “Hold on, just a little longer. I’ll fetch a blanket, and we’ll get you home.”
A rustle came from behind. “Mum, I brought the blanket. And we can use that old fridge door as a stretcher.”
Alice turned sharply—Jack stood there, tears in his eyes. The dog whimpered, gripping the blanket in his teeth. He went still as Alice cleaned the wound. If dogs could faint, this one just had. The younger two watched, wide-eyed, from the sofa.
“Mum… will he live?”
Jack stroked the dog’s head as its clouded eyes fluttered open. “He has to. We’ll take care of ’im.”
The next morning at the dairy, the milkmaids swarmed her.
“Alice, what were you thinkin’? Draggin’ some great strange dog into your house, near your kids?”
“Aye, as if she hasn’t enough mouths to feed. And for what? He’ll die anyway—or worse, turn on ’em.”
Alice raised her voice. “Haven’t you got troubles of your own? Liz, didn’t Cathy swear she’d scalp you over your carryin’-on with her man? And Sue, best tend to your own before mindin’ mine—your Billy was swiggin’ ale behind the shop again, and he’s barely fourteen!”
The women fell silent, stepping back. Alice had never spoken like this before. She turned back to her work. “Mustn’t forget the milk. Maybe Duke’ll drink some.”
Jack had named the dog Duke. He barely left its side—fetching water, adjusting its head, tucking a boot beneath for comfort. That evening, Duke lapped weakly at the milk.
“There’s a good lad. You’ll pull through…”
And pull through he did. Alice fed him as she did the children—skimping on her own share. Within three weeks, Duke was wobbling about the house. The children petted him but didn’t dare hug him yet. He’d claimed a spot on the rug by Jack’s bed. Alice knew the village still gossiped, but she ignored them. Let them clack their tongues—that’s what tongues were for.
***
Spring arrived without warning. Alice and Jack decided to cover a bed with plastic to warm the soil. After she’d taken the dog in, the village stopped helping. Fair enough, she thought—if she could feed a hound, she could feed herself. She bore no grudges. They were right, of course. She’d chosen to have her children, chosen to take the dog. No one else was to blame for her uninsulated cellar, not when everyone knew such frosts were coming.
As Alice and Jack worked the garden, Duke, Michael, and Margaret tumbled outside. The children seemed oblivious to the fangs in Duke’s mouth—they rode him like a pony, somersaulting where the spring sun had dried last year’s grass. Their laughter drew even the neighbours to peek over the fence.
“Rex!”
The dog froze, then yelped and cleared the fence in one leap. He lunged at the stranger, whining, licking the man’s face as the man struggled to hold him. Alice and the children gaped. The neighbours edged closer. A full fifteen minutes passed before man and dog calmed. The stranger finally looked at Alice.
“Afternoon, ma’am. I’ve searched six months for my dog—thought he’d died in that scrap. But here he is.”
Jack sniffed, realising Duke—now Rex—would be taken. “Mum nursed ’im. Stayed up nights, changin’ bandages.”
The man glanced at Jack, then at Michael and Margaret—the boy fighting tears, the girl on the verge. “Now, now, no waterworks. I’m not takin’ him this instant. How about a cuppa?”
Alice jolted to action. “Of course, come in.”
The man hesitated. “My motor’s parked down the lane. I’ll fetch it. Rex might not understand if I go alone…” He looked at Jack. “Fancy comin’?”
In any other circumstance, Alice might’ve refused. But she knew Rex—no, Duke—would never belong to a cruel man.
They returned swiftly. Alice stared at the sleek, expensive car; the villagers stared harder. The dog’s true owner, Edward, turned out to be a painter, a businessman, a hunter—and, above all, a decent man. That day in the woods, they hadn’t even been hunting. The boar had come out of nowhere. Edward and his friends had searched until dark
