The Sun After the Rain…
“Emily, come in. My Colin’s been down the cellar and got you some potatoes.”
Emily turned towards her neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Margaret, I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“Pay me back with what, love? Oh, bless you. You’ve got enough on your plate. Should’ve thought of that before having so many. That William was never a proper man, was he?”
Emily swallowed the sting of those words. Payday was still a week away, and milk alone wouldn’t keep her going—never mind the three little ones waiting at home. William, the man her neighbour spoke of, had been her husband—until last year, when he’d learned the government wouldn’t hand them a house or a car just for having three children. He’d packed his things in a hurry and declared he wasn’t cut out for poverty. Emily had been washing dishes at the time, and one had slipped from her hands.
“William, what are you saying? You’re the man of the house. Get yourself a proper job, one that pays decent, and we won’t be poor. These are your children. You always said you wanted a big family.”
“Wanted, yes—but I didn’t know the state’d treat us like dirt for it. What’s the point in working for nothing?” William had replied.
Emily’s hands fell limp.
“William, what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Em, I don’t know. And anyway, why didn’t you put your foot down? One would’ve been enough. You’re the woman—you should’ve known better.”
She hadn’t managed another word before he bolted out the door and sprinted for the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes, but then she saw them—three pairs watching her. Thomas, the eldest, would start school this year. Little George was just five, and their star, little Lily, only two. Emily swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Right then, who’s up for pancakes?”
The children squealed—all except Thomas, who that evening asked, “Mum… is Dad really not coming back?”
Emily searched for the right words, then settled on the truth.
“No, love. He’s not.”
Thomas sniffled for a while, then squared his shoulders. “Good. We don’t need him. I’ll help you.”
By the time Emily returned from the evening milking, the little ones were fed and tucked in. Sometimes she marvelled at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
After thanking Margaret for the potatoes, she headed home. “Lord, when will it warm up? This winter’s gone on forever.” The spuds would last, but a bitter frost had ruined many a cellar stock. The villagers pitied them—village folk were kind like that—but never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. A fool? She couldn’t imagine life without any one of her children now. Hard as it was, they managed. New clothes and toys would’ve been lovely, but the kids never asked. They knew Mum would buy what she could, when she could. This year, she and Thomas had even planned a proper greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but enough to put up more jars of tomatoes and cucumbers for winter.
Emily shifted the bucket to her other hand and spotted a crowd—well, a village crowd, which meant three gossips huddled by her fence. As she neared, she caught snippets:
“Big brute, that—must’ve been a hunting dog.”
“Looks like a boar got him. No saving that one.”
Emily followed their stares and gasped. “What’re you all standing about for? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned. Old Mr. Harris sniffed. “Use your head, girl. Look at those teeth—who’d risk it? Beast’s done for anyway.”
“How d’you know? He came to us for help!”
On the frostbitten ground lay a dog—maybe a hunting breed, maybe not. Emily didn’t know dogs, but she recognised pain when she saw it. The animal was massive, yet she felt no fear. Only the ache in its eyes. The villagers chuckled and wandered off. No one fancied trouble.
Emily gently stroked between the dog’s ears.
“Hold on, just a little longer. I’ll fetch a blanket, get you inside.”
A rustle behind her. “Mum, I brought the blanket. And we can use the old fridge door as a stretcher.”
She spun round. Thomas stood there, eyes wet. The dog whimpered, clamping down on the blanket as they lifted him. He went still as Emily cleaned the wound—passed out from the pain, most likely. The younger two watched, wide-eyed, from the sofa.
“Mum… will he live?”
Thomas smoothed the dog’s head as its clouded eyes flickered open.
“Course he will. We’ll look after him.”
***
The next morning, the dairy women cornered Emily.
“Em, what were you thinking? Dragging some stray mutt into the house, with kids about?”
“Aye. As if she hasn’t got enough mouths to feed. Waste of time—either it’ll die, or turn and bite one of ‘em.”
Emily raised her voice. “Got nowt better to do than poke your noses in? Linda, isn’t it your Cathy swore she’d scalp you over your carry-on with her bloke? And Sue—sort your own lad out before judging mine. Fourteen, and already propping up the pub!”
The women fell silent, backing off. Emily never spoke like this. She marched off to work. “Best not forget the milk. Maybe Jack’ll drink some.”
Thomas had named the dog Jack. He barely left its side—fetching water, adjusting its head, tucking an old boot under for support. That evening, Jack lapped weakly at the milk.
“There’s a good lad. You’ll pull through…”
And he did. Emily fed him as she fed her children—skimping on her own share. Three weeks later, Jack swayed unsteadily about the house. The kids petted him gently, still wary. He’d claimed a spot on the rug by Thomas’s bed. The village still clucked, but Emily ignored them. Let them talk.
***
Spring arrived overnight. Emily and Thomas decided to cover a plot with plastic, hurry the thaw along. Since taking in the dog, the neighbours had stopped helping. Fair enough—if she could feed a hound, she could feed herself. She didn’t mind. She’d chosen the children, chosen the dog. And no one but her was to blame for the uninsulated cellar.
While they worked, Jack and the little ones tumbled outside. The children never seemed to notice his teeth. They rode him like a pony, shrieking with laughter loud enough to draw stares from over fences.
“Rex!”
The dog froze, then yelped and cleared the fence in one bound. He barrelled into a stranger, whining, licking the man’s face as they clung to each other. Emily and the children gaped. Neighbours drifted closer.
Fifteen minutes passed before man and dog calmed. The stranger turned to Emily.
“Afternoon, missus. Been searching six months for him. Thought he was dead after that boar got him.”
Thomas sniffled, realising Jack—Rex—would be taken.
“Mum nursed him. Stayed up nights changing bandages.”
The man looked at Thomas, then George and Lily—the latter on the verge of tears.
“Hold on now, no waterworks. I’m not snatching him this minute. How about a cuppa first?”
Emily flushed. “Of course, come in.”
The man hesitated. “Left my car down the lane. Best fetch it.” He glanced between Rex and Thomas. “Fancy coming? Doubt he’ll follow otherwise.”
Normally, Emily would’ve refused. But this man couldn’t be bad—not with a dog like Rex.
They returned swiftly. Emily blinked at the posh car; the village gawped harder. The man—Edward—was an artist, businessman, hunter. Turned out they hadn’t even been hunting that day. Just walking. No one knew where the boar had come from. They’d searched till dark, then snow had buried the trail. Edward had combed every nearby village—theirs was the last.
Thomas begged him to stay a few days. To Emily’s surprise, he agreed.
“Why not? Been ages since I worked with my hands. Fence needs mending, and Thomas mentioned a greenhouse.”
Emily reddened. “You needn’t—”
“Don’t,” Edward cut in. “You cared for Rex when you had nowt. Think I don’t see that?”
***
A week later, it felt like Edward had always been there. The children adored him. He could fix anything. Emily didn’t know how they’d managed without him.
Yet she wanted him gone.
One evening, after the children slept, she found him outside.
“Edward… I won’t explain. Just—please leave.”
He nodded
