The Sun After the Rain…
“Emily, come in. I’ve just been down to the cellar and got you some potatoes,” called Aunt Margaret from next door. 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? Bless your heart. Should’ve thought of that before having so many little ones. Tom was never a proper man, was he?”
Emily swallowed the bitter words. She knew payday was still a week away, and milk alone wouldn’t keep them going long. It wasn’t just her—three children waited at home. Tom, the man Aunt Margaret spoke of, had been her husband. Now he was gone. Last year, when he learned the government wouldn’t hand them a house or a car for having three kids, he packed his things and declared he wouldn’t live in such poverty. Emily had been washing dishes at the time. She’d even dropped a plate.
“Tom, what are you saying? You’re a man—get a proper job, one that pays well, and there’ll be no poverty. These are your children. You always said you wanted more of them.”
“I did, but I didn’t know the government would treat big families like rubbish. What’s the point of working for nothing?” Tom had replied.
Emily’s hands fell limp.
“Tom, what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Em, I don’t know. And anyway, why didn’t you insist one child was enough? You’re the woman—you should’ve known this might happen.”
Emily hadn’t had time to reply before Tom bolted out the door and sprinted to the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes, but then she saw three pairs of little eyes watching. James was the eldest, starting school this year. Michael was just five, and their little star, Lily, was only two. Emily forced a smile.
“Right then, who’s up for pancakes?”
The children squealed with delight, but that evening, James asked quietly, “Mum, is Dad really not coming back?”
Emily hesitated, then simply said, “No, love.”
James sniffed for a while before declaring, “Well, we don’t need him. I’ll help you.”
Returning from the evening milking, Emily found the little ones fed and tucked in. She marvelled at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
Thanking Aunt Margaret for the potatoes, she headed home. “Lord, when will it warm up? This winter’s been unbearable.” The potatoes would last, but a recent frost had ruined many cellars. The villagers pitied them—country folk were kind, but never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. A fool? Right now, she couldn’t imagine life without any of her children. Times were hard, but 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 James had even planned a big greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but they’d calculated how many more jars of tomatoes and cucumbers they could put up for winter.
Shifting the bucket to her other hand, Emily noticed a small crowd—three people counted as a crowd in the village at this hour. They’d gathered by her fence. As she approached, she overheard:
“Big brute, must’ve been a hunting dog.”
“Looks like a boar got him. He’s done for.”
Emily gasped when she saw the massive dog lying wounded in the snow. “Why are you just standing there? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned. One scoffed, “Don’t be daft, Em. Look at those fangs—who’d risk it? Besides, it’s too late.”
“Too late? He came to us for help!”
The dog was enormous, its side badly torn. Emily wasn’t afraid—she saw the pain in its eyes. The crowd chuckled and dispersed, unwilling to trouble themselves.
Gently, she stroked between the dog’s ears. “Hold on, just a little longer. I’ll fetch a blanket, and we’ll get you home.”
A rustle sounded behind her. “Mum, I brought the blanket. And we can use the old fridge door as a stretcher.”
James stood there, tears in his eyes. The dog whimpered, gripping the blanket in its teeth before collapsing unconscious. The younger two watched wide-eyed from the sofa.
“Mum, will he live?” James whispered, stroking the dog’s head as its cloudy eyes flickered open.
“He has to. We’ll take care of him.”
The next morning at the dairy, the women swarmed Emily.
“Em, what were you thinking? Bringing a strange, half-dead dog into the house with children?”
“Honestly! As if she hasn’t got enough mouths to feed. And what’s the point? He’ll die anyway—or worse, turn on them.”
Emily raised her voice. “Don’t you lot have enough problems of your own? Linda, didn’t Kate threaten to scalp you yesterday over your little affair with her husband? And Sarah, maybe tend to your own son before judging me—I saw young Jack drinking behind the shop again, and he’s only fourteen!”
The women fell silent, stepping back. Emily had never spoken like this before.
“Need to remember the milk,” she muttered. “Maybe Duke will drink some.”
James had named the dog Duke. He barely left its side—fetching water, adjusting its head, tucking a boot under for comfort. That evening, Duke lapped weakly at the milk.
“There’s a good lad. You’ll pull through…”
And he did. Emily fed him as she did the children, even skipping meals herself. Within three weeks, Duke was shuffling about. The children petted him gently, still wary. He slept on a rug by James’s bed. The village still gossiped, but Emily ignored them. Let them chatter—that’s what tongues were for.
***
Spring arrived suddenly. Emily and James hurried to cover a bed with plastic, eager for the soil to warm. Since taking in Duke, the villagers had stopped helping. Fair enough—if she could feed a dog, she could feed herself. Emily didn’t resent them. She’d chosen to have children, chosen to save Duke. And no one had forced her to neglect the cellar insulation, though everyone had known the frost was coming.
While she and James worked the garden, Duke and the younger two played outside. The children seemed oblivious to the fangs in Duke’s mouth—they rolled with him, tumbling in the dry spring grass, laughter ringing so loud neighbours peered over the fence.
“Rex!”
The dog froze, then yelped and cleared the fence in one bound, barrelling into a stranger. Duke—no, Rex—whined, licking the man’s face as he clung to the dog. Emily and the children gaped. Neighbours edged closer. It took fifteen minutes before man and dog calmed.
The stranger turned to Emily. “Hello, missus. I’ve searched six months for my dog. Thought he’d died in that boar fight.”
James sniffled, realising they’d lose Duke.
“Mum nursed him. Stayed up nights bandaging him.”
The man looked at James, then at Michael and Lily—the latter on the verge of tears. “Hold on, no waterworks. I’m not taking him this instant. How about a cuppa first?”
Emily snapped to. “Of course, come in.”
The man hesitated. “My car’s at the end of the lane. I’ll fetch it.” He glanced between Rex and James. “Fancy coming? Don’t want Rex getting confused.”
Normally, Emily would’ve refused, but she sensed Rex wouldn’t belong to a bad man…
They returned swiftly. Emily stared at the sleek, expensive car; the villagers stared harder. The dog’s real owner, Edward, turned out to be an artist, businessman, hunter—and a good man. That day, they hadn’t even been hunting—just walking. No one knew where the boar had come from. Edward and friends had searched until dark, then snow fell. He’d spent months visiting nearby villages. Theirs was the last.
James begged him to stay a few days. To Emily’s surprise, Edward agreed.
“Why not? Been ages since I worked with my hands. Your fence needs mending, and James mentioned a greenhouse.”
Emily flushed. “Oh no, we’ll manage.”
Edward looked at her steadily. “Don’t say that. You cared for Rex when you had so little. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Within a week, Edward seemed part of the family. The children adored him. He could fix anything. Emily couldn’t imagine how they’d coped without him—yet she wanted him gone. One evening, with the children asleep, she confronted him in the yard.
“Edward, I won’t explain. Just… please leave.”
He understood instantly. “You’re right. But hear me first. You probably think poorly of me, but you’re wrong. Three children don’t scare me. I scare me.
