Sunshine After the Rain…
“Hey, Holly, come here. My husband’s been down the cellar and got you some potatoes.” Holly turned towards her neighbour’s yard. “Oh, thank you, Auntie Mary—I’ll pay you back, I promise.” “Pay me back with what, love? Bless your heart. You should’ve thought twice before havin’ all them kids. Pete was never a proper man, was he?”
Holly swallowed the bitter words. She still had a week till payday, and milk alone wouldn’t keep them going long. Never mind her—but the three little ones waiting at home? Pete, the man her neighbour was slagging off, had been her husband. Not anymore, though. Last year, he’d realised the government wouldn’t just hand them a car or a flat for havin’ three kids, so he’d packed his bags quick as anything and declared he “wasn’t livin’ like this.” Holly had been washing up at the time—dropped a plate, even. “Pete, what’re you on about? You’re the man of the house. Get a proper job, one that pays decent, and we won’t be skint. These are your kids. You always said you wanted a big family.”
“Wanted, yeah—didn’t know the state couldn’t care less about big families. What’s the point in workin’ myself to the bone for nothin’?” Pete shot back.
Holly’s hands fell to her sides. “Pete… what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Not my problem, Hol. Besides, why didn’t you put your foot down? One kid would’ve been plenty. You’re the woman—you should’ve known better.”
She didn’t get another word in. Pete bolted out the door, sprinted for the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes—until she saw three pairs staring up at her. Sammy was the oldest, startin’ school this year. Little Mikey was five, and their sunshine, Daisy, just two. Holly swallowed hard, forced a smile. “Right then—who’s up for pancakes?”
The kids squealed—all but Sammy. That night, he asked, “Mum… is Dad really not comin’ back?”
Holly fumbled for an answer, then just said, “No, love.”
Sammy sniffled a bit, then squared his shoulders. “S’alright. We’ll manage. I’ll help.”
By the time Holly got back from evening milking, the little ’uns were fed and tucked in. Bloke or not, she marvelled at how her boy had grown up overnight.
***
After thanking Mary for the spuds, she trudged home. “Lord, when’s this cold snap endin’? Proper bitter winter, this.” The potatoes would’ve lasted—if not for that vicious frost that ruined half the village’s stores, even in cellars. Folks felt for ’em, course—country folk were kind like that—but never missed a chance to remind her what a daft cow she was. Daft how? Right now, she couldn’t imagine life without any one of her kids. Tough as it was, they got by. New clothes and toys’d be nice, but the little ’uns never asked. Knew Mum’d get ’em when she could. This year, her and Sammy even planned to put up a big greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but they’d worked out how many extra jars of tomatoes and cucumbers they could put up for winter.
Holly shifted the bucket to her other hand—then spotted a crowd. Well, a village “crowd”—three nosy parkers loitering by her fence. As she got closer, she caught the chatter:
“Bloody massive, that is—proper huntin’ dog, bet.”
“Fox must’ve got ’im. Nah, he’s done for.”
Holly followed their stares—then gasped. “What’re you lot standin’ round for? He needs help!”
They turned, smirking. “Pull the other one, Hol. Look at them fangs—who’s daft enough to go near ’im? Beast’s a goner anyway.”
“Help him how? He came to people for a reason!”
There on the snow lay a dog—huntin’ type, maybe. Holly didn’t know breeds, but the gash in his side was bad. Huge as he was, she felt no fear—just saw the pain in his eyes. The villagers chuckled, drifted off. Not their problem.
Gently, Holly stroked between his ears. “Hold on, just a tick. I’ll fetch a blanket, get you home.”
A rustle behind her. “Mum, got the blanket. And the old fridge door—we can use it as a stretcher.”
She spun—Sammy stood there, eyes wet. The dog whimpered, clamping down on the blanket. He went still as Holly cleaned the wound. Passed out from pain, most like. The little ’uns watched, wide-eyed, from the sofa. “Mum… will he live?”
Sammy stroked the dog’s head as its cloudy eyes flickered open. “Course he will. We’ll look after ’im.”
Next morning at the dairy, the women swarmed her.
“Hol, what were you thinkin’, draggin’ some stray mutt indoors—with kids about?”
“Too right. Like she ain’t got enough mouths to feed. Waste of time—he’ll croak, or turn on ’em.”
Holly snapped. “Got nowt better to do than poke in my business? Jen, heard Kat’s threatenin’ to scalp you over your carry-on with her bloke. And Trace—sort your own lad out before judgin’ mine. Your Billy was on the cider behind the shop again—14, for pity’s sake!”
The women recoiled—Hol never raised her voice. She marched off. “Best grab extra milk. Maybe Jack’ll drink it.”
Sammy’d named him Jack. Barely left his side—fetching water, fluffing up an old boot for a pillow. That night, the stray lapped a bit of milk. “There’s a lad… you’ll pull through…”
And he did. Holly fed him same as the kids—went without herself. Three weeks on, he was wobbling about. The children petted him gently, still wary. Jack claimed a spot by Sammy’s bed. Holly knew the village still gossiped—let ’em. Windbags gonna wag.
***
Spring came sudden. Holly and Sammy got straight to it, covering a plot to thaw the soil faster. After takin’ the dog in, the villagers stopped helpin’. Fair enough—if she could feed a hound, she could feed herself. No hard feelings. She’d chosen the kids, chosen the dog. No one to blame but herself for the frost-ruined stores.
While they worked the plot, Jack and the little ’uns played outside. The kids didn’t care about his fangs—they rolled with him in the sun-dried grass, shrieking with laughter loud enough to draw stares over fences.
“GRANT!”
The dog froze, yelped—then cleared the fence in one bound. He barrelled into a stranger, licking his face wild. The man hugged him tight. Holly and the kids gaped. Neighbours edged closer.
Fifteen minutes later, man and dog calmed down. The stranger turned to Holly. “Afternoon, missus. Been searchin’ six months—thought he died in that scrap.”
Sammy sniffled, realising Jack—Grant—was leaving. “Mum nursed ’im. Stayed up nights dressin’ his wounds.”
The man—Oliver—looked at the kids. Mikey’s lip wobbled; Daisy welled up. “Hold on now—not takin’ him this minute. Fancy a cuppa?”
Holly snapped to. “Course—come in.”
Oliver hesitated. “Left my motor at the lane. Best fetch it.” He glanced between Grant and Sammy. “Fancy comin’? Reckon he won’t follow otherwise.”
Normally, she’d’ve said no—but no bad man could own a dog like Jack.
They returned quick. Holly blinked at the posh Range Rover—the village gawped harder. Oliver—artist, businessman, hunter, decent bloke—explained they hadn’t even been hunting that day. Just a walk. No one knew where the boar came from. He’d searched till dark, then snow buried the trail. Months later, he’d reached their village—last on his list.
Sammy begged him to stay a few days. To Holly’s shock, Oliver agreed. “Why not? Been ages since I did honest work. Fence needs mendin’, and Sammy mentioned a greenhouse.”
Holly flushed. “Don’t be daft—we’re fine.”
Oliver met her eyes. “After what you did for Grant? Starvin’ yourself to keep him fed? Don’t insult me.”
A week in, it felt like he’d always been there. The kids adored him. Bloke could turn his hand to anything. Holly didn’t know how they’d coped
