The Sun After the Rain…
“Lily, come in. My Bert’s been down the cellar and fetched some potatoes for you.”
Lilian turned toward the neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Margaret. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“And how’s that, then? Oh, bless your heart. Pay me back, she says. Should’ve thought of that before popping out three little ones. Bert was never a proper man, was he?”
Lilian swallowed the insult. She knew payday was still a week away, and milk alone wouldn’t stretch far. Fine for her, but the three little faces waiting at home needed more. Bert—the man the neighbours gossiped about—had been her husband. Now he was gone, ever since he realised the government wouldn’t hand them a house or a car just for having three children. Last year, he’d packed his things in a hurry and declared he wouldn’t live like a beggar. Lilian had been washing up at the time, and a plate slipped right from her hands.
“Bert, what’re you on about? You’re the man of the house. Get a proper job that pays decent, and we won’t be beggars. 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 of working for nowt?” Bert shot back.
Lilian’s arms fell limp.
“Bert, what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Lil, I dunno. And anyway, why didn’t you put your foot down? One kid would’ve been plenty. You’re the woman—should’ve known better.”
She didn’t get another word in. Bert bolted out the door and sprinted for the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes, but then she saw them—three pairs of wide, watching eyes. Thomas, the eldest, was starting school this year. Little Michael was just five, and their shining star, little Daisy, barely two. Lilian swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Right then, who’s up for pancakes?”
The children squealed with delight—all except Thomas, who asked that evening:
“Mum… is Dad really not coming back?”
Lilian hesitated, then simply said,
“No, love. He’s not.”
Thomas sniffed for a bit before mumbling,
“Good riddance. We’ll manage. I’ll help.”
By the time she returned from the evening milking, the little ones were fed and tucked in. Lilian marvelled at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
After thanking Margaret for the potatoes, she trudged home. “Lord, when’ll it warm up? This winter’s gone on forever.” The spuds would’ve lasted, but a brutal frost had crept into cellars, ruining half the village’s stock. The neighbours pitied them—village folk were kind, really—but never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. And maybe she was. But now? She couldn’t imagine life without any one of her children. They scraped by. New clothes and toys were a dream, but the kids never asked. They knew Mum would buy what she could, when she could. This year, she and Thomas had big plans for a greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but enough to jar more tomatoes and cucumbers for winter.
Lilian shifted the bucket to her other hand and spotted a small crowd—well, a crowd for their tiny village at this time of year. Three people gathered by her fence. As she neared, she caught murmurs:
“Big brute, looks like a hunting dog.”
“Fox must’ve got ’im. No, he’s done for.”
Lilian peered past them—then gasped. “What’re you all standing about for? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned. Old Mr. Harris scoffed, “Oh, listen to you. Look at them fangs—who’s going near that? Besides, too late for help.”
“Too late? He came to people for help!”
On the snow lay a dog—hound or mastiff, she couldn’t tell, but his flank was torn open. Huge as he was, Lilian felt no fear. The pain in his eyes was plain. The crowd chuckled and dispersed. No one wanted trouble.
Lilian carefully stroked between the dog’s ears.
“Hang on, just a bit. I’ll fetch a blanket, get you home.”
A rustle behind her.
“Mum, I brought a blanket. And there’s an old fridge door—we could use it as a stretcher.”
She spun. Thomas stood there, eyes wet. The dog whimpered, clamping down on the blanket. He fell still as Lilian cleaned the wound. Dogs didn’t faint often, but this one had. The younger two watched, wide-eyed, from the sofa.
“Mum, will he live?”
Thomas stroked the dog’s head as its cloudy eyes fluttered open.
“He has to. We’ll take care of him.”
Next morning at the dairy, the milkmaids swarmed her.
“Lil, what were you thinking? Dragging some stray mongrel in with kids about?”
“Honestly. Like she hasn’t got enough mouths to feed. And what’s the point? He’ll die anyway—or turn and bite one of ’em.”
Lilian raised her voice—uncharacteristic for her.
“Got nowt better to do than poke in my business? Jean, didn’t I hear young Becky swore she’d scalp you over her man sneaking through your back garden? And Tracey—sort your own house before meddling in mine. Your Billy was drinking lager behind the shop again, and he’s only fourteen!”
The women fell silent, even stepped back. Lilian had never spoken like this before. She turned back to work. “Mustn’t forget extra milk. Maybe Jack’ll drink it.”
Thomas had named the dog Jack. He barely left its side—fetching water, adjusting its head, tucking an old boot under for comfort. By evening, the founddog lapped weakly at the milk.
“There’s a good lad. You’ll pull through…”
And he did. Lilian fed him as she did the children—skimping on her own share. Three weeks later, Jack wobbled about the house. The kids petted him gently, still wary. He slept on a rug by Thomas’s bed.
The village still gossiped, but Lilian ignored it. Let them clack their tongues—what else were mouths for?
***
Spring came sudden. Lilian and Thomas rushed to cover a bed with plastic, urging the soil to thaw. After the dog, the neighbours stopped helping. Well, fair enough—if she could feed a hound, she could feed herself. Lilian didn’t mind. They were right, weren’t they? She’d chosen three children. Chosen the dog. No one to blame that her cellar wasn’t insulated, not when everyone knew the cold was coming.
As they worked the garden, Jack, Michael, and Daisy tumbled outside. The little ones seemed oblivious to the teeth in Jack’s jaws—they rode him like a pony, shrieking with laughter, rolling in patches of sun-dried grass. The noise drew even the nosiest neighbours to peek over fences.
“Rex!”
The dog froze. Yelped. Cleared the fence in one bound and hurled himself at a stranger—licking, whining, as the man hugged him fiercely. Lilian and the children gaped. The neighbours edged closer.
Fifteen minutes passed before man and dog calmed. The stranger finally looked at Lilian.
“Good day, missus. Spent six months searching for my dog. Thought he’d died that night in the woods.”
Thomas sniffled, realising Jack—Rex—would be taken.
“Mum nursed him, stayed up nights bandaging him,” he blurted.
The man glanced at Thomas, then Michael and Daisy—the boy fighting tears, the girl losing the battle.
“Now, now—none of that. I’m not snatching him this instant. How about a cuppa first?”
Lilian jolted to attention. “Course—come inside.”
The man hesitated. “My car’s parked down the lane. Best fetch it first.” He looked helplessly between dog and boy. “Maybe you’ll come? Rex might not understand…”
Normally, Lilian would’ve refused. But she knew—no bad man owned a dog like Jack.
They returned swiftly. Lilian stared at the sleek, expensive car. The village stared harder.
The man—Edward—was an artist, businessman, hunter. A good man. That night in the woods, they hadn’t even been hunting—just walking. No one knew where the boar had come from. Edward and friends searched until dark, then snow buried any trail. He’d combed every nearby village. Theirs was the last.
Thomas begged him to stay a few days. To Lilian’s shock, Edward agreed.
“Why not? Been ages since I did proper work. That fence needs mending, and Thomas mentioned a greenhouse…”
