**A Glimmer After the Rain**
“Emily, love, come inside. I’ve just been down the cellar and fetched you some potatoes.”
Emily turned towards her neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Mary. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“Pay me back with what, eh? Bless your heart.” Aunt Mary sighed. “Should’ve thought before having all them kids. That Pete 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. Pete, the man Aunt Mary was talking about, had been her husband. *Had* been. Last year, he’d realised the government wasn’t handing out cars or flats for three children, so he’d packed his bags and declared he wouldn’t live like a pauper. She’d been washing dishes at the time, and the plate slipped right from her hands.
“Pete, what on earth are you saying? You’re the man of the house—get a proper job if the money’s tight. These are *your* children. You always said you wanted a big family.”
“Wanted, aye. But no one told me the state couldn’t care less about families like ours. What’s the point of working if it’s all for nothing?” Pete had shrugged.
Emily’s hands fell limp at her sides.
“Pete… what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Em, I dunno. Should’ve put your foot down after the first one. You’re the woman—you should’ve known better.”
Before she could reply, Pete bolted out the door, sprinting for the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes—until she saw three pairs staring up at her. Oliver, the eldest, was starting school this year. Little George was five, and their sunshine, Daisy, was just two. Emily forced a smile.
“Right then—who’s up for pancakes?”
The children squealed with joy. Only Oliver asked later that evening, “Mum… is Dad really not coming back?”
She fumbled for words, then simply said, “No, love. He’s not.”
Oliver sniffed, then squared his little shoulders. “Good. We don’t need him. I’ll help you.”
On her way back from the evening milking, Emily knew the little ones would already be fed and tucked in. She marvelled at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
After thanking Aunt Mary for the potatoes, Emily trudged home. “Lord, when will this cold snap end? This winter’s been brutal.” The potatoes would’ve lasted, but the frost had bitten hard—even cellars weren’t safe. The village folk pitied her, in their way. Country folk were kind, but they never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. A fool? Maybe. But she couldn’t imagine life without any of her children now. They managed. The kids never begged for new clothes or toys—they knew Mum would get them when she could. This year, she and Oliver had even planned a proper greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but enough to put up more jars of tomatoes and cucumbers for winter.
Shifting the bucket to her other hand, Emily spotted a small crowd—well, a crowd for their village—gathered by her fence. As she neared, she heard murmurs.
“Bloody huge, that one. Must be a hunting dog.”
“Looks like a boar got ‘im. He’s done for.”
Emily gasped when she saw where they were looking. “Why’re you just standing there? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned. Old Tom from down the lane shook his head. “Use your eyes, girl. Look at them fangs—who’s daft enough to go near him? It’s too late anyway.”
“Too late? He came to *us* for help!”
On the snow lay a massive dog—hound or not, Emily couldn’t tell—but his side was torn open. The beast was enormous, but she felt no fear. Only the pain in his eyes. The crowd chuckled and dispersed. No one wanted trouble.
Emily gently stroked between the dog’s ears. “Hold on, just hold on. I’ll fetch a blanket—we’ll get you home.”
A rustle behind her. “Mum, I brought the blanket. And the old fridge door—we can use it as a stretcher.”
She whirled around. Oliver stood there, tears in his eyes. The dog whimpered softly, clamping down on the blanket. By the time Emily cleaned the wound, he’d passed out. The younger two watched, wide-eyed, from the sofa.
“Mum… will he live?”
Oliver stroked the dog’s head as his hazy eyes flickered open. “Course he will. We’ll take care of him.”
***
The next morning at the dairy, the women cornered her.
“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. And for what? He’ll die anyway—or turn on ‘em.”
Emily snapped. “Got nowt better to do than poke your noses in my business? Liz, didn’t I hear Sarah threatened to scalp you after your little *gardening* sessions with her husband? And Tracy—maybe tend your own lad before judging mine. Saw young Jake drinking behind the shop again, and he’s only fourteen!”
The women fell silent, backing off. Emily had never spoken like that before.
“Don’t forget the milk,” she muttered. “Maybe Rex’ll drink some.”
Rex—that’s what Oliver had named him. The boy barely left the dog’s side, fetching water, adjusting his head, tucking an old boot under him for comfort. By evening, Rex managed a few laps of milk.
“There’s a good lad. You’ll pull through…”
And he did. Emily fed him like one of her own, skimping on her own meals if needed. Three weeks later, he was wobbling about the house. The children petted him gently, still wary of his size. Rex claimed a spot on Oliver’s rug by the bed. The village still gossiped, but Emily ignored them. Let them chatter—tongues were made to wag.
***
Spring came sudden. Emily and Oliver rushed to cover a patch with plastic—get the soil warm sooner. After Rex, the village stopped lending a hand. Fair enough, she thought. If she could feed a hound, she could manage on her own. No one’s fault but hers—the kids, the dog, the uninsulated cellar. She’d chosen it all.
While they worked the garden, Rex and the little ones tumbled outside. The children laughed like they’d forgotten the fangs in Rex’s mouth—rolling over him, shrieking as he nuzzled them. The noise drew even the nosiest neighbours to the fence.
“Max!”
The dog froze, then yelped, clearing the fence in one bound. He lunged at a stranger—not to attack, but to cover the man’s face in frantic licks. The man hugged him tight, laughing through tears. Emily and the children gaped. The neighbours crept closer.
Fifteen minutes passed before man and dog calmed. The stranger turned to Emily.
“Afternoon, missus. Been searching six months for him. Thought he’d died after that scrap with the boar.”
Oliver sniffled, realisation dawning. “Mum nursed him. Stayed up nights bandaging him.”
The man—Henry—looked at Oliver, then at George and Daisy, who were on the verge of tears. “Now, now—I’m not taking him this very minute. How about a cuppa first?”
Emily flushed. “Of course—come inside.”
Henry hesitated. “Left the motor at the village end. I’ll fetch it.” He glanced between Rex and Oliver. “Maybe you’d come along? Don’t want Max—er, *Rex*—getting confused.”
Normally, she’d never let Oliver go off with a stranger. But Rex—*Max*—wouldn’t love a bad man.
They returned swiftly. Emily blinked at the sleek Land Rover—the village gawked harder. Henry was a painter, businessman, hunter—and, above all, decent. Turns out, they hadn’t even been hunting that day—just a walk in the woods. The boar came out of nowhere. They’d searched till dark, then snow buried the trails. Henry had combed every nearby village. Ours was the last.
Oliver begged him to stay a few days. To Emily’s surprise, Henry agreed.
“Been ages since I did proper work. Fence needs mending, and Ollie mentioned a greenhouse.”
Emily flushed. “Oh, no—we’ll manage.”
Henry fixed her with a look. “Don’t even say it. You saved Max—went without for him. Think I don’t see that?”
***
A week in, it felt like Henry had always been there. The children adored him. He could fix anything. Emily couldn’
