Sunshine After the Rain…
“Lucy, come over. My husband was down in the cellar and picked some potatoes for you.”
Lucy turned toward her neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Auntie Margaret, I’ll make sure to pay you back.”
“Pay me back with what? Oh, bless your heart. As if you could. Should’ve thought twice before having so many kids. Harry was never a proper man to begin with.”
Lucy swallowed the harsh words because she knew payday was still a week away, and milk alone wouldn’t keep them going long. Never mind her—it was the three little ones waiting at home who mattered. Harry, the man Margaret was talking about, had been her husband—now her ex—because last year, he’d realised the government wouldn’t just hand them a car or a flat for having three kids. He’d packed his things in a hurry and declared he refused to live in such poverty. Lucy had been washing dishes at the time and even dropped a plate.
“Harry, what are you saying? You’re the man of the house. Get a proper job that pays well, and we won’t be poor. These are your children. You always said you wanted a big family, that you loved kids.”
“I did, but I didn’t know the government would treat big families like dirt. Why work if it’s all for nothing?” Harry shot back.
Lucy’s shoulders slumped.
“Harry, what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Lucy, I dunno. And anyway, why didn’t you insist one was enough? You’re the woman—you should’ve known this could happen.”
Lucy didn’t get a chance to reply before Harry bolted out the door, nearly sprinting to the bus stop. Tears welled up, but then she saw three pairs of eyes watching her. Tom was the oldest, starting school this year. Little Michael was five, and their star, Daisy, was just two. Lucy swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Right then, who’s up for pancakes?”
The kids squealed with delight, but later that evening, Tom asked quietly,
“Mum… is Dad not coming back?”
Lucy struggled for the right words but finally just said,
“No, love…”
Tom sniffled for a bit before mumbling,
“Good riddance. We’ll manage without him. I’ll help you.”
When Lucy came back from the evening milking, she knew the little ones were fed and tucked in. And honestly, she was amazed at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
After thanking Margaret for the potatoes, she headed home. “Lord, when’s this cold snap going to end? This winter’s been rotten.” The potatoes would’ve lasted, but a deep freeze had ruined most of them, even in the cellars. Of course, the villagers felt sorry for them—country folk were kind like that—but they never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. A fool? Maybe. But now she couldn’t imagine life without any one of her children. Hard as it was, they got by. New clothes and toys would’ve been nice, but the kids never asked. They knew Mum would buy what she could when she could. This year, she and Tom had even planned to put up a big greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but they’d worked out how many more jars of pickles and tomatoes they could put up for winter.
Lucy shifted the bucket to her other hand and noticed a small crowd—well, for a village in this weather, three people counted as a crowd—gathered by her fence. Before she even reached them, she heard:
“Big brute, must be a hunting dog.”
“Looks like a boar got him. Nah, he’s done for.”
Lucy followed their gaze and gasped. “What’re you all standing around for? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned to her. One shook his head.
“Don’t be daft, Lucy. Look at those fangs—who’d dare go near him? Besides, it’s too late now.”
“Too late? He came to people for help!”
On the snow lay a dog—maybe a hunting breed, maybe not. Lucy didn’t know much about dogs, but she could see the nasty gash on his side. The animal was enormous, but Lucy wasn’t afraid. The pain in his eyes was too much to ignore. The villagers chuckled and drifted off. No one wanted trouble.
Lucy carefully ran her hand between the dog’s ears.
“Hold on, just hold on a bit. I’ll fetch a blanket, move you, and we’ll get you inside.”
A rustling sound came from behind.
“Mum, I brought the blanket. And we can use the old fridge door as a stretcher.”
Lucy spun around. Tom stood there, tears in his eyes. She could see how much pain the dog was in. The dog clenched the blanket in his teeth and whined softly before going still—passed out from the pain. The little ones watched wide-eyed from the sofa.
“Mum, will he live?”
Tom stroked the dog’s head as his cloudy eyes flickered open.
“He has to. We’ll take care of him.”
The next morning, the dairy workers cornered Lucy.
“Lucy, what were you thinking? Dragging some huge stray into the house, with kids around?”
“Exactly. Like she hasn’t got enough mouths to feed. And what’s the point? He’ll die anyway, and if he doesn’t, he’ll maul one of them.”
Lucy raised her voice.
“Don’t you lot have enough problems of your own without sticking your noses in mine? Liz, didn’t I hear Sarah say she’d pull your hair out because someone told her about your little backyard meetings with her husband? And Tracy, maybe sort out your own house before judging mine. Your Billy was drinking beer behind the shop again yesterday, and he’s only fourteen.”
The women fell silent, even backing away—Lucy had never spoken to them like that before. She turned and got back to work. “Mustn’t forget extra milk. Maybe Jack will drink some.”
Tom had named the dog Jack. He barely left his side—fetching water, adjusting his head, tucking a boot under him for comfort. That evening, the stray managed a few laps of milk.
“There you go, you’ll pull through…”
And pull through he did. Lucy fed him just like the kids, skimping on her own portions to keep him strong. Three weeks later, he was wobbling around the house. The children petted him but didn’t dare hug him yet. Jack claimed his spot—a mat by Tom’s bed. Lucy knew the village still gossiped, but she ignored them. Let them talk; tongues were made for wagging.
***
Spring came suddenly. Lucy and Tom decided to cover one bed with plastic to warm the soil faster. After she took the dog in, the villagers stopped helping. Well, fair enough—if she could feed a beast like that, she could manage on her own. Lucy didn’t hold it against them. They were right, of course—she’d chosen to have kids, chosen to take in the dog, and it was her own fault for not insulating the cellar. Everyone had warned her about the frost.
While she and Tom worked the garden, Jack, Michael, and Daisy tumbled outside. The children didn’t seem to notice the fangs in Jack’s mouth—they rode him like a pony, somersaulting where the spring sun had dried last year’s grass. Their laughter was so loud neighbours peeked over the fence.
“Thor!”
The dog froze, then yelped and cleared the fence in one leap. He practically bowled the stranger over, licking his face while the man hugged him tight. Lucy and the kids gaped. The neighbours edged closer. It took fifteen minutes before man and dog calmed down. The stranger finally looked at Lucy.
“Hello, miss. I’ve been searching for my dog six months—thought he died in that fight. But here he is.”
Tom sniffled, realising Jack—Thor—would be taken from them.
“Mum nursed him, stayed up nights bandaging him.”
The man glanced at Tom, then at Michael and Daisy. Michael’s lip trembled; Daisy was on the verge of tears.
“Hold on, no need for that. I’m not taking him right now. Fancy a cuppa?”
Lucy snapped out of it. “Of course, come inside.”
The man hesitated. “My car’s parked at the end of the lane. I’ll fetch it.” He looked between the dog and Tom. “Maybe you’d come with me? Don’t want Thor getting confused.”
In another situation, Lucy might’ve refused, but she knew Jack—Thor—wouldn’t belong to a bad man.
They returned quickly. Lucy stared at the sleek, expensive car; the villagers stared harder. The dog’s real owner was named Edward. Turned out he was an artist, a businessman, a hunter—and, above all, a decent man. That day in the woods, they hadn’t even been hunting. He’d just gone for a walk. No one knew where the boar had come from. Edward and his friends had searched until
