Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

In that dead season of the year a month passed with an eternal drift of rain against the windows, and without ten hours of sunlight to be remembered. The pond overflowed, and oozing over the farm road turned the lower third of the lane into a yellow squelch. Furze put down more faggots. The wheels of wagon and tumbril were caked with mud.

In the house Mary cooked and cleaned and washed and mended, and lit fires and trimmed lamps, and scoured milk cans and pails. For a week she did not go farther than the bed in the vegetable garden where the winter greens grew; she needed them for cooking, and that is why she went.