**Diary Entry 19th of May, 1987**
To avoid disgrace, she agreed to live with a hunchbacked man But when he whispered his request in her ear, she froze
“Billy, is that you, love?”
“Yes, Mum, its me. Sorry Im so late”
Her voice trembledhalf with worry, half with exhaustionas it carried from the darkened hallway. She stood there in her old dressing gown, torch in hand, as if shed been waiting for him all her life.
“Billy, my sweetheart, whereve you been till this hour? The skys black as pitch, stars shining like the eyes of foxes”
“Mum, me and Dave were studying. Revision, coursework I lost track of time. Im sorry I didnt call. You know how poorly you sleep”
“Or was it a girl?” she asked sharply, squinting. “Dont tell me youve gone and fallen in love?”
“Mum, dont be daft!” Billy laughed, pulling off his boots. “Im not the sort lasses wait for by the garden gate. And whod want mehunched like a question mark, arms like an apes, hair like a bramble patch?”
But pain flickered in her eyes. She didnt say what she sawnot a grotesque, but the son shed raised in hardship, in cold, in loneliness.
Billy was no beauty. Barely five foot three, bent at the shoulders, arms so long they nearly grazed his knees. His head was large, crowned with curls that stuck out like dandelion fluff. As a boy, theyd called him “monkey,” “forest sprite,” “freak of nature.” But hed grownand become more than just a man.
He and his mother, Margaret, had come to this village when he was ten. Escaped the citypoverty, shame. His father jailed, his mother vanished. Only the two of them left. Two against the world.
“That Billy of yours wont last long,” old Mrs. Hargreaves would mutter, eyeing the frail boy. “Earthll swallow him, and no onell notice.”
But Billy clung to life like ivy to stone. He grew. He breathed. He worked. And Margareta woman with a heart of steel and hands ruined by years in the bakeryfed the whole village. Ten hours a day, year after year, until her body gave out.
When she took to her bed, Billy became son, daughter, nurse, and doctor. He scrubbed floors, cooked porridge, read aloud from yellowed magazines. And when she diedquiet as wind leaving a fieldhe stood by the coffin, fists clenched, silent. He had no tears left.
But people remembered. Neighbours brought food, gave warm coats. Then, unexpectedly, they began visiting. First the lads, fascinated by radios. Billy worked at the repair shopmending receivers, tuning aerials, soldering wires. His hands were gold, though they looked clumsy.
Then the girls came. At first just for tea and jam. Then they lingered. Laughed. Talked.
One evening, he noticedEmily always stayed last.
“In no hurry?” he asked when the others had gone.
“Nowhere to hurry to,” she murmured, staring at the floor. “Stepmother hates me. Three brothers, all cruel. Dads drunk, and Im just extra. Sleeping on a mates sofa, but even that wont last Here, its quiet. Peaceful. I dont feel alone.”
Billy looked at herand for the first time, understood he could be needed.
“Stay with me,” he said simply. “Mums rooms empty. Keep house. Ill ask nowt of you. Not a word, not a glance. Just be here.”
The village talked. Whispered behind hands:
“A hunchback and that pretty thing? Dont make me laugh!”
But time passed. Emily cleaned, cooked soup, smiled. And Billyworked, stayed quiet, cared.
Then she had a son, and the world turned upside down.
“Whos he look like?” the village asked. “Who?”
But little Thomas gazed at Billy and said: “Daddy!”
And Billywhod never dreamed of fatherhoodfelt warmth unfold in his chest, like a tiny sun.
He taught Thomas to fix plugs, fish, sound out words. Emily, watching them, would say:
“You ought to find a wife, Billy. Youre not alone.”
“Youre like a sister to me,” hed reply. “First, well see you wed. To a good man. Then well see.”
And a good man came. Young, from the next village. Honest. Hardworking.
They held the wedding. Emily left.
But one day, Billy met her on the road and said:
“Ive a favour to ask Let me keep Thomas.”
“What?” she gasped. “Why?”
“I know, Em. When you birth a child, everything changes. But Thomas hes not yours by blood. Youll forget him. I I cant.”
“I wont give him up!”
“Im not taking,” Billy said softly. “Visit whenever you like. Just let him live with me.”
Emily hesitated. Then called her son:
“Tommy! Come here! Who dyou want to live withme or Dad?”
The boy ran over, eyes bright:
“Cant it be like before? With both of you?”
“No,” Emily said sadly.
“Then I stay with Dad!” Tommy cried. “But you visit, Mum!”
And so it was.
Thomas stayed. And Billy, for the first time, truly became a father.
But one day, Emily returned:
“Were moving to London. Im taking Thomas.”
The boy howled, clinging to Billy:
“Not going! Im staying with Dad!”
“Billy” Emily whispered, eyes down. “Hes not yours.”
“I know,” Billy said. “Always knew.”
“Ill run away!” Thomas sobbed.
And he did. Again and again.
They took himhe came back.
Finally, Emily gave in.
“Have it your way,” she sighed. “Hes chosen.”
Then a new chapter began.
Old Mrs. Coopers husband drowned. A drunk. A brute. God had given them no childrenno love in that house.
Billy started coming by for milk. Then to mend the fence, patch the roof. Then just to visit. Drink tea. Talk.
He and Maisie grew close. Slowly. Carefully. Like adults.
Emily wrote letters. Told him Thomas had a sisterDaisy.
“Bring her,” Billy wrote back. “Family should be together.”
A year later, they came.
Thomas doted on his sister. Held her, sang lullabies, taught her to walk.
“Son,” Emily begged. “Live with us. Londons got theatres, schools, opportunities”
“No,” Thomas said firmly. “I wont leave Dad. And Auntie Maisies like a mum now.”
Then came school.
When boys boasted of dads who were soldiers, engineers, lorry drivers, Thomas didnt flinch.
“My dad?” hed say proudly. “He can fix anything. Understands how the world works. He saved me. Hes my hero.”
A year passed.
Maisie and Billy sat by the fire with Thomas.
“Were having a baby,” Maisie said. “A little one.”
“You wont send me away?” Thomas whispered.
“What nonsense!” Maisie cried, hugging him. “Youre as much mine as if Id borne you!”
“Son,” Billy said, watching the flames. “How could you think it? Youre my world.”
Months later, Alfie was born.
Thomas cradled his brother like treasure.
“Now Ive a sister,” he murmured. “And a brother. And Dad. And Auntie Maisie.”
Emily still called for him.
But Thomas always answered:
“Im already home.”
Years passed. People forgot Thomas wasnt Billys blood. Stopped whispering.
And when Thomas became a father himself, he told his children and grandchildren about the best dad in the world.
“He wasnt handsome,” Thomas would say. “But he had more love in him than anyone Ive known.”
And every year, on the anniversary, their house filledMaisies children, Emilys children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.
They drank tea, laughed, remembered.
“Best father we ever had!” the
