To save face, she agreed to live with a hunchbacked man But when he whispered his request in her ear, she dropped to her knees
William, is that you, dear?
Yes, Mum, its me! Sorry for getting in so late…
My mothers voice, trembling with worry and exhaustion, floated in from the dark hallway. She stood there in her old dressing gown, clutching a torchwaiting, as though shed done so all my life.
Billy, my heart, where have you been wandering until this time of night? The skys pitch black, stars shining like the eyes of woodland foxes…
Mum, I was with Daniel. Homework, revision I just lost track of time, thats all. Sorry I didnt let you know. I know you struggle to sleep…
Or maybe you were with a girl? she suddenly narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Fallen in love, have you?
Mum, honestly! I laughed, slipping off my shoes. Im not the sort of lad girls wait for at the gate. Who would want me, anyway? Hunched, arms like a chimp, and a head like a ragwort bush!
But pain flickered in her eyes. She never said it, but she saw not a freak, but a sonraised in hardship, cold and loneliness.
Truthfully, I was no Adonis. I barely topped five foot three, stooped, with long arms that nearly touched my knees. My head was big, curls sticking every which way like dandelions. As a child, they called me monkey, woodland sprite, natures oddity. Yet I grew up to be more than all that.
Mum, Edith Goodman, and I had moved to this little Wiltshire village when I was ten. Wed fled the citypoverty, scandal. Father was sent down, Mum abandoned. It was just us two. A pair against the world.
Billy wont survive, old Mrs. Ryan used to mutter, eyeing my feeble frame. Hell vanish without a trace.
But I didnt. I hung on to life with all I had. Worked, breathed, struggled. Edithwoman with a heart of steel and hands ruined from decades baking bread for the villageendured backbreaking ten-hour days, year after year, until she herself collapsed.
When Mum was bedridden, never rising again, I became everythingson, daughter, nurse, cook. I scrubbed floors, made porridge, read old magazines aloud. And when she passed awayquiet as the wind leaving the fieldI stood by her coffin, fists clenched, wordless. My tears had long run dry.
The village remembered us, though. Neighbours brought casseroles, warm jumpers. Then something unexpectedpeople began visiting. First the lads, keen on all things radio. I worked in the parish radio shedmending sets, pointing aerials, soldering wires. My hands were golden, clumsy though they looked.
Then the girls started turning up. At first, just for tea and jam. Afterwards, lingering. Laughing. Talking.
One day I noticed: one always stayed until last. Her name was Grace.
Not in a rush, are you? I asked, after the others had gone.
Nowhere to hurry back to, she replied softly, staring at her shoes. My stepmother despises me. Three rough brothers, a drunken father… To them, Im in the way. Im sort of staying with a mate, but cant stay there forever… Its peaceful here. I dont feel alone.
I looked at hertruly seeing, for the first time, that maybe someone could need me, after all.
Live here, I said simply. Mums rooms empty. You can keep house. I Ill never ask for anything. Not a word, not a look. Just stay.
The tongues wagged, of course:
Can you believe it? A hunchback and a beauty! Ridiculous!
Time passed. Grace tidied, made soup, smiled. I worked, kept silent, cared.
And when she had a son, the world spun around.
Who does he look like? people in the village asked.
The boy, Thomas, looked at me and said, Dad!
And there I was, never imagining Id be a father, suddenly feeling something bright opening in my chestlike a small sun.
I taught Thomas how to fix a plug, catch perch, sound out tricky words. Grace watched and said,
Billy, you ought to find yourself a woman. You shouldnt be alone.
Youre like a sister to me, I replied. First Ill see you happily wed. Then well see.
And such a man arrived. Young, from a nearby village. Honest. Industrious.
There was a wedding. Grace moved on.
One day, though, I met her on the road:
I have a favour to ask Let Thomas stay with me.
What? she stared. Why?
I know, Grace. Having a child changes everything. But he hes not your own, is he? Youll move on. I never could.
I cant just give him up!
Im not taking him, I said quietly. Come visit him whenever you wish. Just let him live here.
Grace paused, then called out to Thomas:
Thomas, come here! Tell medo you want to stay with me or with Dad?
The little lad ran over, his eyes shining:
Cant it be how it was? Mum and Dad together?
No, said Grace sadly.
Then Ill stay with Dad! Thomas declared. But you must visit, Mum!
And so it was.
Thomas stayed. For the first time, I truly felt like a father.
But Grace returned once more:
Were moving to London. Im taking Thomas.
The boy howled like a wounded fox, clutching me:
Im not going! I want to stay with Dad! Im staying!
Billy Grace whispered, eyes lowered. Hes not really yours, you know.
I know, I replied. I always have.
Ill run away to Dad! Thomas sobbed.
And he did, time and again.
Hed be taken awayonly to find his way back.
In the end, Grace gave in.
So be it, she said. Hes made his choice.
Life spun forward again.
Next door, Mary lost her husband. A drunk, cruel man, and their marriage childlesslove never visited that house.
I started popping by for milk. Then to mend a fence, then patch a roof. Then just for tea. For conversation.
Slowly, carefully, we grew close.
Grace sent letters. Told me Thomas now had a sisterEmily.
Bring her, I wrote. Family belongs together.
A year later, they came.
Thomas was never far from his baby sister, carrying her, singing lullabies, teaching her to toddle.
Tommy, Grace pleaded. Live with us. In London theres theatre, proper school, prospects
No, Thomas shook his head. I wont leave Dad. Marys like my mum now.
Then, school.
While lads boasted about dads who were drivers, soldiers, engineers, Thomas never felt small.
My dad? he said, proud. He can fix anything. He understands the world. He saved me. Hes my hero.
Years went by.
One day, Mary and I sat by the fireplace with Thomas:
Were having a baby, Mary announced.
Are you going to send me away? whispered Thomas.
Whatever makes you say that! Mary cried, hugging him. Youre like my very own. I dreamt of you all my life!
Son, I said, staring into the flames. How could you think that? You are my world.
A few months later, our boy, Charlie, arrived.
Thomas held his brother as though the lad was the worlds greatest treasure.
Now Ive got a sister, he whispered. And a brother. And a Dad. And Aunt Mary.
Still, Grace kept inviting him.
Thomas always answered,
I have come home already. This is my home.
Years passed. People stopped whispering that Thomas wasnt my own. No one remembered.
When Thomas became a father himself, he told his children and grandchildren the tale of the best dad in the world.
He wasnt handsome, said Thomas. But he loved bigger than anyone I have ever known.
Every year, on Remembrance Day, our house filledMarys children, Graces children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.
Wed drink tea, laugh, reminisce.
We truly had the best dad! the grownups would say, raising their mugs. Let there be more dads like him!
And every time, a finger would risepointing up, to the sky, the stars, the memory of the man who, despite everything, became a true father.
The only one.
Looking back now, I know this: Its not your looks or blood that make a dad, but the love you choose to give. And, in the end, that love is what makes a home.
