When I turned seven, my father—who had a second family—welcomed a son named William, after himself: William Williamson.
One day, Father walked into my grandmother’s yard (my mother’s mother) with the baby in his arms. A dark-haired, bright-eyed little thing, he noisily sucked on a dummy and stared at us all with his enormous eyes. The frilly bonnet on his head did nothing to help anyone guess he was a boy.
“Billy, meet your sister.”
Brevity was one of Father’s talents. With those few words, he presented his one-and-a-half-year-old son with the fact of having a sister.
Grandmother’s maternal instincts overcame her sheer astonishment, and she scooped up little William. And so, on the 15th of September 1983, William Williamson entered our all-female household. Mother called him “Billy” and nothing else, while Grandmother dubbed him “those bright little peepers.”
With Grandmother, it was simple—she had no capacity for spite.
But I marvelled at my mother. Her resentment toward Father ran so deep it often flared into something bitter—until my little half-brother arrived.
Billy had been born frail—with a weak heart. They pulled him through, but the illness never truly left him. As a child, he was a frequent visitor to paediatric wards. Yet, against all odds, the little scamp pulled through.
Whenever Father brought him over, the house erupted. That cheerful little lad had a way of rousing everyone. He devoured Grandmother’s scones and Mother’s dumplings, built forts in the parlour from every cushion he could find, and sent feathers floating through the air. The cats steered clear of the garden until evening. Laughter rang across the six acres of our estate. Mother would always say, “Bring him round more often.”
It was Billy who kept Father fighting to stay in our lives. It was Billy who softened Mother’s heart toward him.
Pity had nothing to do with it. Billy was impossible not to love. He’d wrap his arms and legs around us, clinging like Mowgli to his python, and beam with that gap-toothed grin.
“Auntie Nina, I love you. Gran Val, I love you. Daddy, I love you.”
One summer, Father took us to London, to Hyde Park, where the chestnuts were in full bloom. The park was awash in white blossoms. To keep track of Billy, Father bought him a toy pistol from Harrods that crackled with every trigger pull, announcing his whereabouts. But trouble struck—Billy grew so enamoured with shooting that he drained the batteries in no time. Father, with me on his shoulders, dashed through Harrods shouting, “Keep your eyes peeled, love—where’s that little rascal got to?”
We found him in the handbag section, charming three saleswomen. He batted his lashes and munched on sweets they’d handed him.
When he grew older, we endured Father and Uncle’s “corrective labour therapy” together. If memory serves, there wasn’t a single day our guardians didn’t suffer for our mischief. But when summer ended, neither of us wanted to go home!
Come the 29th of August, Father would drag us back—kicking and screaming—to our mothers.
One winter, he took us to the town’s Christmas market, hitched two sledges like a train, and pulled us in circles through the snow. I still remember our laughter and the snowballs Father pelted us with. But the fun ended in hospital. Mid-laugh, Billy suddenly slumped into the snow, gasping for air. His heart had given out.
In the waiting room, we sat together—Father, me, Billy’s mother (who’d arrived by cab), and my own mother and grandmother, who burst in moments later. We stared at one another in silence. After that, Billy didn’t visit for a long time. As it turned out, his mother disapproved of “this odd little commune.”
Our household grew quiet—unmistakably sorrowful. Father came alone. Grandmother and Mother understood and kept their peace.
Four months passed. One Saturday afternoon, the gate crashed open, and a voice hollered:
“I’m here! Where is everyone? Gran!!”
I still remember Mother and Grandmother peeling Billy off the fence where he’d been dangling and hauling his little bicycle into the yard. The three of us fussed over, hugged, and pestered our “bright-eyed boy.” Then Mother flew into a panic, rushing to call Father—only to learn the little scamp had run away from home. Father stormed into the yard, pale as marble, and bellowed:
“Right, where’s my belt? Someone’s getting a hiding!”
But Billy didn’t care—he stood safely behind Mother and Grandmother, grinning.
It was a strange symbiosis. A former wife with deep, unrelenting bitterness, a former husband, and two children bound only by their father—all held together by a grandmother who loved us fiercely.
Life takes odd turns. It just does.
At my graduation, Billy stood with my parents in a crisp white shirt and black bow tie.
At my wedding, he was there—my dashing younger brother.
When we buried Grandmother, he stood by my side.
…Father faced the cruellest fate a parent can endure—outliving his own child. Our Billy passed when he was just twenty-eight. His heart stopped.
Afterward, Father found solace only in his granddaughter—my daughter. Mother aged visibly, as if she’d lost half of herself with Billy’s passing.
And me?
To me, he’s still alive. My beloved little brother—the boy Father once carried into my home, small enough to hold in his arms.
Author: Tanya Billingsworth.