This story is based on a future scene for A Mother's Final Gift, which I will come back to.

B IS FOR BILLY! B IS FOR BOOKS!

The Thornton Tales

When John closed the door to the Crampton house, he turned and readied to make his regretful departure back to the mill, away from Margaret. He hated leaving her, the thought that their lives were still separate pained him greatly, but still, he told himself that it would not be long until they lived under the same roof, and they would never need to be parted again. So, while the thought of saying their brief goodbye saddened him, the thought that Margaret would soon be his wife made John smile.

However, when he veered round, he stopped, for he was confronted by an unexpected sight that halted him in his tracks. At the bottom of the steps, stood a boy. He was tall, straggly, with tattered clothes and grubby skin, that was patched with splodges of white and black, the latter as dark as soot. He was scuffing his feet off the pavement in idle boredom. I say feet, because there were more feet down there than shoes, his shoddy excuse for boots having been worn away to a thread, all the way to the point of non-existence.

Billy.

When the boy detected John's shadow, he glanced up, his eyes vigilant as he surveyed his company, for you see, a boy such as Billy was always in the habit of watching his back, since young lads of ten could not always trust those around them, given that a policeman may be lurking close by, ready to cart them off to gaol or the workhouse for no other offence than that they were poor and a blight upon the city streets and the eyes of the fine folk.

But when he realised who it was, he grinned, a broad, cheeky smile. It would be nice to say that his teeth gleamed, as that is the clichéd turn of phrase, but alas, the small white pearls that had once crowned his mouth were now stained yellow and brown, and John deemed it a mercy that they were still there at all, chipped and crooked as they were.

'Alright, master,' Billy hailed, tipping his cap and bowing theatrically. 'Has you been visiting your girl?' he asked, knowing fine well that John had, no hint of deference to his mischievous voice.

John, who was accustomed in the art of schooling his features into an impassive mask, did not move a muscle, but inside, he could not help but smirk. There was something about Billy, he did not know what, which he admired, although he would be damned if he ever admitted it.

'Yes,' he conceded, taking a step towards the boy, and when they came to both stand upon the pavement, John soared above his companion, boasting nearly double the height. Nevertheless, the boy did not flinch, but rather valiantly stood his ground, and he stared up at the man with endearing bravado. Not only that, but he tried to subtly copy him through straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, and clasping his hands behind his back in a brooding pose, all so that he might emulate some of the master's impressive bearing.

'I thought you might be here to see the Miss,' Billy surmised. 'Were you kissing her again?' he asked with a giggle, not minding if he got a thump for his effrontery.

John cleared his throat and opted to change the subject quickly. 'Ought you not to be at school? Or at work?' He mentioned school first, because despite employing many children in his mill, John was always of the opinion the young 'uns ought to in a classroom, not in a factory, that is, if it could be helped, which it often could not.

Billy leapt into the air and reeled round to face the house. 'I is working,' he told John. 'The Mrs has asked me on to do some fetching and carrying for 'em,' said he, pulling on his vest smugly, his chest puffed out with pride.

John knew this to be the case, and while he would not wish to deprive Mr Hale of his sovereign entitlement to pay his way in life, he decided that he would try and pay the boy's wages whenever he could. The Hales needed help, more help than they did, but they were proud, and John had no wish to step on their toes. However, he could not abide to see his lovely Margaret demeaned to the level of a servant, and at least now he had a reason, a right, to help her, so nowt was going to stop him from providing for and protecting his fiancée and her family.

'I'm waiting for the fat one, see,' Billy explained, and John wondered how long the child would live if he insisted on referring to Dixon in such a way. It was a shame, really, because through the shrewd application of his wit and wiles, the boy had made it this far in life, but it would be a terrible shame if he were to be clobbered over the head with a rolling pin and baked in a pie within a week of arriving at the Hales by their formidable maid, all for the crime of cheek.

John did not know why, but he decided to wait with Billy awhile. He had things to do, places to be. His time was more harried than ever now that he was engaged, given that he was spending more of it here with Margaret, meaning that he could offer less of it to his mistress, the mill. Part of him wished he could request that Margaret spend more time at his house. His mother would not mind, or that is, she would not verbalise her complaints, and that way, he could see Margaret whenever he wished, popping home on the hour, every hour, if he so liked, just to gaze upon her pretty face. But alas, it would not do. For one, that would be selfish of him. And two, Margaret was busy nursing her sick mother, and so, it was right that she should stay here with her, savouring every precious moment they had together before the dear lady departed this earth. Still, there was something about Billy that was winning, and so John lingered, and as he did so, a thought came to mind.

'When you were at my office the other day, I saw you, looking at my papers. You seemed curious.'

Billy frowned. 'That ain't no crime!' he reminded the magistrate as he jutted his chin up into the air, his jaw taut with the fine lines of intractability.

'I never said it were,' John retorted, the bulldog giving as good as he got. 'But it got me to thinking. Do you have your letters?'

Billy's head suddenly dropped, the sight of which was most jarring, for it suddenly fell from a great height of self-assurance to a markedly lowered one of demeaning shame.

'Some,' he mumbled huffily. 'Not all. But I has more than some I know.'

'There!' he suddenly shouted, pointing to a horse and cart before him. The boy was directing his gaze towards a squiggle which was painted on the side of the wagon. It had an elevated, vertical stem, accompanied by two identical circles that rolled off to the right in parallel lines.

'B!' Billy proclaimed proudly. 'I knows B. B for Billy,' he told John, almost if the man did not know.

John nodded as he examined the butcher's dray. 'Aye, and B for books,' he added. 'Would you like to learn to read, Billy? So you could know all the letters and make words? But not just for readin', but for writin' and speakin' too?'

The lad shrugged his shoulders. ' 'Course I would, you'd have to be a fool not to, but all that learnin' ain't for the likes of me,' he disparaged.

The master's brow furrowed. 'How so?'

The young buck sighed. 'Ma says that there is some born to great things, and then there is them that ain't, and I is most surely one who ain't. Boys like me, we will never even be able to write our own name,' he said, his whole body wilting with defeat.

A few moments of silence passed between them, and John could not explain what came over him in that interval, but without knowing, without thinking, he found himself saying: 'Well, if you come to my office tonight, I'll teach you how to write your name.'

Billy's head shot up, and he regarded John with wide eyes that shone in the winter sun.

'Why?' he demanded to know, his reply crowing all the sharpness of the bite of a pup.

His question may have appeared odd, but you see, Billy had no doubt that the man could teach him, for he knew that Thornton was a clever chap. He was also in no doubt that the man would teach him, for he trusted that Thornton was a man of his word. No, what was niggling Billy, was why such a man, a lion among men, would take the time to help him. He knew of this man, this master and magistrate, who commanded respect everywhere he went. People said he was a just man, but a hard man, the type who carefully weighed and measured everything he did, so it left Billy feeling wary, wondering why he would offer him his help, especially when the lad could offer him nothing in return.

'What's in it for you?' he interrogated. Billy had been offered assistance before, sometimes with clothes, or food, or shelter, but over the years he had come to realise that a boy needed to be savvy, since not all gentlemen were gentle men, and as such, their intentions were more often than not lacking in honour or selflessness.

John, on the other hand, thought on this, but at first, he had no answer to give. It was true, there was nothing in it for him, he gained in no way, and for a man who was steered by profitability and sound business sense, this made no sense. But then he realised who and what this was all about.

Margaret.

John smiled to himself.

It was always about Margaret.

Before he had met her, he would have been unwavering in pursuit of personal or professional benefit. John had always been a generous and giving sort of man at heart, but he had firmly believed that while it was always his duty to do right and be fair, there were those who needed his care, such as his family, and outside of that intimate circle, people were required to fend for themselves. That was the natural order of things, and besides, Milton folk were a proud, independent lot, so they would not take kindly to having charity thrust upon them.

However, since Margaret had come into his life, the ice around John's heart had thawed and melted away, and now, he was much more compassionate, and so, he felt it his new-found responsibility to help those in whatever modest way he could. That is why it mattered to him that Billy should learn to read, and not just him, but Tom Boucher too, and possibly others besides. He knew that schooling brought long-term advantages for masters and workers alike, but it was more than that, since John appreciated that a man was restricted and shackled in this modern world of theirs, an age of self-made men, if he were illiterate.

Nonetheless, despite this, John did not have a reason to give the boy, or that is, not a plausible one. Perhaps it was all because John knew all too well what it was like to be robbed of his education. Yes, he had gone to school until he was fifteen, he knew far more than Billy did, but all the same, he could have learned more, but the cruelty that was fate had deprived him of that opportunity, much like a pickpocket filching his mind and leaving it unfed and ultimately starving. It had been a pitiless experience, and so John felt it his obligation to take pity on another child and stop it from happening to him or her.

'I do not know,' John replied at last. 'I do not have an answer to give you. But I tell you this: I will help you. I want to help you. And you can achieve greatness, if you just put your mind to it. So, my office door will be open tonight at six sharp, and every Monday from now on, and you are welcome to come and read any and all of my books, and I will show you how. It is up to you if you come, I like those who think for themselves, but the decision is yours, and I will leave it with you.'

And with that, John affixed his hat to his head, patted it down, touched the rim as he bowed his head to the lad, and then swiftly left to attend to business. Billy remained there, standing still, his mouth slightly agape in awe as he watched the master go, and there was one thing he knew for certain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, and that was that his life would never be the same again, not now that he had a faithful friend in John Thornton.

The End