Page 105 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Bea interrogated him mercilessly about everything from his childhood to his favourite colour to his opinion on whether Arthur was too stubborn for his own good.

Mum fussed over him the way she fussed over all of us, pressing food on him, refilling his tea before he'd finished it, asking gentle questions about his family and his life before the war. When he mentioned his mother's name was Ellen, she lit up.

“Irish? My grandmother was from Cork. We must compare notes.”

Dad was quieter, but he watched Tom with something like approval. When Tom mentioned his father's work at the docks, Dad nodded slowly.

“Hard work. Honest work. The kind that builds character.” He glanced at me. “I can see why Arthur chose you.”

And through it all, Tom was... Tom. Steady and warm and slightly overwhelmed but handling it with the same grace he handled everything. Every so often his eyes would find mine across the room, and something would pass between us. Disbelief. Gratitude. Joy.

We were here. We were together. And my family knew, and they didn't care, and for the first time in my life I felt like I could breathe properly in this house.

Later,when the light was fading and Mum had gone to check on dinner, I found myself alone with Bea in the sitting room.

“He's lovely,” she said without preamble. “A bit serious, but I suppose that's the war. And he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does. Every time you talk, his whole face goes soft. It's disgusting and adorable and I'm incredibly jealous.”

I looked down at my hands, at the ink stains that never quite faded. “I didn't think this would ever happen. Someone like him. A family that accepted it. I'd given up hoping for any of it.”

“Hope's a bastard like that.” Bea tucked her feet under her, settling deeper into the chair. “Sneaks up on you when you've stopped looking.” She was quiet for a moment. “Art. Are you happy?”

The question was simple. The answer wasn't.

“I'm terrified,” I said honestly. “All the time. That something will happen to him. That someone will find out and we'll be destroyed. That this is all borrowed time and eventually the bill will come due.”

“But?”

“But yes.” I looked up at her, and whatever she saw in my face made her smile. “For the first time in my life, I think I actually am. Happy, I mean. Really happy.”

“Then it's worth it.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Whatever happens. Whatever the cost. Feeling like that, even for a little while? It's worth it.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“I've always been wise. You've just been too busy being clever to notice.” She grinned. “Now go rescue your man before Dad corners him about politics. You know how he gets after his second glass of sherry.”

I found Tom in the hallway, looking at the photographs on the wall. One in particular had caught his attention: me at about eight years old, scowling at the camera, ink already staining my fingers even then.

“You were a serious child,” he said when he heard me approach.

“I was an anxious child. There's a difference.” I moved to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched. “What do you think? Of all of this?”

“I think...” He was quiet for a moment, still staring at the photograph. “I think I understand now. Why you are the way you are. They love you. Really love you. Not despite who you are, but because of it.”

“I didn't know they'd react like this. I hoped, but...”

“But you couldn't be sure.” He finally turned to look at me. His eyes were bright with something I couldn't quite name. “My family was... they tried. When I told them. Rose and Alfie. They tried their best to understand. But this...” He shook his head. “Your mother kissed my forehead. Your father called me son.”

“That's just how they are.”

“No. That's how they are with people they accept. People they consider family.” His voice cracked slightly. “I've never... no one's ever...”

I understood then what he couldn't say. That he'd spent his whole life on the outside of warmth like this. Watching families that weren't his, love that wasn't offered to him. And now, suddenly, without warning, my family had opened their arms and pulled him in.

“You're one of us now,” I said softly. “Whether you like it or not. Mum will send you knitted socks for the rest of your life. Dad will corner you about his opinions on the government. Bea will demand embarrassing stories about me and then use them against me forever.”