Page 148 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Dearest Art,

The house needs work but has potential. Edward is teaching me to drive, which is going about as well as you'd expect. I've joined a book club and am causing trouble by suggesting “inappropriate” novels. Mrs Whitmore nearly fainted when I recommended Lady Chatterley's Lover. Worth it for the expression alone.

Mum asks after you both constantly. She's knitting Tom another jumper, this time in blue because she says it matches his eyes. Dad pretends to grumble about having another mouth to feed at Christmas but we all know he's already bought Tom that chess set he was admiring last year.

I still can't quite believe it sometimes. That you found him. That you get to keep him. That our family expanded instead of contracted, despite everything the world tried to do to people like you. It makes me hopeful, Art. Properly hopeful, in a way I haven't been since before the war.

Give my love to Tom. You're both expected for Christmas. No excuses. I'm making pudding and I refuse to let it go uneaten.

All my love,Bea

Tom read over my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. “Your mum's knitting me another jumper?”

“Apparently. Blue this time. To match your eyes.”

“I liked the green one.”

“You complained the green one was itchy for three months.”

“It was itchy. Doesn't mean I didn't like it.” Tom's hand found mine, fingers interlacing. “Your dad really bought me a chess set?”

“Bea says so.” I leaned into him, feeling the solid warmth of his presence. “He likes you. They all do. Even if Dad shows it by grumbling and Mum shows it by producing an endless supply of knitwear.”

“Strange way to show affection.”

“We're a strange family.”

“I've noticed.” But he was smiling, that soft smile he saved for moments like this. Private moments. Ours.

Tom reached for his own letter, unfolded it, and his eyebrows rose.

“What does yours say?”

He cleared his throat, looking faintly embarrassed.

Dear Tom,

Since my brother is terrible at accepting compliments, I'm writing to you directly.

Thank you for keeping him alive during the war. Thank you for making him laugh. Thank you for loving him even when he forgets to eat and stays up too late scribbling equations and generally makes himself impossible to manage.

Arthur is the cleverest person I know, but clever isn't the same as wise. He needed someone to remind him that he's allowed to be happy. That he deserves good things. That being brilliant doesn't mean being alone. You do that for him. Every day, from what I can see.

So thank you. From me, from Mum and Dad, from everyone who loves him and spent years watching him convince himself he'd never have this.

Also, he tells me you're writing stories. I meant what I said at Christmas. I want to read them. Edward says I'm being pushy but I prefer the term “enthusiastically supportive.”

You're family now, Tom. Properly family. That means you're stuck with us, holiday dinners and itchy jumpers and all.

Love,Bea

P.S. If you ever hurt him, I will end you. This is not a joke. I know people.

Tom's voice had gone rough by the end. He folded the letter carefully, tucked it in his pocket like a talisman.

“She threatened to end me,” he said.

“That's how you know she loves you.”