Page 77 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Rose's hand found mine across the table. Her grip was strong, steady.

“Them,” she repeated softly. “Not her.”

“No.” The word felt like a stone dropping into deep water. “Not her.”

Silence. The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere outside, a child was calling for a friend, voice high and carefree.

“Right,” Rose said. Her hand tightened on mine. “Well. That's... that's a lot.”

“I know.”

“And this person. Do they feel the same way?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I think so. But even if they do, it's not... it's complicated. Dangerous. Everything about it is dangerous.”

“Because of the law.”

“Because of everything.” I pulled my hand back, ran it over my face. “I shouldn't have said anything. Forget it. I just...”

“Tom.” Alfie's voice was firmer than I'd ever heard it. “Stop. You're our brother. You don't have to pretend with us.”

“He's right.” Rose was smiling now, a small, sad smile that made her look older than her years. “Though I have to say, you've got rotten timing. Couldn't have figured this out before the war? When there wasn't quite so much else to worry about?”

I laughed despite myself. “Sorry. I'll try to have my identity crises at more convenient times in future.”

“See that you do.” She stood, came around the table, and wrapped her arms around me from behind. Her chin rested on my shoulder, her voice soft near my ear. “I don't care who you love, Tom. I just care that you're happy. And safe. And that you come home when this bloody war is over.”

“I'll try.”

“Try harder.” She squeezed me tighter. “Now. Tell me about this mysterious person. Are they handsome? Kind? Do they deserve you?”

“Rose.”

“What? I'm your sister. I'm entitled to interrogate your romantic prospects. It's in the rules.”

“What rules?”

“The ones I'm making up right now.” She released me and went to put the kettle on again. “More tea, and you're telling me everything. Or at least everything you can without getting court-martialed.”

Dad came homeas the light was fading, shoulders bent from the day's work, cap pulled low. He stopped in the kitchen doorway when he saw me, and something crossed his face that might have been emotion before it smoothed into his usual stoic expression.

“Tom.”

“Dad.”

He nodded once, hung up his cap, and sat down at the table. Mum set a plate in front of him without being asked, and heate in his methodical way while the conversation flowed around him.

He didn't say much. Never had. But when supper was finished and Mum was doing the washing up, he caught my eye and jerked his head toward the back door.

I followed him into the tiny yard. Just enough space for the Anderson shelter that took up most of it, the corrugated metal mounded with earth and covered in frost.

Dad lit a cigarette, offered me one. We smoked in silence, watching our breath mingle with the smoke in the cold air.

“Your mother worries,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“Doesn't sleep proper anymore. Jumps at every loud noise. Keeps your letters under her pillow.”