“Where is he sleeping?”

Removing yourself from this scene, the truth is clear. This is a poor, yet loving family, they strive to provide, and rarely are successful in their endeavour. The house is a simple terrace, white washed with blue shutters and door. Two bedrooms occupy the upstairs, the kitchen and living area the downstairs. They have never missed a single day of work in their lives, and still, food was scarce.

“He’ll be sleeping in your bedroom.” A startled mutter stumbled out of Kay’s lips, “Hush, you. You get our bedroom, Papa and I shall sleep in the living room.”

“But all of my things!”

“We’ll switch everything around, don’t you worry. We’ll move our bed downstairs, and the sofa into the kitchen. We’ve borrowed your Aunt’s bed for now. She won’t need it,” Of course she won’t, muttered Kay, she’s dead. “ There’s enough room, and it’s warm. All of your things will be in our room. Now hush, eat.”

Kay couldn’t argue with this, her parents had a beautiful view of the village, and it was a carpeted floor, with net curtains, which was better than her room.

They day of the move arrived. As did the Boy. Everything was switched and moved into place. I watched dreamily on, only imagining what Kay could have been feeling. I could have found out if I really wanted, however inhabiting a young girls brain is more than enough for anything to bear. The Boy arrived in the town and was taken by a large bus to Hemely. He introduced himself as Marcus.

Marcus was tall, blonde and pleasing to the eye. I thought so anyway. He greeted each of them graciously, the usual thanks for hospitality and kindness. Kay sighed beneath her breath. She knew too well what possibly lay in store for her. More towering clouds of Swastika smoke.

THREE

Moving three months on from the arrival of Marcus, I should probably inform you that this is where Kay grows up. In more ways than one. The initial information  I have supplied you with is plenty to make sense of the following story, for this was merely an introduction to how they happened to find themselves growing up during a war. The following is hardly anything joyful. The sorrow weaves its way through the cloth being threaded by fate itself. He weaves in small glimmers of hope, love and joy however. This still, the colours of Kay’s and Marcus’ cloth was blacker than anyone’s I had ever laid my cold dark eyes on.