"I really don’t want to leave you, Mother,” I cry, as I cling on to both Mum and Tommy.
“Harriet, I don’t want to leave you either, but this is for your own benefit, I’ll miss you loads, the two of you,” Mum jerks me and Tommy together, forcing us to hold hands.
“Will Daddy come and get us later, Mummy?” Tommy looks up.
Mum sighs. I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to devastate the broken little boy anymore.
“No, son. He’s… He’s at the war, babe. We don’t know when he’s going to come back, sweetie,” Mum kisses his small head, and guides us to the train, where we will be kept at a stranger's house for as long it will take for the second world war to be over.
Standing in the train station, holding my little brother's hand, was as frightening as it could ever be. I was surrounded by thousands of children, with labels attached to us as if we were parcels. Tommy doesn’t understand what’s going on, he’ll never understand. He’s only five, this is to much for a five year old. Let alone me. It's the Second World War, what is there to understand? There's so much going on, I haven't even got a clue on how this pathetic nonsence even started. Mum tells Tommy these men going out to fight is just for fun. She doesn't want to tell him Dad may die out there, it would be too hurtful for him. She says what he doesn't know won't hurt him.
As we pile up on the train, I feel a tear run down my cheek.
It's going to be Okay.... I repeated in my mind, as Tommy and I waved frantically to our mother as the train took off.
I'm Harriet, by the way. Harriet McCully. This is my diary I decided to keep during this time. There's a few things you should know about me before we continue. I live, or did live, in a fairly big house. It has around twelve bedrooms, six bathrooms and three kitchens. My Mum, Dad, brother and Grandparents all live in it together, like a happy family. That has all changed.
Dad never wanted to go out to the war. He seemed to enjoy his life in London, with us. But when my best friend, Alice's dad decided to go, he did too. I did all I could to persuade him to not go, I begged, made cakes and even asked Gran to help, but she refused, saying it would help his manliness. Who is she kidding? My father will never be manly. Mum always complains he needs to exercise more, but he never did it. No wonder he went out, with all the stick he got from on the streets. Everytime he would come home from work, with a handful of white feathers. Apparently they symbolise cowardness. My wonderful Dad is no coward to me. But nobody cares what I think, nobody listens to what I want to say. People are cruel, and I guess it will always stay that way.
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