The grey house of Gray

When Clementine was three years old, her Father taught her to read Wind in the Willows. It was her favourite book. Orange cloth-back with toad of toad hall engraved in gold in the front. 'Orange for Clem' her Father used to say, a joke that was passed through gossiping lips and unwanted giggles.
Words soon became a big part of Clementine's world and even when she could not see them, she could feel them; the soft ring to them, or the harsh graze of the tongue, the hiss, the bite. Words sting. More than bees. Each word has a sound, a second meaning, a colour, scent and taste; and Clementine learnt this young. Her Father would read her the words, sing through the pages; and she would repeat them after him.
Of course, Clementine's 'Father' was not by birth. No, her 'Father' was never her Dad ... a 'Father' is the ideal, what a 'Father' is meant to be, some one her "Dad" never could quite manage. Mr Gray never liked words, he did not understand them, he could not find sense in them and because of this, this lack of understanding, he despised them with a twisted hatred. The very thought of them tortured him and they were banished, banished from the house. When words disappear, the house of "Gray" turned grey. Grey is what the night sky would be without hope. Without life. The grey house of Gray was dead.
The cat was dead too, one morning, Dead on the road, looked almost as though pressing itself as close as it could to it, like a desperate embrace. Clementine saw it, lying there, outstretched; she watched it for a while, eyes wide and curious, lips set slightly apart as if torn between laughing and screaming. Her feet - that were surprisingly small, even for a toddler - pitpattered across the tarmac and her nobbly rather square knees squatted until little Clementine Gray was perching next to the cat, the dead cat in the middle of the road.
Her lips parted, wider this time, and a small noise escaped, almost like a gasp, it did not stop there either. Before Clementine knew it; before the frail, but very nosey, old lady from number ten who was watching from between the slit in her yellowing net curtains, knew it - she was singing "My favourite things". A song that her Mutti had sung to her as a baby. It meant a lot to her even though she didn't know it at that age, to her, it was just the song to sing at that time; it felt right and the cat needed to hear it. When it didn't move, Clementine Gray stood up with a slight sigh and said "Never mind kitty, we all have bad days" and pottered inside.
"We all have bad days ..." How many times had she heard that phrase by the time she was five? How many times was that excuse made as a reason for the nonchalant and slightly erratic behaviour of her Mutti? Of course, she was loved dearly. Her Mutti was her best friend, her secret keeper. But the smoke swirled lilac around her now, especially in the mornings and Clementine could see it painting her Mutti's lungs purple; and she did not like it. There was no food that passed her Mutti's lips, food was not allowed, not a necessatity. Mutti's bones ran thin and you could even see them sometimes: pearly white glimmering through translucent skin. A Vampire if you like. But beautiful, always beautiful Mutti.
But we shall hear more about her later ...

Clementine has more to tell.