All Saints

Mixte

Her whole life were fit into boxes and tossed across France. Away from the cold waft of water that sweeps the edges of the French landscape. When they had arrived at the quaint town there was the unspoken tension in the air that felt as if their unfortunate predicament had sealed over them. The town was nearly half as busy as their home in the north of France and despite that the houses were much smaller.

In the stillness of the night they had crept into the city and made it their home. The piano who had a whole room dedicated to its existence was now slumped in the far corner of the room. They had one set of stairs that winded up across all three floors in which her sister decided to hang off of making Dahlia leap to pull her off heart thumping in terror. They had no money for a nanny and so her mother, who was not use to children, was nursing her sister. My father, Ettienne, locked himself up in the study unable to face his wife. He had disgraced their lives becoming bankrupt and he'd have to live with the humiliation.

My mother stepped into my room sitting at the end of my bed with forlorn face.
"There are no rooms for you in the near girls school. You'd have to attend the coed one in the centre of city." She says shaking her head. If it was up to her mother she would be locked up in the nunnery. Anything to regain her daughter's pure name, that's the only honour they had left. Dahlia was still for moment taken this information in,
"you mean a school with boys?" She couldn't believe that it was now becoming acceptable in society, the change was exhilarating even more now that she could be apart of it. It was only a couple decades ago that America had introduced the new woman to the world. Although, many had eased into this image of the lady her mother remained hostile due to her orthodox background and her strong belief in tradition. At times she despised her mother for her historic ideas of women and spoke out on her own beliefs in which her mother glowered at her silencing her completely. They had heard the news mostly on the radio who could not stop bringing up the change in social dynamics and relationships between boys and girls. Mother had always said that girls and boys must remain in their respectable positions separate from in society, it's only wise.

"I know how barbaric, the French have lost their minds. We are not Americans and do not need to follow suit." She declares shedding a patriotic tear. Dahlia turned away from her mother unable to look at her as she filled with sudden rage. She would blame her behaviour on her books and what they taught in schools nowadays. Sometimes she would even go far as to say that the best times for children was during the war where they learnt to survive and be a man. Dahlia thanked God that she wasn't given a son for he would be a horrible creature in her hands.

Dahlia was awake before her mother had stepped into her room to beckon her from her sleep. Truthfully, anxiety and excitement had eaten away at her through the night. She hadn't slept more than 5 hours and she simply felt like death.  "Ah you're awake." She murmured holding her head in her hands ever so theatrically trying to make her headache evident. Dahlia sprung out of her bed and stood In front of her wardrobe for quite sometime. What a woman wears is important as it tells you their intentions.

She wore a navy blue dress with round buttons that go down the front. Her outfit was duly noted by her mother who couldn't help to grimace in disdain at her child's appearance. So much so that she looked underneath the table at breakfast and gasped at her bare sinful legs. Only to tutt and shake her head in disappointment. "Once you're finished, wear stockings I will not have you walk out into streets like that. You'll have the neighbours thinking we are flapper girls." She orders beyond exasperated. Without protest she followed suit to her bedroom to find something more appropriate and godly.

There is a small knock on the door and her father peers through with a pair of long white socks with embroidery down the sides. His frail figure standing in the darkness of her room, "I got these in Italy when I went to find my old war comrade, I had completely forgotten about them until we had to pack up my study." He says solemnly. I think the one thing that her father had missed the most was his library back in Calais. Departing from his world full of neatly tucked away first editions and historical conquests was his most grave loss. "Thank you papa, they are so beautiful." She stands on her tip toes to plant a sweet kiss on her father's cheek. He had always been a man of few words but in those small moments he was man full of heart.