Phillipa Dawson

Chapter 2

IV.

Monday, 4th September 1843

Phillipa had tried just about everything to get on everybody's nerves whilst they sat in the living room. She tapped her feet to the rhythm of the grandfather clock, clicked her fingers and squirmed away whenever her father tried to straighten the frayed bow that covered a gaping hole in her dress.

"Phillipa, please cooperate." He told her with a stern tone, his dark eyes boring into hers, causing her to look sharply in the other direction. "I expect you to do everything your sister tells you to do while I'm away," He ordered with a heavy sigh.

Mr Dawson grabbed his daughter's chin and forced her to look at him. "Phillipa, look at me."

Phillipa decided to resort to pouting.

He shook his head disappointedly. "You have to go to school."

She moved out of his reach and crossed her arms in retaliation. "No, I don't!" Phillipa exclaimed, fuming, "We're poor!"

Phillipa's father stood up, towering over the small child. "Don't be so insolent." He snapped exasperatedly. She knew she could be very difficult when she wanted to be. "You're being as stubborn as your mother was."

Phillipa seethed. "How dare you say that about mum!" She yelled, and despite the room being abnormally small, her small voice seemed to linger, resonating through silence.

"I do not have time to argue with you, Phillipa." Mr Dawson replied, choosing to ignore his daughter's outburst. He simply turned to speak with Dahlia, whom was watching from the doorway.

Phillipa huffed in irritation, watching the two of them discuss her with blatantly concerned expressions. All her attempts to be sent to her room had failed, because anything was better than going to that horrid school. Phillipa tried to occupy her thoughts, wanting to detach herself from the conversation in the doorway.

Her mind turned to her parents. She remembered her mother vividly; they were quite similar in their appearances, ginger hair and blue eyes, however, to Phillipa, no matter how terribly her tresses had been cut, or how rough her lips were, her mother had been perfect. Then there was her father, oddly angled and easily frustrated. Still a young child, Phillipa didn't understand love, although she couldn't believe that her parents had shared that feeling. She hated it when he had insulted her mother in front of her. It was horrible and had happened much too often.

Phillipa jumped as her sister approached. "Stop pouting." Dahlia snapped, irked by her sister's attitude, "You're going to school, whether you like it or not. Father works hard to pay for us to go; there is no need for your sulking."

"I'm not sulking!" Phillipa said, merging her words together in a hurry to correct her sister's accusations. "I was just concentrating!"

Dahlia simply raised her eyebrows in disbelief, grudgingly taking Phillipa's hand. "Come on then Phillipa, let's go."

Dahlia began lead her out, her blonde curls bouncing behind her. The red head reluctantly followed, purposely dragging her feet. Glancing back, her father remained with his back to her, starring out of the window, deep in thought.

"Bye..." Phillipa muttered, so quietly that the sound was drowned out by the silence.

It felt extraordinarily early with the street lamps still glowing a warm orange. It made the entire lower quarter reflect the same colours, adding some sense of brightness to the dark sky. Regardless of the fact that she had lived in Kahr all of her life, Phillipa was still dazzled by the warm vapour that rose from her mouth, rising gently with her respiration and letting her know that she was still alive. She had always worried that one day it would stop; an innocent view on death.