Post by Victoire Beaudoin on Jan 19, 2010 22:00:50 GMT
Country: London, England
Current Time: 10:15 pm, 28th May 1938
Weather Conditions: Cloudy; it rained in the afternoon, and thus the streets are wet and slippery.
The atmosphere inside The Montague Arms in Peckham, London, that drizzling May’s evening was characterized by dim orange lights, people shouting cheerily and playing cards with one another, animated conversations, relentless gossip, political discussions primarily regarding Winston Churchill and England’s deterrence methods towards Hitler and his threatening movements (only ten days ago Czechoslovakia had ordered a partial mobilization of its armed forces across the German border), the initiation of the Spanish Civil War with the bombing in Alicante, and of course, most significantly of all, Italy’s winning the World Cup against Hungary nine days ago. Victoire simply stood in her seat with a smirk on her face at all these pleasant (and often unpleasant, truth be told) chaps cheering on their favourite teams, babbling about women and their insidious methods of capturing men right inside their carefully weaved webs, about sisters who recently got married and were expecting new members in the family soon, raising their glasses to celebrate, cheer and laugh at those who were inebriated enough to start stumbling about the place, losing the last threads of their sanity and the ability to create coherent sentences. Upon her father’s dispatch to England in regard with communicating to Downing Street France’s suspicions and anxious expectations from Hitler, she had travelled along with him as the ambassador’s daughter, whereas Yvette Prideux, her stepmother, always preferred to stay at home and engage herself with domestic affairs. Victoire found them simply appalling.
“I should very well hope we get it next time, eh, mates?” some bearded, middle-aged man laughed at his friend, and they clinked glasses together. Little did he know that the next time Britain would have a chance to participate in the World Cup would be in sixteen years, in 1950.
“Don’t let the Scotsman bring all the bad luck, Billy,” another one said, and drunk from his pint, not before literally coughing out the beer as the Scot punched him playfully on his shoulder. “Because of him talking again, we didn’t even enter the damn competition this year!”
“Always with the sense of humour of a constipated duck during mating season, I see, eh, Burton?” he mocked him, and the rest of the men within their little gang barked with laughter.
Victoire smiled to herself, having overheard their foolish conversation, and then completely turned her attention away from them, glancing around her at the people; clad in what seemed to be an expensive dress made of fine silk and sophisticated purple, her long raven-black hair falling down her shoulders gracefully and drinking a glass of cream liqueur, the different air she exposed rendered it more than obvious that she was not a native amongst them, even from the more refined clothing she was wearing, by sheer contrast to their simple daily clothes. She did not speak, for there was no one to speak to, no one who approached her to initiate a conversation with her, despite the burning glances she often felt towards her direction. Arrogant as she was, and with the deterring appearance of an aristocrat, the simpletons could not find it in themselves to come closer and inquire after her background, perhaps take a seat next to her by the bar table and with curious interest converse with her – and yet she was so relaxed and keen on being here, thrilled of escaping the French borders once more and expanding her experiences, meeting new people and becoming further acquainted with additional cultures and civilizations, and indeed, she was rather fond of the British. Taking another sip from her glass, she interlocked her fingers and placed them under her chin as her calculating eyes scanned around the place, memorizing, reminiscing, and pondering.
Current Time: 10:15 pm, 28th May 1938
Weather Conditions: Cloudy; it rained in the afternoon, and thus the streets are wet and slippery.
The atmosphere inside The Montague Arms in Peckham, London, that drizzling May’s evening was characterized by dim orange lights, people shouting cheerily and playing cards with one another, animated conversations, relentless gossip, political discussions primarily regarding Winston Churchill and England’s deterrence methods towards Hitler and his threatening movements (only ten days ago Czechoslovakia had ordered a partial mobilization of its armed forces across the German border), the initiation of the Spanish Civil War with the bombing in Alicante, and of course, most significantly of all, Italy’s winning the World Cup against Hungary nine days ago. Victoire simply stood in her seat with a smirk on her face at all these pleasant (and often unpleasant, truth be told) chaps cheering on their favourite teams, babbling about women and their insidious methods of capturing men right inside their carefully weaved webs, about sisters who recently got married and were expecting new members in the family soon, raising their glasses to celebrate, cheer and laugh at those who were inebriated enough to start stumbling about the place, losing the last threads of their sanity and the ability to create coherent sentences. Upon her father’s dispatch to England in regard with communicating to Downing Street France’s suspicions and anxious expectations from Hitler, she had travelled along with him as the ambassador’s daughter, whereas Yvette Prideux, her stepmother, always preferred to stay at home and engage herself with domestic affairs. Victoire found them simply appalling.
“I should very well hope we get it next time, eh, mates?” some bearded, middle-aged man laughed at his friend, and they clinked glasses together. Little did he know that the next time Britain would have a chance to participate in the World Cup would be in sixteen years, in 1950.
“Don’t let the Scotsman bring all the bad luck, Billy,” another one said, and drunk from his pint, not before literally coughing out the beer as the Scot punched him playfully on his shoulder. “Because of him talking again, we didn’t even enter the damn competition this year!”
“Always with the sense of humour of a constipated duck during mating season, I see, eh, Burton?” he mocked him, and the rest of the men within their little gang barked with laughter.
Victoire smiled to herself, having overheard their foolish conversation, and then completely turned her attention away from them, glancing around her at the people; clad in what seemed to be an expensive dress made of fine silk and sophisticated purple, her long raven-black hair falling down her shoulders gracefully and drinking a glass of cream liqueur, the different air she exposed rendered it more than obvious that she was not a native amongst them, even from the more refined clothing she was wearing, by sheer contrast to their simple daily clothes. She did not speak, for there was no one to speak to, no one who approached her to initiate a conversation with her, despite the burning glances she often felt towards her direction. Arrogant as she was, and with the deterring appearance of an aristocrat, the simpletons could not find it in themselves to come closer and inquire after her background, perhaps take a seat next to her by the bar table and with curious interest converse with her – and yet she was so relaxed and keen on being here, thrilled of escaping the French borders once more and expanding her experiences, meeting new people and becoming further acquainted with additional cultures and civilizations, and indeed, she was rather fond of the British. Taking another sip from her glass, she interlocked her fingers and placed them under her chin as her calculating eyes scanned around the place, memorizing, reminiscing, and pondering.