And Both Were Young

by Madeleine L'engle

  “How are you, Erna?”

  “Is it broken?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Erna told them as Mlle Duvoisine left her with them. “It’s just a sprain. It hurts like blazes and I have to go to the infirmary when we get back to school but Duvoisine says I can stay for the prizes. Kaatje’s up talking to the judges. They must be ready to begin. Give me a sandwich, somebody, quick.”

  Fräulein Hauser stood up in the judges’ box and blew her whistle. On the table in front of her was a box with medals and the silver cup. Everybody stopped talking and waited.

  “I want to say that I am proud of the way you all skied today,” Fräulein Hauser told them. “I think that you put on a splendid and professional showing . . .”

  As Fräulein Hauser continued, Flip began to look around at the spectators, and suddenly she saw her father.

  He did come! she thought happily. He did manage to get here even if I didn’t win anything.

  Then she saw that he was standing beside a woman, and that the woman had her hand plunged into his pocket to keep warm, in an intimate gesture.

  Not Eunice.

  Colette Perceval.

  “And now,” Fräulein Hauser was saying, “I have a pleasant surprise for all of you. An old friend has consented to give out the awards, someone I know you will all be delighted to see. Suppose I let her speak for herself.”

  Colette Perceval took her hand out of Philip Hunter’s pocket and walked across the snow and climbed the steps to the judges’ box as a cheer of welcome came from the girls.

  “Percy!”

  “Madame Perceval!”

  “But I didn’t see her!”

  “Who’s that man she’s with?”

  “Percy! How super!”

  Everyone was whispering in low and excited whispers. Then Madame Perceval held up her hand and there was silence. Flip was so dazzled and delighted that she missed Madame Perceval’s first words, though she was vaguely aware of the girls laughing and applauding. Then she tried to listen.

  “And now for the awards,” Madame Perceval was saying. “I won’t delay that exciting information a moment longer. I’m afraid my train was late so I didn’t see any of the beginners’ events, but I hear from all the judges that none of you can be called beginners anymore, and the three of you who have won medals have every right to be proud of yourselves.”

  I won’t win anything, Flip thought, as Madame Perceval gave out the medals, and Paul will be disappointed and Madame will think I didn’t work . . .

  “The judges feel unable to award a medal for Form to the intermediates as there was nothing to choose from between Margaret Campbell, Philippa Hunter, and Erna Weber. But each of these girls will be given a Certificate of Merit. The medal for Intermediate Jumping goes to Erna Weber, who is at the moment a fallen hero on the field of battle. Erna, will you send someone up for your medal, please?”

  Erna gave Jackie a shove.

  “The medal for the Short Race goes to Esmée Bodet, with certificates to Margaret Campbell, second, and Bianca Colantuono, third. Esmée Bodet seems to be the speed demon of the intermediates; the medal for the Long Race goes to her, too . . .”

  Now Flip began to look around at the spectators, and she saw her father standing between Paul and Monsieur Laurens, and her joy at seeing him was so great that it was like an ache.

  “Hey, Flip.” Jackie gave her a poke. “Percy’s giving out the cup. Listen.”

  Again Flip had missed half of Madame’s words, but she turned away from her father and looked up at the speaker’s platform.

  “This cup stands for more than just excellence in skiing or marked improvement,” Madame Perceval was saying, “and I am happy that the judges were unanimous in their decision as to the girl who deserves it. I don’t think there’s any question in anybody’s mind that this girl’s improvement in skiing has been almost spectacular. But I think that you would all like to know that she lost a very good chance to win the long race by turning back to help a friend who had hurt herself, and then helped Kaatje van Leyden carry her down the mountain, a very difficult piece of skiing. The judges, especially those of us from the school who have watched her all winter, feel that she has tried harder, and accomplished more, than any other girl in school.” Madame Perceval paused for a moment, then she said, “It gives me great pleasure to award this cup to Philippa Hunter.”

  Erna and Jackie pushed her forward, and all her long-legged clumsiness returned to her as she crossed the blazing expanse of snow between the girls and the judges’ box. She tripped over a boot lace, fell to her knees, and got up, grinning, as everybody laughed and clapped. When Madame Perceval handed her the cup and stood there smiling down at her the storm of applause was so deafening that she knew they were glad she had won this most desired of all the awards, and that the applause was an honor as great as the cup itself. All the judges shook hands with her, and Fräulein Hauser said, rather awkwardly, “I seem to have made a big mistake, Philippa. I’m very glad.”

  Then the girls came clustering about her, shouting, “Well done, Flip! Good old Pill! Good for you, Philippa!” And she was laughing and blushing and stammering until she was swept off her feet and her father’s arms were around her and he was exclaiming, “I’m proud of my girl!”

  “Oh, Father!” she cried. “You did come!”

  “I managed to get away at the last minute,” he told her. “So Colette—Madame Perceval—and I came over together.”

  Then Flip felt herself caught in someone else’s arms and Madame Perceval kissed her on both cheeks. “I knew you’d make us proud of you, my darling,” she cried.

  “Oh, Madame!” Flip said, and all she seemed to be able to say was “Oh.”

  _______

  She sat that night in front of the fire in the lodge, leaning back, her head against her father’s knee, and watched the flames roar up the chimney, and a deep feeling of contentment like the warmth from the fire filled her whole body.

  Earlier that evening, when they had been alone for a few minutes, Flip had asked her father, “What about Eunice?”

  “What what about Eunice?” he had asked, smiling.

  With courage she had not possessed when she had said good-bye to him at the beginning of school, she asked, “Is she still lusting after you?”

  Philip Hunter threw back his head and laughed. “Poor Eunice. She’s not that bad, Flippet, and she meant to be kind to you, truly she did.”

  “Yes, but what about her?” Flip prodded.

  “Were you afraid I was getting serious about her?”

  “She was certainly getting serious about you.”

  “No, Flippet.” He tousled her hair. “I made it very clear to Eunice that I was in no way ready to be serious about anybody. It takes a man a long time to recover from the death of a wife. I loved your mother very much, as you know, and it wouldn’t have been fair to Eunice to let her think I was ready to love again. But you’re right, in a way. She did want more from me than I could give her, and we’ve said goodbye.”

  “What about Madame Perceval?” Flip asked, while she was still feeling brave.

  “I don’t think Colette is lusting after me, if that’s what you’re driving at.” The crinkles at the outside of his eyes moved upwards in amusement.

  “No, that’s not what I’m driving at.”

  “What, then?”

  Now Flip returned his smile. “If you want to lust after her it’s all right with me.”

  Philip Hunter put his arm around her and hugged her. “Bless you, my Flip. Colette and I are good friends. I hope we will be good friends forever. We have much in common, including grief. But it’s only a little over a year since your mother’s death. I need more healing time, and Colette understands that. But we are friends.”

  “I’m glad,” she said.

  His arm tightened around her. “And I’m glad you’re glad.”

  Dinner that evening at the lodge was a merry one, with lots of laug
hter. Paul was as relaxed as Flip had ever seen him, joining in the fun and even telling a joke. After dinner he sat on the hearthrug by Flip, pulling patient Ariel’s ear. Colette Perceval sat companionably on the sofa next to Philip Hunter. Monsieur Laurens had retreated into his study after dinner.

  “I’m so happy,” Flip said, “that I haven’t room for one drop more. One drop more and I’ll burst.” She leaned back against her father’s knees. Her body felt heavy and tired and comfortable and her stomach was full of Thérèse’s onion soup.

  “Remember how you were going to be the prisoner of Chillon, Flippet?” her father asked.

  “I remember,” she said, and smiled because she felt so free, and she knew that the freedom was in herself, just as the prison had been. She stood up and said, “I’ll be back in a minute,” because the happiness in her chest had grown to such proportions that she knew she had to go outside and let some of it escape into the night.

  She pulled her coat off the peg in the hall and pushed into it, pulling up the hood as she opened the door and slipped outside. She looked down the mountainside to the lake, and across the lake to the mountains, and above the mountains to the stars. The night was all about her, wild and cold and beautiful, and she let her happiness spread out into it, so that it became part of the night, part of the lake and the mountains and the stars.

  Then she turned and Paul was shutting the door and crossing the snow to stand beside her.

  “I thought we should leave them alone—your father and Aunt Colette.”

  Flip reached for his hand. “They’re good friends. That’s enough for now.”

  Paul leaned toward her, kissing her gently. “And this is enough for now. For now,” he repeated, and kissed her again. Then, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Still holding his hand, tightly, she said, “Yes, Paul.”

  “Let’s walk over to the château,” he suggested. “It’s—it’s sort of our place. You risked your life for me there . . .”

  “And Ariel brought me to you there . . .”

  “Oh, Ariel!” he cried, and ran back to the lodge and opened the door, whistling. Ariel came bounding out, barking, until Paul commanded him to be quiet.

  They walked along quietly, hand in hand. Philippa and Paul.

  It was not an ending. It was a beginning.