And Both Were Young (17 page)

Flip’s disappointment was so acute and overwhelming that she thought for a moment she was going to be sick. She turned and ran until she reached the bathroom and then she shut herself in and leaned against the door and she felt all hollow inside herself, from the top of her head down to her toes, and there was no room in this cold vacuum for tears.

After a few moments she heard a knock. She clenched her fists and held her breath but whoever it was did not go away, and the knock came again. If it’s Miss Tulip I’ll kick her, she thought in fury.

Then Erna’s voice came. “Flip.”

“What?” Flip said, sounding hard and forbidding.

“Flip, it’s just me. Erna.”

“Oh.”

“Did you—was it—was there bad news in your letter?”

“No. It’s all right.” Flip’s voice was stifled.

“Well, look, Flip,” Erna said. “I just meant . . . Percy’s taking call over this morning and you know how strict she is . . . and the bell’s about to ring . . .”

Flip opened the door and came out. “Thanks, Erna.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Erna said uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if it was bad news in your letter.”

“It’s just that my father’s sick in China and I can’t be with him for the Christmas holidays,” Flip started to explain in a controlled voice. Then she burst out, “And I have to spend
the holidays with Eunice—she’s a friend of my father’s—and I don’t like her and if she marries my father I’ll—I’ll want to kill her.”

“Ach, that’s awful,” Erna said. “I’m awful sorry, Flip. It certainly is awful.”

“Well . . .” Flip’s voice trailed off, then she spoke briskly. “We’d better get down to call over.”

The next day she told Paul about the letter, and for the first time since she had received it she started to cry. Ariel, distressed at her unhappiness, jumped up at her, almost knocking her over, and licked excitedly at her face.

“That Eunice,” Paul said, frowning heavily and pushing Ariel away from Flip and sending him over to the hearth. Then he jumped up. “Put on your skis and go on out and start practicing,” he commanded. “I’ll be out in a minute.” And he half-shoved Flip out the door.

Flip went out obediently and put on her skis and started working on her turns. In just a few minutes Paul came flying out of the lodge, shouting, “Flip! Flip!”

He rushed up, panting, and gasped, “My father says you may stay here with us for Christmas if your father says it’s all right! And Aunt Colette is going to be with us because my mother can’t come.” His face was radiant with pleasure.

Flip sat down in the snow, her feet going every which way. “And you can work on your skiing every day. And I’m sure Aunt Colette can take us up to Gstaad to ski, and to Caux too, so you’ll be familiar with Gstaad and all the runs for the ski meet and maybe you will become such a good skier that we can do a double jump! Papa said he’d write your father right away this afternoon. Oh, Flip, it will be wonderful
to have you here all the time instead of just on Sunday afternoons!”

“Oh, Paul!” Flip cried and scrambled to her feet. “Oh, Paul! Next to being with Father it’s the most wonderful thing in the world. I know he’ll let me!”

“Well,” Paul said, giving her a quick, shy hug. “What a relief. Come on. Let’s get to work on your skiing.”

Flip had been skiing conscientiously for about an hour under Paul’s tutelage when Madame Perceval came out and called them.

“Come on in to tea, children!”

They skied over to her, Flip with almost as great ease and confidence as Paul, shouting, “Hello, Madame!” “Hello, Aunt Colette!”

“So,” Madame said, raising Flip’s chin and looking into her eyes. “You’re happy about your holidays now?”

“Oh, yes, Madame!”

“I was wondering what had happened to upset you, my problem child. You seemed so much happier and then gloom descended. But you did have some reason this time. It’s hard to be away from your father at Christmastime.”

“And it would have been awful to be with Eunice,” Flip said. “Eunice always makes me feel—well, even clumsier and gawkier and tongue-tieder and everything than I am. But, oh, Madame, I’ll love being here, and I’ll try to help and not be a bother.”

“Hurry up, Flip, take off your skis,” Paul called impatiently. “Papa went over to Lausanne to the dentist yesterday and brought us back cakes from Nyffeneggers.”

When they had finished tea Madame said, “How about skiing back to school with me, Flip? Feel up to it?”

“Yes, Madame, I think so.”

“You haven’t skied any distance at all, yet, and I think it would be good for you. Not afraid of skiing in the dark? I’ll keep right beside you.”

“I’m not afraid, Madame.”

They pushed off, Flip feeling excited and happy as she turned around to wave good-bye to Paul, who was standing in the lighted doorway. And Flip thought how beautiful the night was with the stars just coming out, and the pine trees’ noble arms bowed with snow, and the shadows of the ruined château looming behind them, and the warmth and comfort of the lodge, the golden light pouring out the open door and Paul standing there waving good-bye.

“Yes,” Madame Perceval said, as if in answer to her thoughts. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? In the spring the fields are as white as they are now, with narcissi, not snow. . . . Shall we go?”

They started off down the mountainside, Madame calling Flip from time to time to check her speed or give her instructions. Now at last Flip had the feeling of being a bird, of having wings. And as she pushed through the cold night air she felt that it was as solid and entire an element as water. A bird must know this solidity; but as she felt the air against her body the only thing within her own knowledge with which she could compare it was water, and she felt as she broke through it that she must be leaving a wake of air behind her, as a boat does, cutting through water.

Madame let her go faster and faster, and, exhilarated by the speed and the beauty, she would have gone flying past the school gates if Madame had not checked her. They turned
through the gates together and moved slowly down the white driveway.

“That was good skiing, Flip,” Madame said. “I’m really very proud of you.”

Flip dropped her head in quick confusion, then looked up with eyes that shone in the starlight. “I love it, Madame, I just love it!”

“You know,” Madame told her, “we’re not going to be able to enter you in the beginners’ class at the ski meet. You’ll have to go in the intermediate. If you go on improving at this rate, you’d be disqualified from the beginners’ class. And with all the skiing you’ll be able to do during the holidays I don’t think there’s any question but you’ll go on improving. I want to work with you on your left stem turn. Your right is fine, but the left is the only place where your weak knee seems to bother you. Don’t worry, though. I think a little extra practice and the left stem will be as good as the right.”

They went indoors and Flip put her skis on the rack, stroking them lovingly. The smell of the ski room, of hot wax and melted snow and damp wool from the ski clothes, was almost as pleasant to her now as the smell of the art studio.

“Madame,” she said softly, “thank you so much for the skis.”

“The girl who left them was rolling in money,” Madame spoke shortly, “and I suspect it was black market money. They’re in far better hands now—or rather on far better feet.” She laughed. “Run along upstairs to the common room. There’s about half an hour before dinner. We made better time than I expected.”

_______

Flip ran up the stairs and across the hall, almost bumping into Miss Tulip.

“Really, Philippa Hunter!” Miss Tulip exclaimed in annoyance. “Will you kindly remember that you are supposed to walk, not run. You used to be such a nice, quiet girl and you’re turning into a regular little hoyden.” And Miss Tulip shut herself up in the cage of the faculty elevator and pressed the button.

Instead of being crushed by Miss Tulip’s irritation Flip had to suppress a laugh as she watched the elevator rise and saw the matron’s feet in their long, narrow white shoes slowly disappearing up the elevator shaft. Then, completely forgetting her admonition, she ran on down the corridor and into the common room.

She had just started a letter to her father when the big glass door was opened and Martha Downs and Kaatje van Leyden came in. A sudden hush came over the common room because the senior girls had studies and a special living room of their own on the second floor, and seldom came downstairs unless it was to lecture one of the girls for some misdeed that affected the two school teams, the Odds and the Evens, or that came under the jurisdiction of the student government. Martha and Kaatje walked toward Flip now and she knew that everybody was wondering, Now what has Pill done?

But Martha smiled in a friendly way and said, “Hi, Philippa.”

“Hi,” Flip said, standing up awkwardly.

“I hear you’re good at drawing people.”

“Oh, just sort of caricatures,” Flip mumbled.

Erna, who had been listening curiously, broke in. “She’s
wonderful, Martha! I’ll show you the ones she did of Jackie and Gloria and me in the dormitory last night.”

Erna had forgotten that they weren’t supposed to have books or drawing materials in the dormitory at night, but Martha and Kaatje kindly ignored this and looked at the slips of paper Erna held out. They both laughed.

“Why, you’re a genius, Philippa,” Kaatje cried.

And Martha said, “We came down to see if you’d do us.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” Flip said. “Right now?”

“How long does it take you?”

“About a second,” Erna told them. “Here’s a chair, Martha, and one for you, Kaatje. Run get your sketch book, Flip.”

Flip got her pad and a couple of sharp pencils out of her locker. “Just stay the way you are, please,” she said to Martha. “That’s fine.”

It wasn’t quite as easy to draw Martha as it had been the girls she saw constantly in the common room and the classroom, or as easy as the faculty, whose caricatures, sketched hurriedly at the end of study halls, had thrown the girls into fits of laughter, but she managed to get a passable exaggeration of Martha’s almost Hollywood beauty onto the paper, and the head girl was very pleased.

While Flip was drawing Kaatje, Martha said, “My mother writes me you’re going to be spending the holidays in Nice with Mrs. Jackman, Philippa. We’re going to be there for a week, so maybe we’ll see you.”

Flip shook her head, glancing up briefly from her sketch of Kaatje. “I’m not going to be with Mrs. Jackman. I’m staying up the mountain with Paul Laurens.”

“Percy’s nephew?” Martha asked in surprise. “How did you get to know him?”

“She has tea with him every Sunday afternoon.” Erna, who had evidently appointed herself as Flip’s spokesman, told the seniors. “She’s just come back from there now, haven’t you, Flip?”

Flip nodded, tore off her page, and gave it to Kaatje.

“Thanks simply ages, Philippa,” Kaatje said. “You’ll probably be besieged by every girl in school.”

“I don’t mind,” Flip said. “It’s what I love to do. If those aren’t right or if you want any more, I’d love to try again.”

“We may take you up on that.” Martha smiled at her. “Sorry you aren’t going to be in Nice for the holidays.”

“Flip, you’re made,” Erna said when the older girls had left. “If Martha and Kaatje like your pictures, there won’t be a girl in school who won’t want one. I bet you’ll get artist’s cramp or something.”

“It’s all right with me.” Flip grinned happily. “And it’s wonderful about the holidays. When did that happen?”

“This afternoon. And Madame’s going to be there too.”

“Percy?” Erna looked dubious. “I’m not sure I’d like that. She’s so strict.”

“She’s not a bit strict when you’re not at school. She’s—oh, she’s so much fun and she doesn’t act a bit like a teacher. And Paul says she’ll take us on all kinds of trips on the holidays, to Gstaad, and we’ll come down from Caux on a bob-sled, and we’ll go to Montreux and places to the movies and all sorts of things.”

“It’s too bad you can’t ski,” Erna said. And Flip turned away to hide a grin.

F
LIP WAS OUT PRACTICING BY HERSELF
before breakfast several mornings later when she saw the strange man again. At first she did not notice him, and then she became vaguely aware through her concentration on her skiing that someone was watching her, and she swung around and there he was leaning against a tree. This time he did not smile and wave and move away up the mountain. He just stood there watching her and she stared nervously back. He was very thin and his cheeks were sunken and his jaw dark, as though he needed to shave. He wore shabby ski clothes and a small beret and his eyes were very dark and brilliant. She stood, leaning lightly on her ski poles, looking back at him and wishing he would go away, when suddenly he came stumbling across the snow toward her. She started to push away on her skis, but he made a sudden leap at her and she fell headlong. She started to scream, but he clapped his hand across her mouth.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” he
kept saying, and he righted her and stood her up again, keeping a firm grip on her arm. She could feel each of his fingers pressing through her sweater and ski jacket and they hurt as they dug into her arm.

“Let go!” she gasped. “Let me go!”

“It’s all right,” he repeated. “I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

“But you
are
hurting me! Let go!”

Slowly his fingers relaxed, though he did not release her. “I didn’t mean to knock you down like that. I lost my balance and fell against you. I’m very tired and hungry. Have you any food?”

She shook her head.

“Just a cracker or a piece of chocolate? Schoolgirls always have something to eat in their pockets.”

She shook her head again. “I haven’t anything. What are you doing here?”

“I’m the—uh—I’m the new janitor. I’m going to keep the furnace going so you’ll be warm enough all winter. I live—uh—I live up the mountain and I didn’t have a chance to eat breakfast this morning because I overslept. Are you sure you haven’t even a crust of bread?”