The Quintland Sisters

by Shelley Wood

  Most astonishing of all was the strip of canvas, at least five feet high and perhaps fifty yards long, strung between two towering poles on either side of the road with the words WELCOME TO QUINTLAND! in large block letters.

  “My word!” I said, mostly to myself. “Quintland!”

  Lewis nodded at me but said nothing.

  We drove the few miles into town, and I gaped out the window at the steady stream of cars making their way to the nursery. I hadn’t thought so many different makes of automobiles existed, let alone within driving distance of Callander. I spotted plates from as far away as British Columbia, Oregon, Florida, Texas, and California. Last year when I was regularly walking or riding my bicycle between the nursery and town, the road was a rutted track. Now the government has paved it all the way south to Orillia. Tiny cabins that have long sat in disrepair looked to have been spruced up with a coat of paint and bright curtains in the windows, all of them with signs that read ROOM FOR RENT and NO VACANCY. Halfway along the road to Corbeil we passed a filling station on a patch of land I swear was thick forest the last time I’d been by. Now I counted thirteen cars idling in wait for one of the five shiny new gas pumps painted in different colors, each emblazoned with the name of one of the quintuplets: Émilie, Cécile, Annette, Yvonne, and Marie.

  “I had no idea,” I breathed. Lewis glanced at me and bobbed his head, finally managing to say, “It’s quite something, isn’t it, Miss Trimpany?”

  Closer to Callander, the vehicles were scarcely moving, with more cars and trucks of every shape and size joining the queue that snaked north out of town toward Corbeil.

  We must have been thinking the same thing at the same time, because just as I was about to ask Lewis what time the line of cars might be expected to dissipate for the evening, he said softly: “It stays busy heading out of town until the two-thirty showing, then gets a bit jammed in the other direction. If you don’t mind, Miss Trimpany, I’ll wait until after six to fetch you this evening.”

  I was looking out the window at the clouds of dust mingling with the puffs of exhaust from the cars, a mix of eagerness and irritability written across the faces of the drivers and passengers.

  “Of course,” I said, realizing as I said it that even by taking me all the way into town instead of down to the lakeshore, Lewis was no doubt adding an extra hour to his workday.

  I thanked him earnestly when we reached Mother and Father’s house and again later when he deposited me back out here at the nursery. Our drive in the evening was much quicker and more peaceful, scarcely a car on the road. With my window open to the evening, I could hear the loons calling on the lake, the frogs croaking in the swamp, and the rustle of the birch leaves in the wind—all sounds I hadn’t thought to miss that morning amid all the engine noise. I turned to look at Lewis and realized his eyes were on the sky, although they dipped every few seconds to keep an eye out for moose or wild turkeys dashing onto the empty road. I leaned forward and saw a flock of little birds, diving and wheeling in the dusk, but as if in a single formation. Lewis glanced my way and smiled. “Starlings,” he said. “There are more and more on Lake Nipissing every year. They call this”—he made a circle in the air with his hand, as if clearing steam from a mirror—“a murmuration.” He slowed the truck, and the flock seemed to warm to its audience, the many birds funneling this way and that, as if they were being swirled in a pot.

  We sat in silence for a moment. “Extraordinary,” I said, straining to watch as the little swarm climbed into the darker sky, then dipped past the truck. And quite abruptly they were gone.

  I was bursting to talk about it with Ivy—not just the birds but the daytime crowds, the lines of traffic, M. Dionne’s gigantic shop. But Ivy gave a laugh and rolled her eyes at me, saying, “I’ve been telling you for ages, Em! It’s been like this for months.”

  September 28, 1936 (Toronto Star)

  * * *

  QUINTS WORTH MILLION ANNUALLY TO NORTH BAY

  Estimates Indicate 350,000 U.S. Tourists This Year Spent That Sum

  U.S. citizens left over a million dollars in this city and district during the past summer’s visits to the Dionne quintuplets, according to estimates. Dr. Allan Roy Dafoe reports that about 500,000 persons made the trek to the Dafoe hospital to see the infants. At least 350,000 were from the United States.

  Every night during the summer months all hotels, tourist homes, and cabins were dragging in the welcome mat and hanging out the standing room only sign. Men, women, and children literally went begging for a place to sleep.

  Used with permission.

  October 25, 1936

  Something is troubling Ivy, but she won’t tell me what it is. I’ve pressed her, but she just shakes her head. It’s not Fred—if anything, they seem even closer, more openly tender to one another than I’ve ever seen them. They still have not announced a wedding date, but Ivy insists she is in no rush.

  We are all so exhausted. Nurse Nicolette left Saturday for a few weeks’ leave to visit her family in Quebec, so I hope, when she is back, Ivy can take a proper holiday. The girls are also running us ragged. We’ve had to move the bookshelves and rocking chairs out of the playroom because the girls were forever trying to climb on top of them. The other day they took the cushions off the settee and heaped them underneath the windowsills, then one by one were boosting each other up onto the ledge and leaping off. I nearly had a heart attack when I walked in to find my little Émilie readying herself to launch into the air. Cécile and Annette are always very contrite after they’ve been reprimanded for doing something silly, but Yvonne, Marie, and Émilie will don expressions of utter surprise, as if to say, I’m terribly sorry, it never occurred to us that this would be a problem for you!

  Dr. Blatz believes they should be given total freedom in their play, so long as they are not putting themselves or others in harm’s way. Mme. Dionne clearly disapproves of this and scolds the girls in a loud voice if she sees them doing something she doesn’t like. Last week they’d made up a game that saw them twirling one another around and around until they all fell over in a heap, giggling and rolling about. Cécile, who typically does anything she can to please her mother when she visits, unwittingly performed a floppy somersault that left her upside down with her skirt over her head. The others found this immensely funny and immediately started trying to imitate her maneuver. Mme. Dionne was not amused, however. She marched over to Cécile and yanked her upright, tugging her skirt back down over her knees and calling her a naughty girl. I could see Ivy’s face flushing, and a minute later she had Cécile in her arms and announced it was time for a snack, which meant the visit was over.

  Perhaps it’s Mme. Dionne that’s causing Ivy to look so piqued.

  November 5, 1936

  NURSE NICOLETTE IS not coming back. Dr. Dafoe gave us the news this morning after he’d been through the daily charts with Ivy and had his visit with the girls. They can all say “Doh-Doh Dafoe” and will rush to the windows when they hear his car crunching on the gravel outside. He delivered the news about Nurse Nicolette as if he were telling us the day of the week, his expression blank, his voice flat, giving no reason or explanation. I shot a glance at Ivy, and I could tell right away that this wasn’t new information for her.

  Ivy managed to avoid my questions all morning, sequestering herself with Dr. Dafoe to review applicants for the open position—only Francophones, of course. The Association Canadienne-Française d’Éducation de l’Ontario has waded into the fray at the request of the Dionnes, demanding assurances that the girls would be raised as French Catholics.

  And of course the girls don’t actually need nurses anymore. They are all robust and healthy. I can’t help but worry that this means they might be returned to their parents sometime sooner than we’d hoped, but, on the other hand, why would the government have spent the time, effort, and money to build the observation area if the children might soon be living with their parents again?

  When Ivy finally joined us in the play
room, we were doing “art” with the girls, which means colorful handprints all over their tables, chairs, smocks, and faces. Ivy smiled to see the mess they were making, but I could tell her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Only after the girls were all tucked away for the night did I tap on the door of Ivy’s room. Fred had given her a windup gramophone for her birthday and it was playing “I’m Putting All My Eggs in One Basket” from a film they’d seen together.

  She opened the door, making a face. “I knew you’d come.”

  She beckoned me in and closed the door behind me, then went to her machine and gently lifted the needle, placing it back at the beginning of the record.

  I plunked myself on her bed while she fussed with things, pulling a pair of stockings from the radiator and bundling them into a drawer. Fred Astaire crooned into the silence.

  I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Ivy.”

  She sighed and pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down.

  “It’s Inès,” she said. “Nurse Nicolette.” Ivy’s eyes flickered. She looked tired, and sad. “She’s pregnant.”

  I thought I’d misheard.

  “Pregnant?”

  Ivy watched it sink in.

  Nurse Nicolette almost never went anywhere; she certainly had never mentioned having a beau as far as I knew. There are so few men in our sheltered lives, other than the visiting doctors, the handyman, the groundskeeper, and the police constables charged with protecting us. Then there’s Fred, who is spoken for, and Dr. Dafoe, of course. But Dr. Dafoe seems ancient—more like an avuncular antique than someone who could sire a child. I realize, writing this, that he’s likely not much older than my own father, who now has an infant daughter at home. But Inès Nicolette with a lover? Inès Nicolette, with her lumpy uniform and twitchy face, always starting like a rabbit?

  “Who is the father?” I asked finally.

  Ivy shrugged and said nothing.

  “How far along?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed. “I bet Dr. Dafoe doesn’t know either. She was back in Quebec City, or whatever the name of her village is, over Easter as you’ll recall, but who knows.” She looked down at her hands.

  “My best guess is she has someone back in Quebec or”—Ivy paused—“or it’s someone she’s met through the Dionnes. They seem to be related to half of Corbeil.” I thought back to all the Sundays Nurse Nicolette had spent having dinner across the street.

  Ivy was quiet for a moment, then said: “Whatever it is, we’re not going to hear it from her.”

  “My word,” I breathed. The song had ended, and the needle was making a swish-bump, swish-bump sound at the center of the player. Ivy stood again and lifted the needle back to the edge of the record. She wanted the music to muffle our conversation, I realized.

  “Nurse Noël doesn’t know,” I said.

  Ivy shook her head.

  “But Dr. Dafoe does?”

  Ivy nodded. “And he’s adamant that it stay quiet, that nothing be done.” She lifted her hands to her face, covering her eyes and shaking her head. “I told him Inès may need some help, there may be something we should do, especially if someone in Corbeil is the father, not someone out East. A young woman, with child, unmarried—in small-town Quebec, no less. Who knows what will happen to the baby, let alone to her. Her family might take in the child, but—” She didn’t finish, didn’t need to. We’d both grown up hearing the same wide-eyed tales of unwed mothers—all scandalous plots with no proper endings.

  She sat down on the bed beside me. “But Dr. Dafoe says there’s nothing we can do, nothing we should do. He doesn’t want the newspapers to learn of it.” She glanced up at my face. “You can’t breathe a word of it, Em. He can’t know that I told you. It’s not my secret to share.”

  I reached over, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Of course,” I said.

  “This place is getting to me.” Ivy waved her free hand, gesturing at nothing in particular. “The strict schedules, the rules, all the things we can and cannot do, when we can cuddle the girls and when we can’t. Everything done for the sake of appearances. For Pete’s sake, we curl the girls’ hair every morning, yet their hair is perfectly beautiful straight. Why are we curling their hair, Em?”

  She closed her eyes and put her head on my shoulder.

  “You need a break yourself, Ivy. You’ve taken on so much here.”

  What I was thinking was that Ivy now wouldn’t be able to take a break, not until we found Nurse Nicolette’s replacement.

  As if reading my mind, Ivy murmured, “We’re starting interviews tomorrow. There are several local women who trained as teachers. French, of course. I hope we can find someone who’s a good fit.”

  “As good a fit as Nurse Nicolette?” I said, then bit my lip.

  Ivy’s head was still on my shoulder so I couldn’t see her smile, but I could feel a muscle moving ever so slightly in her temple.

  “It would be hard to find a worse fit than Nurse Nicolette,” she agreed, and we both had a quiet laugh.

  November 20, 1936

  I’D BE FINE if I never heard the words corn syrup ever again, let alone tasted the wicked stuff. It is all anyone can talk about. The Dionnes have now come out and said point-blank that they only ever buy Crown brand and that this must have been the corn syrup given to the quintuplets when they were born. Dr. Dafoe, meanwhile, is adamant that the girls were fed Bee Hive brand. Ivy says it’s all ludicrous because if anyone should remember what blooming brand of syrup she bloody well gave to the babies, it would be her, and yet she herself can’t recall. Fred has told us that it all boils down to money. Doesn’t it always? The Crown brand company delivered a crate of corn syrup a few days after the babies were born and paid M. Dionne five hundred dollars in exchange for exclusive advertising rights. The other company, St. Lawrence Starch, sent a hundred-dollar donation to Dr. Dafoe right after the babies were born, then delivered a whole case of Bee Hive brand corn syrup to the farmhouse a week later. It’s a wonder we weren’t all bathing in it! Later that summer, after the government took custody of the babies, the Bee Hive company paid one thousand dollars to the guardians for exclusive rights to call themselves the official corn syrup of the Dionne quintuplets, and they’ve held sway ever since. And I suppose, as a result, M. Dionne lost the chance of making a lot of money, along with the Crown brand syrup people, who are now suing. I really don’t understand business or law one bit, but it is plain as day that this lawsuit isn’t merely about money and syrup, it’s about the Dionnes and Dr. Dafoe. The ridiculous thing is, we don’t even feed the babies corn syrup. Dr. Blatz believes sugar in any form is bad for children. I should tell that to the newspapers.

  November 30, 1936

  IVY HAS CONVINCED me to join the staff outing to North Bay to see Reunion. The newspapers say the quintuplets appear in the movie for only a few minutes, which means hours’ worth of film must have been cut! A shame given the hassles of shooting in the middle of a hot summer. Everyone from the nursery received a special invitation from the theater, and so we are all going, including Fred, Dr. Dafoe, and the quintuplets’ newest minder, Miss Stephanie Beaulieu—everyone is going to go except for the guards and Nurse Noël, who says she doesn’t like films anyhow. Miss Beaulieu is fully bilingual, comes recommended by Dr. Blatz, and has trained in his program at St. George’s. She strikes me as a very serious woman, her brow constantly furrowed, her close-set eyes blinking behind tiny wire-framed glasses. She has clearly read a book about the importance of smiling, however, because several moments after the girls have done something silly, her cheeks will jolt upward, yanking her thin lips into a smile as if someone has pulled a cord.

  Ivy says she wants to talk to me tonight, when we’re in the city. We will try to slip away from the others for a cup of tea or something so as to snatch a bit of time to ourselves.

  December 2, 1936 (Toronto Star)

  * * *

  QUINTUPLETS’ NURSE IS OFF FOR HOLIDAY

  Miss Y
vonne Leroux Is Granted Leave of Absence

  NORTH BAY, Ontario—Nurse to the Dionne quintuplets since the day of their birth, Yvonne Leroux is taking a holiday, Dr. A. R. Dafoe announced today. Miss Leroux will take a leave of absence for an indefinite period, Dr. Dafoe confirmed.

  Miss Leroux arrived at the Dionne home about five o’clock on the afternoon the world-famous sisters were born, and except for an occasional brief holiday has attended them ever since. The case was her first after graduation from St. Joseph’s General Hospital here.

  Dr. Dafoe has decided not to see the latest Quints picture, “Reunion,” now showing here. The hospital staff were guests of the theatre Monday night, but Dr. Dafoe was taken ill and did not join his hardworking team.

  Used with permission.

  December 4, 1936

  Today is Ivy’s last day before she heads off on her “holiday,” as she persists in calling it. As if she is definitely going to come back. I don’t think either of us believes it.

  I’m just so desperately sad. I’ve known this was coming, I suppose, but I didn’t expect her to leave until she actually got married. I can’t imagine what it will be like here without her any more than I can imagine being in Ivy’s shoes and setting off on this great adventure.

  The Newspaper Enterprise Association has organized for her to spend six months giving a series of lectures all across the United States about her work as the head nurse at the Dafoe Nursery. Her first stop is New York, where she is going to broadcast a five-part radio serial on the first two years of the babies’ lives. I’ve always thought Ivy had a lovely voice. It’s a tremendous opportunity and she will be very well paid, with all her expenses covered, and she’ll get to see so much of the world. She and Fred have agreed to postpone their wedding until the following year, at the earliest, but I can’t believe that means she will come back to us when her tour is over.