by Shelley Wood
The temperatures have dipped again, but the sky was blue and bright. For the first time this week the vise clamped around my lungs (and heart) felt like it was starting to ease its grip. And what a treat to be out in the winter sun, bundled snugly against the cold! For a time I stood stamping my boots at the bottom of the gentle slope while Lewis toiled up with the toboggan, again and again, the little girls taking turns climbing into his lap to careen back down. Soon enough, Lewis convinced me to try out his invention, hauling it up to a higher point on the hill and settling me into it while Edith and Sheryl clapped their hands and jabbered in encouragement. When I said I was ready, Lewis gave me a stout push, and I started whooshing down, winter nipping at my cheeks. I yelped as I gained speed, not out of fear—I swear—but something much simpler: exhilaration and joy. For those few fast and sparkling seconds I felt like a child again, bursting and glad. Lewis must have heard my shriek because he came bounding down the hill behind me, reaching me as the sled slowed to a stop. He was winded, his breath billowing in bright, white gusts as he dropped to his knees in the snow and put a hand on my shoulder, his eyes blinking with worry. Then he saw my beaming face.
“Again!” I cried, climbed to my feet, and staggered up through the deep drifts to join the girls.
I SAW LEWIS one more time this morning at the train station before he left to return to Montreal. We’ve agreed that I will speak to Dr. Dafoe if I feel in any way threatened, or pressured about the commissions I’m receiving for my work. And Lewis has said he will continue to write to me at the nursery for now, but that he won’t write anything that might get me in trouble should his letters fall into the wrong hands. I wondered then—whose hands are the wrong ones, and whose are the right? I’m not sure I know. I also promised him that if I had any worries whatsoever, I would post my letters in Callander myself or pass them directly to his father, who wouldn’t dream of meddling with our correspondence, as much as he might be wondering about it.
My own parents are curious, that’s clear. But Mother, for once, held her tongue. And what would I tell her if she asked about Lewis? I would have to say, He’s a friend. A true friend. Perhaps the only friend I have left.
December 28, 1938
IVY AND FRED are in town for two nights to see her father and so that Fred can pack up his rooms in North Bay once and for all. I will miss his regular visits to the nursery now that they are stopping altogether, and I could tell from his face that he, too, will miss us, will miss the girls. I realize, next to me, Fred has probably seen the quintuplets more days of their lives than anyone else, more than Dr. Dafoe, more than their own parents and siblings. Isn’t that strange? The girls will miss him desperately.
But if I’m not mistaken, Fred will not have too much of a wait before he has a child of his own. Ivy has a lovely bloom to her, different from her regular glow, and I noted her laying her hand on her stomach several times during our visit. She said nothing to me about her condition, so it may have been my imagination. Or it may be that we’ve simply drifted apart a little bit further, which makes me sad. It won’t get any easier once the baby comes.
We had a very nice visit all the same. She had more gossip about the behind-the-scenes battle between the government and the Dionnes. On the one side are some nasty accusations as to how Dr. Dafoe and Mr. Munro have mishandled the girls’ finances and, on the other, some vicious allegations against M. Dionne as well. I wish I’d heard some of these things before Lewis left for Montreal so I could get his opinion, although it’s a good excuse to write to him, if nothing else. Mind you, even Ivy admits that much of these stories get exaggerated beyond recognition in the telling and retelling.
I did divulge to Ivy that Mrs. Fangel was encouraging me to apply for the art school scholarship in New York. Naturally, Ivy got very agitated on my behalf, swiftly assuming I’d decided against it and browbeating me with all of her usual arguments.
I had to wave my hands to get her to stop.
“I haven’t ruled it out, I haven’t,” I hushed her, laughing. “I wrote to Mrs. Fangel before Christmas, asking for more details on what I might need for the portfolio.”
Ivy was placated by this and asked a dozen more questions that I couldn’t answer. The truth is, I wrote to Mrs. Fangel in a moment of despondency, my head thick with equal parts rheum and despair. I still can’t picture myself leaving the nursery, but nor can I quite picture going back there next week, as if everything will be the same as it was.
1939
January 4, 1939 (Toronto Star)
* * *
“GREAT MISTAKE,” SAYS DAFOE AS QUINT VISIT LEFT OFF ROYAL TOUR
Are King’s Wards, He Reminds—Holds Ottawa Responsible
“I think it is a great mistake that the King and Queen are not coming to see the Dionne quintuplets,” Dr. Allan Roy Dafoe told The Star from Callander today.
“The responsibility does not rest with their majesties, for they are bound to abide by the counsel of their advisers in Ottawa,” he continued, “but it must be remembered that these children—probably the most important children in the world—are direct wards of the King, the pride of both races in Canada, and of the greatest interest throughout this continent.
“This part of the country is just as important as any other. . . . I am very sorry that their majesties are not coming to Callander.”
Asked if it would be possible to take the quintuplets to Sudbury or some other point on the royal itinerary to meet the King and Queen, Dr. Dafoe replied: “It is out of the question. We have already refused an invitation to go to the World’s Fair in New York. The same reasons apply in this instance, namely, the dangers of infection, excitement, and the bad effect of close contact with crowds. It simply cannot be done,” he concluded.
The sisters have hitherto never travelled more than the one-eighth of a mile from the farm where they were born.
Used with permission.
January 4, 1939
Dr. Dafoe was back today, finally, after Mr. Cartwright was able to clear the road.
The girls went wild when they saw his car pull up in the courtyard, then threw themselves at him when he came through the door, his boots puddling the floor. “Docteur, docteur,” they hollered, saying it properly now, and bombarding him further with tales of le père Noël, la Vierge Marie, le petit Jésus, and le bonhomme de neige—all of whom they seem to credit with delivering their windfall of cadeaux, on Christmas Eve.
Dr. Dafoe himself was holding five big packages, beautifully wrapped in each of the girl’s colors. They tore through the paper to find five identical Shirley Temple dolls with eyes that rolled and real curlers to curl their hair. The girls were ecstatic about the dolls, not paying any attention to the autographed photo that came in each box. Of course, they had no recollection of ever meeting someone named Shirley Temple, nor would they understand why she is famous, so they have no need for a signed photo. To them, these are simply five beautiful dolls, exactly the same, with hair that needs curling every morning. Just like them.
Dr. Dafoe made it clear that he’s livid the royal itinerary does not include a visit to Quintland. After the girls opened their gifts, he stomped off with George to his office, anger steaming off him like an engine’s plume in winter. We could hear him barking into the telephone so loudly his voice carried to the other end of the nursery. He and George were shut away the rest of the day—a relief, frankly. I don’t know how to act around George now, or where to look, although he is as friendly with me as ever. It will only be worse when Miss Callahan returns from her break this weekend. All I can picture is his face that night as I spied on them through the open door, the corners of his lips curling upward, his eyes dancing like a fire. It is giving me a cramp in the pit of my stomach.
January 12, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
I’m so glad you wrote back and I’m thrilled that you’re considering th
e scholarship. I’ve enclosed a document listing the types of work you would need to include, which you should review in detail. You will need at least 12 completed pieces, including a mix of drawing samples and color, with a range of different mediums represented.
You will also need some still lifes and landscapes: I think you told me you spent time last summer doing some nature sketches? I hope so. It’s also essential that you include a self-portrait. Here, my guess is you may have some work to do. I can tell you, as hard as you may find it at first, you will quickly realize what an interesting and rewarding exercise this can be. Don’t shy from the truth—that’s what I always tell my students. The truth is us, at our best and our worst, and our self-portraiture should reflect that.
Perhaps you could send me a list of works you feel could be included today, and those that you’ll have to complete before the deadline. Better yet, if you still have that handsome photographer making his daily visits, see if he can take some photographs of your completed work and send some prints my way.
Yours in anticipation,
Maud Tousey Fangel
145 East 72nd
New York, NY
January 18, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
Your news is distressing but I truly don’t know how much or how little to make of Ivy’s gossip. It is thirdhand, or more, as you say. It’s all upsetting, but I also think you need to use your own eyes and your own wits and make your own decisions. Much of it seems pretty far-fetched.
Have you been pondering Mrs. Fangel’s scholarship? If you can’t get your mind around a move to America, what about applying closer to home? The Ontario College of Art in Toronto, perhaps. Or even the École des Beaux-Arts here in Montreal. Back when my father was trying to talk me out of aeronautics, he used to say, the simplest decisions lead to happiness. I tend to disagree. I have long believed that it is making the harder choices that makes one happy, and when I’m at my happiest, the hard things become easier. I’ve never been much good at gauging other people’s happiness, but my sense is that it’s your art, Emma Trimpany, that brings you joy. I would have to say, choose the harder path.
As for me, I’ll be happy when the weather improves and we can test our planes. My poor pigeons, too, would be happy to see a sunny day again. It’s been so many straight weeks of snow none of us can quite remember how the sky looked without it.
Yours sincerely,
Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
January 20, 1939
Mr. Munro visited today, shuttering himself with Dr. Dafoe for most of the morning, which of course made me wonder how much truth there may have been to Ivy’s gossip.
After Dr. Dafoe departed, Mr. Munro summoned me to the office and spoke with me solemnly about my savings account and how the payments from the advertisers will be handled. He looks a bit like a sheepdog, Mr. Munro does. His bushy white eyebrows all but engulf his deep-set eyes, and he wears his thick, white mustache long and parted so that it droops low over his mouth. His whole face seems to bristle when he talks.
He took pains to explain to me that as long as one has a certain amount of money set aside, it will continue to grow, even if one doesn’t add more. I wasn’t particularly interested in my own savings. What I wanted to know is, Do the quintuplets have enough? We’ve all been hearing for years now that our girls can never go back to living like other children, they’ll always need ways to protect their safety and their privacy. How much will that cost? And for how long? That’s what I wanted to ask Mr. Munro.
January 22, 1938
MISS CALLAHAN IS back from her vacation, and I can’t help but watch the way she and George carry on in front of the rest of us, plain as day. How did I miss this before? Right under my very nose. Sometimes when he doesn’t know I’m watching them together, George lets down his guard and looks more like a slavering dog. As if Miss Callahan is the Easter ham, resting on the counter just out of reach. She is encouraging it, I realize. It’s both fascinating and discouraging. Are all men like this, if they sense a willing woman? Would Lewis be like this? Was Fred? I’m sure I never saw Fred looking at Ivy this way, but perhaps I didn’t know what I was looking for. George continues to be as jaunty and charming with me as ever, and it gives me the shivers. Not in a good way.
February 1, 1939
NURSE CORRIVEAU CAME and knocked at my door just now, bringing the notebook she’s been using to “document” her interactions with the Dionnes. During the day she wears her wavy brown hair pinned low on the back of her head, her nursing cap on top, but tonight she had it loose, as if she’d just brushed it out. Strands suspended by static were drifting upward, making her look even more frazzled then she clearly already was. She’s a private woman, Nurse Corriveau. I know very little about her and her life before she came to the nursery, and her flat expression and deep-set eyes typically give very little away. When she speaks it’s in a high, quavering tone, and one gets the sense that she herself doesn’t like the sound of it, because she doesn’t mince words. The only time you see the ghost of a smile on her lips is when the girls do something silly. Miss Callahan is their current favorite in the nursery, but they clearly love Nurse Corriveau, too, although with more reserve.
I steered her into my tiny room and offered her the chair. She sat down reluctantly, as if she wasn’t sure she’d be staying. She had her notebook on her lap and was patting it as you would a cat while the fingers of her other hand stroked distractedly at her mustache.
“I want to show you this,” she blurted out, tapping the notebook. “I want another pair of eyes, if you will. In fact—” Her gaze darted around my room for several seconds before she continued. “In fact, I know you, too, keep a notebook. I wondered if you would consider copying a few things down, so we have a duplicate.”
I could feel my eyebrows pop upward. I’ve started keeping my journal tucked in the crack between my bureau and the wall. I can’t bear the thought of anyone reading this. But copy from her journal to mine?
She rushed on.
“I had another nasty set-to with Mme. Dionne today. I simply walked out on her while she was speaking, saying despicable things about me, about Miss Callahan, about Dr. Dafoe. I walked into the charting area and immediately started to set it down in my notebook.”
Nurse Corriveau was watching my face, and I could see her lip trembling and saw that her eyes, while dry, were ringed in red.
“A minute later, or two minutes, the door flew open and it was M. Dionne. He stood over my desk and thrust out his hand, demanding I hand over my book.” She blinked and shuddered. “Naturally, I refused, and I thought he, too, would start shouting at me. But he didn’t. Instead he lowered his voice so that I could scarcely hear him, and started saying horrible things.”
I frowned, but I could feel my heartbeat quicken as if it was me alone in the charting room, M. Dionne standing over me, snarling.
“What sorts of things?” I said slowly.
Miss Corriveau shook her head and opened her journal, leafing through it. It had a plain brown cover and coarse, thin pages, like the notebooks used by schoolchildren, which had the effect of making her thin voice, when she spoke, seem even less substantial.
“I’ve written it down, Nurse Trimpany. I’ve written it all down here.” Her eyes looked at mine, flickering from side to side as if reluctant to settle on my birthmark.
“Would you please read it over and perhaps consider copying some of it into your own records? Many of these incidents have taken place when you were not in attendance, when you were working on your commissions or discussing them with Mr. Sinclair.”
I blushed then. I hope in that dim light that she couldn’t see it. I couldn’t say whether I was blushing because of George or because I’d been discovered, that Miss Corriveau knew—and clearly accepted—that I’d successfully evaded the Dionnes by retreatin
g to my canvases.
“Of course,” I murmured. I saw her gaze casting around my room again. “My notebook is down in my drawer in the charting area,” I lied. I felt bad, but also sheepish retrieving my journal from its hiding place in front of Miss Corriveau.
She looked alarmed. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Miss Trimpany. I would keep it with you at all times.”
I nodded, and she looked down at her lap, glancing over the pages, then closed the notebook and stood to go.
“Please hang on to it, review it tonight and tomorrow if you need more time,” she said, handing me her book. “But keep it with you, please. I don’t want the Dionnes to see what I’ve written.”
At my door she paused, turning back, her face twisted. “I think it would be best if we always had two staff members in attendance when the Dionnes are visiting, don’t you think?”
Sample notes from Louise Corriveau’s notebook
July 5, 1938: Qs asking where Miss Rousselle has gone. Mme. Dionne tells Cécile and Annette that Miss Rousselle is dirty and not nice. Nice women speak French. Says they must always listen to Maman.
September 3, 1938: Rain. Mme. Dionne in the playroom with the girls. Émilie asked Miss Callahan to read her another story, brings her an English picture book. Mme. Dionne enraged. Says Miss C. is the Devil, the Devil speaks English. English is dirty. Jesus speaks French.
September 27, 1938: Children brought into bathroom for toilet routine and Émilie and Marie admitted telling “dirty stories”—Nurse Trimpany and Miss Callahan are dirty, Dr. Dafoe was dirty.
November 8, 1938: M. and Mme. Dionne visit before supper. M. Dionne tells girls to kiss their mother goodbye. Marie and Émilie refuse, say Maman tells them bad stories. Mme. Dionne scolds Marie, says she is dirty, says she “plays with her posterior” (?). Tells Émilie she is a crazy girl. Émilie and Marie crying, Mme. Dionne crying. M. Dionne angry, takes Mme. D. from house.