by Shelley Wood
February 1, 1939: Mme. Dionne accuses Miss Callahan in playroom of turning the children against her. Children upset. Miss C. and I walk out of playroom and she follows, yelling insults and threats in French. Girls are frightened. M. Dionne follows us and says despicable things. Calls Miss C. “une putain.” Calls me “une salope.”
February 2, 1939
I STOPPED BY the office this morning to speak with Dr. Dafoe about Nurse Corriveau’s notebook, but George says he won’t be in today.
It is different now, trying to winkle information out of George. I realize how much the getting of the information used to seem as important as the information itself. Today again, George looked sallow, as if he’d been up half the night, and indeed his clothes seemed creased and slackened—unusually so for him.
“Are you all right?” I asked, in spite of everything.
“Dr. Dafoe has asked me to pull together a list of all the canceled, current, and pending endorsement contracts.” He sighed and dug the heel of his hand into an eye socket. “It’s a lot.”
February 10, 1939
I MAY AS well work on some of the things Mrs. Fangel has suggested, if only for the practice of doing it, nothing more. I tinkered with some “still life” charcoal sketches using some of the girls’ playthings—a doll, balls, a rocking horse. There’s something disconcerting about a pile of children’s toys with no rowdy, tumbling children nearby.
Later, I took my things up to my own room and spent an hour looking in the mirror, my sketchbook on my knee, trying to figure out how I’d do a self-portrait. Each effort ended up in the wastebasket. It’s as if I haven’t learned anything about proportion or shading or balance whatsoever. By the time I’d given up, I’d missed supper.
I wandered down the hall to the girls’ room, all of them sleeping soundly. I sat on the window seat where Ivy and I used to whisper about what the future might hold. I have no more of an idea now than I ever did. Ivy was so certain, even then, about the life she wanted, and now she’s gone out and got it. Lewis too. Me, I’m still a note in the margins of someone else’s story.
Annette stirred in her sleep, murmuring something. Yvonne flung an arm over her eyes, as if to block out the moonlight.
Maybe this is all I need. Listening to the girls sleep, all of us tucked away safe and sound, spared from the strife sweeping the rest of the world—surely this is more than enough to make us happy. But then why am I even obsessing over Mrs. Fangel’s pamphlet and all her portfolio suggestions? Just to prove to myself I can? Why bother, if I have no intention of following through?
February 20, 1939
MISS CALLAHAN, NURSE Corriveau, and I have agreed that there will always be two of us with the girls when the Dionnes are visiting. It makes me realize how much I’ve been slipping out of my duties in recent months, probably longer, to avoid some of these tense visits.
I will absolutely hate this when the public play area opens again for the season. It was bad enough feeling like thousands of people a day were baffled by the sight of me and my birthmark in such close proximity to Canada’s famous five. Now the idea of arbitrating any friction between the children, their parents, and the nursing staff while visitors gasp and wave with a smile fixed on my face—it’s almost too much to imagine.
Today, thank goodness, was my turn to sit out, leaving the others to deal with the Dionnes. It is a beautiful, twinkling winter’s day, cold but bright. The girls were eager to play in the snow, so I helped button them into their woolens and warm boots. The Dionnes arrived right after the girls went out, following them into the private yard without so much as a bonjour.
I retreated to my bedroom in the hopes of having a private hour to muddle along with a self-portrait. I’m trying to use two mirrors now, my image bouncing from one to the other so that I’m not looking directly into my own eyes but watching myself in profile, my good side. I prefer this to staring at myself directly, wondering who exactly I see.
I was engaged enough with the effort that I didn’t notice M. Dionne at my door until he spoke. “The artist at work,” he muttered softly and took a step into the room so he was right behind me, his heavy eyes in the mirror watching me. Maybe it was the effect of the glass, but he looked much larger than he is. Taller and straighter. I didn’t turn around, but I could see his face perfectly in our reflection. He was giving me the strangest look, part fury and part something else. It rattled me, which must have shown in my face, because he gave a tight smile, or sneer, something between the two. I wanted to stand, but I had the sense that he was so close behind me and I was twisting so awkwardly to see him that I couldn’t move from my seat without somehow making contact with him. It was awful.
I realized his eyes had dropped to the drawing on my lap. Rough pencil strokes, hardly recognizable as a portrait. “You’ll be sure to include the corn syrup tins, won’t you?” he said, his eyebrows coming together above his cold eyes. “Or is it chocolate bars you are drawing today?”
I was angry then, because of course what I draw or paint most days are his beautiful daughters. His beautiful daughters as they are in that moment. Does he ever even think of them as they are? Just themselves. Then he reached past me—no, around me, over my shoulder, and took the sketchbook from my lap. I dropped my pencil. The anger I’d felt earlier fled.
Then there was a noise—the creak I’d assumed I should have heard earlier—and the door swung wide. Had it been closed? Ajar? Had M. Dionne opened it, then closed it behind him? I shivered.
“Ah, M. Dionne, there you are.”
It was George, polite and businesslike. “I saw you come indoors. The report from Mr. Wilson’s office is here, if you still wish to review it?”
M. Dionne turned sideways and fixed George with a look not much different from the one he’d used to pin me. But he gave a curt nod, slid my sketchbook onto my bureau, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.
I watched George as he stood aside to permit M. Dionne to pass. I expected he might meet my gaze, or nod, or do something to show me he, too, knew his timing wasn’t a coincidence. But he kept his eyes trained on M. Dionne and followed him out the door, never looking back.
February 25, 1939
WE ARE TO teach the girls to sing “God Save the King” for a special radio broadcast that will be aired in Canada and the U.S. next month. Dr. Dafoe is very excited by the plan, telling everyone it is bound to increase public pressure on Their Majesties to come and visit the Dionne quintuplets in Callander.
“They couldn’t possibly stay away,” he told us, a wide smile on his face.
George says the doctor has another goal in mind: he’s hoping it will prove to Hollywood that the girls can indeed sing in English and cement lucrative plans to feature them in a new motion picture.
“What do the Dionnes think about them singing in English?” I asked George. He grimaced and put a finger to his lips.
Clearly the Dionnes have not been told.
February 25, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
We’ve had a patch of ugly weather, but the forecast has cleared up and, according to the weatherman, we can expect clear skies, mild temperatures, and low wind for the next several days. We’ve received the green light to test my landing gear on the FDB!
I’m so excited I can scarcely sleep. By the time you get this, the flight will be over and I’ll be writing to tell you how it went. This is what I’ve been working on for a year now, Emma. I feel like I’m already soaring!
Yours sincerely,
Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
March 1, 1939
Things have settled into something closer to normal between George and me. I think he’s realized I know what’s afoot and has ceased to pour on the charm the way he used to. For my part, I’ve decided I’d rather have George as a friend than not at all. I don’t go out of my way t
o seek his company, nor have I become particularly close with Miss Callahan, although we get along fine. If I’m honest with myself, it is hard not to like her; she is witty and warm and undeniably pretty. She doesn’t let the Dionnes get her down, no matter what Mme. Dionne might mutter about her. She is a good fit for George, I suppose. I wish them well, if they are indeed intent on a future together. I have no idea.
Dr. Dafoe has been coming in almost daily, meeting with men from the government, Judge Valin, as well as M. Dionne and his lawyer. George says M. Dionne has successfully persuaded the Ontario government to audit the financials for the Quintuplet Trust Fund. It is falling to George to organize all the documents he’s been compiling for Dr. Dafoe. He’s taken to working late in the night, sometimes sleeping on the couch in Dr. Dafoe’s office rather than driving back to his rooms in North Bay. Does Dr. Dafoe know? I can’t imagine he does.
Tonight after speaking with George, I went back to my room and took another stab at my self-portrait, using the facing mirrors. Whatever perspective or effect I was hoping to get from this, it’s lost. I kept picturing M. Dionne appearing out of nowhere, his cold reproach reflected in the glass.
March 7, 1939 (Toronto Star)
* * *
DIONNE OPPOSES OFFER TO BRING QUINTS TO KING
TORONTO, Ontario—“I would prefer to have the King and Queen come to Callander,” said Oliva Dionne, father of the quintuplets today. He had just received from the Star, he said, his first intimation that the Ontario government proposes that the five Dionne sisters be brought to Toronto by private train to be presented to Their Majesties here, May 22. “I have not heard a word about it,” he added. “We are anxious that they should be presented to the King and Queen when they come to Canada, but I cannot see why the government cannot arrange to have Their Majesties visit the nursery here,” said Dionne.
Used with permission.
March 8, 1939
The girls are ready for their broadcast tomorrow, or as ready as they’ll ever be. They have loved learning the words to “God Save the King” and spent hours this week singing along to Miss Callahan, who is accompanying them on the piano.
Today they were belting it out heartily, if not altogether tunefully, when Mme. Dionne appeared at the open door of the playroom. She’d already been over that morning, so none of us expected her to return. The expression on her face when she heard the girls singing an English song could have frozen Lake Nipissing solid.
Miss Callahan kept playing through for several more bars, but the girls stopped singing, clearly worried about their mother’s reaction.
“Cécile, come here,” Mme. Dionne said in French. Cécile threw me a look but went to her mother, who then beckoned for the others to join. They hesitated but went to sit with her on the window seat, saying nothing. I worried she’d start scolding them, but instead she began singing “Au Clair de la Lune,” a song the girls have loved since they were toddlers, and soon enough they were singing lustily along.
March 9, 1939
THE RECORDING CREW has come and gone—the whole exercise was a dismal failure. At the last minute the Dionnes came over to watch the broadcast, and the girls were clearly rattled. When the time came, the girls refused to sing. Yvonne, always the boldest, announced: “We can only sing in French.”
Dr. Dafoe stepped up to the microphone, plainly flustered but tried to make light of things, saying, “Ah, our poor girls have stage fright! We will have to listen to them sing another day.”
He gestured at Miss Callahan, and she whisked the girls out of the room, Mme. Dionne huffing in their wake.
I stayed to watch what Dr. Dafoe would do next. So did M. Dionne, I noticed, a ghost of a smile on his thin lips. The doctor didn’t look angry so much as befuddled. A quick-thinking announcer took the opportunity to turn the broadcast into an interview, asking the doctor what the girls had been up to during the winter, what were their favorite games, their favorite foods, their favorite songs—in French and English. Dr. Dafoe warmed to this topic and quickly saw how to twist things to his advantage.
“Our greatest hope, of course, is that His Majesty and Her Majesty will come and see all this for themselves,” he said. “I know their visit will be very busy, and Canada is a big country, that’s for sure. But this is one thing I and the other guardians agree on absolutely, as do Mr. and Mrs. Dionne: Their Majesties must not miss this chance to see the Quints, and the Quints should not take the risk of traveling to see the King and Queen. M. Dionne and I spoke of this just the other day.” Dr. Dafoe nodded at M. Dionne as he said this, his round head wobbling. “We both strongly believe that the best option is for Their Majesties to take a detour through this beautiful part of the world. We would be delighted to host them here.”
March 11, 1939
CHARCOAL, LOW LIGHT, my left side in shadow, my hand against my blotchy cheek. I was trying for pensive, but instead I look like I’m attempting to hide something, which I am. It’s hopeless. I can close my eyes and draw any one of the girls as if she is standing in front of me—mischief, confusion, or tenderness written there plain as day. But me? My desires? My fears? I don’t even know what they are, let alone how to put them on paper.
March 13, 1939 (Toronto Star)
* * *
DIONNE GIVES HIS BLESSING TO QUINTS’ TORONTO VISIT
All 12 Children to Come
CALLANDER, Ontario—Oliva Dionne, father of the quintuplets, announced today he had accepted the invitation of the Ontario government to take his famous daughters to Toronto to be presented to the King and Queen, May 22.
Dionne said he had a “keen desire” to have the girls, who will be five years old May 28, meet Their Majesties and that he would take his entire family to Toronto if arrangements are made for their accommodation. The Dionnes have 12 children.
This would mean that Ernest, Rose, and Therese, now attending school in Quebec province, would return home to join the family for the trip. Daniel, Pauline, Oliva Jr., and Victoria [sic] are now at home with their parents, living in the Dionne farm home across the road from the Dafoe hospital which houses the quintuplets.
Annette, Yvonne, Cécile, Émilie, and Marie will be taken by special train to Toronto, 180 miles south of here, spending a single night en route, then back in their beds the very next night. The trip will be the first time the quintuplets have left their nursery grounds since being moved from their parents’ home in September 1934, a little more than three months after their birth.
The father said Dr. A. R. Dafoe and Judge J. A. Valin and other members of the Quints’ board of guardians have not yet been advised of his acceptance of the invitation.
Le Droit, the French language newspaper in Ottawa, published the text of Mr. Dionne’s acceptance letter, addressed to Hon. Harry Nixon, Ontario provincial secretary, March 9, accepting the invitation.
Used with permission.
April 1, 1939
Finally, a self-portrait, if I can call it that. I gave up on the mirrors and the angles, and gave up on drawing me the way I think I must look. Instead, I closed my eyes, pictured me at my happiest, and ended up with a line drawing of me and little Em, age two or three, curled in my arms. It lacks the detail I expect is required for a portfolio, but I don’t care. I’m not sure it’s even recognizable as a woman and child. It’s certainly not recognizable as me. But the more I look at it, the more I’m pleased. In technical terms, it’s not the best thing I’ve ever done, not by a long shot. But I love it. It’s simple and sparse, with a softness somehow. I’ve captured something important to me.
April 2, 1939
SOMETIMES AT NIGHT I hear footsteps in the hall, the shy squeak of a hinge. I’ve not gotten up to investigate. I assume it is Miss Callahan slipping out to wherever it is George is sleeping in the nursery, or more likely George tiptoeing to her room. I am naïve, I know. I have only the most rudimentary idea of what it is that might be happening behind closed doors, all of it derived from my textbooks at nursing school and nothing
more. I can’t spend any more time thinking about this than I already have.
April 3, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
Our plane flies! It flies beautifully. It roared straight up into the sky as smooth as if we were diving into a lake, only in reverse (and much more noisy). Adye—that was the pilot—gave me the thumbs-up after working the lever to raise the wheelbase. He said later that the stick moved easily, with no need for force. He did a wide loop over the city, and I can tell you it was the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen, Montreal laid out below like a feast, the cross on Mont Royal looking every bit like a candle on a cake baked to celebrate the day. I held my breath for a moment as the plane descended, worrying about my landing gear, but it settled into place smoothly as Adye released the lever and I knew we’d done something right. It took all of 15 months, but we’ve done something right.
I hope you were not angry or worried. I thought of telephoning you at the nursery the day of the flight, but I realize I’m not sure if that’s permitted or what it might cost you to take a call from me, financially or otherwise.
Yours sincerely,
Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
April 16, 1939
Which is better,” Annette asked me today, eyes wide, her face crumpled, “French or English?” I took her into my arms and hugged her tight. “They are completely the same,” I said in French, then again in English for good measure. “They are both completely the same.”