The Quintland Sisters

by Shelley Wood

  Lewis hurried around the side of the truck and opened the door for me after we’d pulled up at my house. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Cartwright, and to your father and family too,” I said, stepping to the street. He gave me a warm smile, which really changes the look of his anxious face. “Y-you too, Miss Trimpany,” he said, bobbing his head. Then he stooped to gather the bag at my feet and accompanied me up the walk.

  December 27, 1935

  I HAVE A baby sister. Edith Lorraine Trimpany, born today at 8:00 A.M. She is perfect. At eight pounds, three ounces, she seems huge to me—roughly the same as the combined weight of Émilie, Marie, and Cécile at birth. She has a dusting of flaxen hair and pale blue eyes like mine, but no bright red blotch staining half of her face. She is beautiful.

  1936

  January 31, 1936

  I think we will have to cut down the babies’ afternoon nap soon. Half the time Annette and Yvonne don’t sleep more than an hour, and Yvonne has learned how to climb out of her crib and will bustle around to visit her sisters, fetching them items requested from the toy box. Yesterday I went in to wake them and Annette, Cécile, Em, and Marie were standing in their cribs in high good humor, taking turns tossing their dolls to the floor while Yvonne trotted around fetching them.

  During their naptime today, Dr. Dafoe summoned Ivy and me to his office, ushered both of us into seats, and shut the door behind us.

  When he was seated again behind his desk, he folded his neat hands together and fixed us with a serious frown. He cleared his throat. “What I have to tell you, I must ask that you keep confidential.”

  He paused, looking from Ivy’s face to mine until we both nodded to show we understood.

  “M. Dionne is using his position on the board of guardians to make certain demands pertaining to the quintuplets, many of which are frankly ridiculous.” Dr. Dafoe snorted. “They are insisting that all staff be French. Both of you, of course, are perfectly bilingual and I would ask that you continue to speak to the girls in both French and English, with the caveat that it would be prudent, in my opinion, to speak only French to the girls when their parents are visiting.

  “As you know, last year’s guardian agreement provides for the babies to move home with their parents at some point in the future.” He paused again, his chin dimpling as his lips drooped downward. “In my professional opinion, this is not in the best interests of the children, and I will do everything in my power to ensure this does not happen until such time as we can be assured that it is what the girls themselves want to do. This, however, will put increasing pressure on our funding efforts.”

  This is something I hadn’t spent much time wondering or worrying about—how everything we want or need for the nursery simply materializes, no effort spared, even in these lean times. I had assumed the government was paying for it, but of course this is the same government that has cut back on relief payments and levied stricter rules as to who qualifies for help. I don’t know why I hadn’t worried about this earlier.

  As if he could read my mind, Dr. Dafoe continued: “The government, as you know, paid for the construction of the Dafoe Hospital and Nursery. Operational costs currently are managed by the guardians based on revenue raised through various endorsement and publicity materials.”

  Dr. Dafoe gave a brisk cough, his small hand curling like a snail shell and hovering briefly in front of his mustache. Such topics pain him. “It is Premier Hepburn’s request that some of these funds be spent in the coming months on alterations to the Dafoe Nursery in order to accommodate the mounting numbers of visitors, without unduly influencing the normal development of the children.

  “It is my strong belief that the girls are reaching an age where displaying them on the patio may be increasingly confusing and upsetting for them. Upon consultation with Dr. Blatz and the guardians, we are moving forward with the construction of a more private play park, where the nurses and babies can peacefully enjoy the sunshine without the distraction of hundreds of tourists waving from the fence line. We are working on a design that allows visitors to watch them from an observation area, but screened from the babies so they will be unaware of any visitors.”

  I shot a glance at Ivy, whose expression mirrored mine. The girls would be getting a new playground, but one where the public could watch? I couldn’t picture it.

  Dr. Dafoe looked sternly from my face to Ivy’s, tucking his chin to his chest. “The aim here is for the girls to have a safe and fun outdoor space that they can visit several times per day, safe and secure and free from any germs, and where they can be observed without being disturbed.”

  He unfolded his fingers and spread his hands wide as if to help us embrace the concept. “You understand, I think, the extent to which the world has fallen in love with our girls, every bit as much as we have? To deny visitors a chance to see them, when there is so little else that brings joy to the common man, is something that the government refuses to consider.”

  I cast a look at Ivy and could tell she was summoning the right words to phrase the same question I had, with her usual delicacy. I was already blurting it out.

  “Will we be charging admission?”

  “Absolutely not.” Dr. Dafoe managed to look offended at the suggestion. “And every effort will be taken to make sure that the quintuplets remain unaware of the visitors—I think this is an important first step to normalizing their lives.”

  I thought of my own childhood, no brothers and sisters, no playground, little time, in fact, for such a thing as play. The bright, clean, safe world in which our five girls were so quickly growing up was like nothing I’d ever imagined, and surely it was just as unreal for all the people following their lives in the papers and newsreels. The thing is, I want this for them. I want their lives to be special and cherished.

  “What do the Dionnes think?” Ivy asked.

  Dr. Dafoe gave a long sigh. “M. Dionne is the one who believes visitors should pay a small fee.” He grunted. “No doubt with a hefty share of the proceeds paid to the Dionne family.” He shrugged. “We would never do that, of course. We will do everything to protect the girls from exploitation, even if it means making nice with Dionne and enduring his bullying.”

  He glanced up at us and paused, as if he was about to say more, then didn’t. After a moment, he stood up to indicate that the discussion was over. We got to our feet and stepped toward the door. Dr. Dafoe got there first and put his hand on the knob, then hesitated.

  “I understand Nurse Nicolette has become quite friendly with the Dionnes,” he said. “I would remind you that our discussion today is not to be shared with anyone outside this room.”

  Once again, we nodded mutely and scurried down the hall.

  “How can they afford to build this play area if they are not charging admission?” It seemed extraordinary, given the harsh economic times affecting our part of the world. Nearly 70 percent unemployment in North Bay, according to the Nugget.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Emma!” Ivy laughed. “The quintuplets themselves are paying. Fred says their trust fund will be paid one hundred thousand dollars for their motion picture, The Country Doctor—can you imagine? Plus the revenue from all of the products they are supposedly eating or drinking or enjoying daily. These are the richest babies in Canada. Why on earth do you think the Dionnes are fighting so hard to get them back?”

  February 17, 1936

  SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY TODAY. First we dressed the girls in their new hockey jerseys—custom-made and very sweet, each one “playing” for a different team with matching miniature hockey sticks. But when Fred was finished with his photos, instead of having me help with the daily measurements, Dr. Dafoe asked me to accompany him back to his office. The doctor rummaged around for a bit in a big pile of mail and papers and finally found what he was looking for. It was a postcard of the quintuplets issued for Valentine’s Day that pictured three girls standing and peering through a wreath of red roses, with two others seated below. Not a photograph, but a painting.
I recognized the style right away as that of Mrs. Fangel, but the babies really didn’t look much like our girls. There was something strange about their noses, and their hair was curling in funny directions, plus none of them had their tiny distinguishing characteristics.

  Dr. Dafoe was watching me sternly over his glasses. “What do you think of it?”

  I was instantly flustered and could feel my face heating up. I had suggested to him that Mrs. Fangel visit us again, to see how the babies were coming along, but I’d regretted it. It sounded like I was only raising the issue for my own selfish reasons. I’d long ago run out of the paint Mrs. Fangel had left for me, and the pastels, which I admit I find a good deal easier to use, I’d worn down to stubs.

  “It’s very sweet,” I managed to say and lifted the card to my face, pretending to study it closely in the hope he wouldn’t see me flushing beet red.

  “Do you know,” he said, “we sold more than fifty thousand of these cards this month, and those aren’t the final numbers.”

  I couldn’t help myself, my mouth fell open. Fifty thousand! Living here, with the babies, and watching them grow day by day, you forget the outside world to some extent, especially in the winter, when the deep drifts keep the visitors at bay. But fifty thousand people bought these cards? It boggles the mind.

  “But what do you think?” Dr. Dafoe continued. “Does this look like the babies?” They were hardly babies anymore, but all of us still called them that. “Which one is Yvonne, do you think? Which one is Marie?”

  This felt like a trap. I didn’t know what to say. Dr. Dafoe watched my face, his own expression giving nothing away.

  “I have a proposition for you, Emma. I’ve discussed it with the other guardians, although Dionne, as usual, was absent. We’ve agreed to provide you with the supplies you need in order to paint or draw the girls yourself, plus some dedicated time in your workday to do so. Would this be agreeable?”

  Dr. Dafoe, for all of his medical wisdom, could be such a stick-in-the-mud about regular human interaction. I laughed about it later with Ivy because I was simply mute in disbelief. Here he was offering me the most wonderful thing, yet his round face was flat as a pancake, as if he truly had no idea how I’d respond.

  When I could finally pull myself together, I said that of course I’d be over the moon and would do my very best, but that I could by no means produce portraits as beautiful as Mrs. Fangel’s, and that there was so much I didn’t know, but that I was ever so grateful and on and on.

  Dr. Dafoe dismissed all my bumbling gratitude with a flick of his fingers.

  “In fact, it is Mrs. Fangel who suggested we do this,” he said. “She has been working off of the photographs of Mr. Davis, but she says it is impossible to capture your subject unless it is living and breathing in front of you. Is that the case?”

  He looked at me intently, but I found myself unable to answer, my birthmark pulsing. He shrugged and reached for the postcard. “Going forward, Mrs. Fangel will work off of the portraits you provide, either adapting them as needed or more likely producing her own work with yours as her base subject.”

  “Will she not visit herself?” I asked, finally finding my voice. This seemed to me to be by far the more sensible solution, although I hated to suggest that I wasn’t overjoyed by the plan he’d outlined.

  “She may do so, yes, at some point, but not in the foreseeable future. She has offered to provide you some feedback on the work we send her, if you would find that useful.”

  It was clear from his tone that he had no idea what would be useful to me or not, or to Mrs. Fangel for that matter. I didn’t care. This was such an extraordinary offer.

  “You will need to provide the guardians with a list of the supplies you require, and then we shall discuss with Nurse Leroux a suitable schedule so that you have several hours in the week to devote to this task.”

  I was bursting to tell Ivy. She was absolutely delighted for me, standing and giving me such a hug when I told her the news. I had dashed back to the playroom straight from Dr. Dafoe’s office and found Ivy in a corner, playing blocks with Annette and Marie. They watched Ivy and me embracing and immediately pulled themselves up and threw their little arms tightly around my legs as well, burying their faces in my skirt.

  Later that evening, when the girls were finally down for the night and Ivy and I had a few minutes to ourselves, she asked me what I’d be paid for my work. I hadn’t even thought of it. I’m already well paid, as far as I’m concerned. Ivy sat up and thwacked me gently on the arm.

  “Fiddlesticks! They are paying you for your talent, that’s not the same thing as paying you to change diapers and spoon mashed carrots into little mouths. Look at Fred. He’s paid handsomely for his photos.”

  We hashed this over at some length and agreed that she would speak with Mr. Davis and see what he thinks. I simply can’t imagine standing in Dr. Dafoe’s office and asking for more money, after everything he’s done for me. But I admit I’m curious as to what Mr. Davis will say.

  Most of all, I’m over the moon that Dr. Dafoe even thinks my art would be of some use to the babies. And if Mrs. Fangel would actually give me some pointers? Wouldn’t that be something!

  February 29, 1936 (Toronto Star)

  * * *

  DR. DAFOE “VERY PLEASED” WITH THE COUNTRY DOCTOR

  Witnesses Private Screening in New York of Movie Starring Famous Dionne Sisters

  Dr. Allan Roy Dafoe, O.B.E., is to be a guest of honour at the world premiere of “The Country Doctor” at the Uptown theatre in Toronto Thursday evening next. The occasions on which this distinguished man, who is a legend even in his lifetime, may be seen are few and far between because of the fact that he remains, despite his fame, what he was before fame found him out, a true country doctor.

  It will, of course, be Dr. Dafoe’s only appearance, and it is his delight with his beautiful quintuplets’ first appearance on the screen, as artists, that persuaded the doctor to attend the premiere. It is the first world premiere of a picture Toronto has ever had.

  In New York City on business of the quintuplets, Dr. Dafoe last night saw a private screening of the picture and expressed his boundless delight with it.

  Although the plot and characters of “The Country Doctor” are wholly fictitious, still there can be no question that Dr. Dafoe’s character inspired this romance in honour of country doctors everywhere.

  Used with permission.

  March 6, 1936

  A colossal dump of snow this morning and more coming down every minute. We woke to thick pillows of it heaped high as far as the eye could see. The girls, squawking with excitement, were tripping over one another in their haste to get bundled up and into the yard after breakfast. They know the words bottes and tuque and mitaines, but it’s a stretch to understand their funny pronunciation, the words laced into the vocabulary that is theirs alone. “Nay!” they squeak, for neige, and “fwa” for froid.

  We got them swaddled in coats and woolens and out the door as fast as we could. In the swirling air, thick with flakes, you could scarcely tell where sky stopped and the downy drifts began. Ivy tried to teach them how to make snow angels, but whether it was the white-on-white or the joy of the morning, they couldn’t quite grasp the concept. Instead they would drop themselves backward in the soft heaps, flailing their arms and legs, then dissolving in giggles. Of course Annette and Marie both lost their boots in the deep snow, then stood there jabbering and pointing toward their feet, eyes wide: Bottes! Fwa! It was a shame to go back inside, but we have to be so careful that one of them doesn’t catch a chill. It is never the case that only one of them gets the sniffles.

  I had planned to spend my weekend off in Callander with baby Edith and my parents, but when we woke to snow, I assumed I’d be staying put. In the end I was able to get a lift with Lewis Cartwright, so made it home just fine.

  Lewis has rigged some kind of plow to the front of his father’s truck and spent the morning furrowing a path along the
road, only to have Dr. Dafoe and Mr. Davis cancel their visit to the nursery. But Lewis came into the kitchen to warm up midafternoon and offered to run any staff into town who needed it. I found him perched by the stove on a stool far too short for him, his bony knees jutting up to his chest, shoulders hunched, and his long fingers curled around a mug of tea. He seemed delighted to hear that someone was taking him up on his offer, bobbing his head and smiling, then taking my bags for me as we slid and slithered through the drifts to get to the truck.

  And now I’m home.

  I’m glad I came. Little Edith is very funny right now, alert with big blue eyes. Mother looks tired, but blissfully content. And Father is clearly happy as I’ve ever known him to be, even leaping from the table to help clear the dishes after supper, which I’m sure I’ve never seen him do before.

  March 11, 1936

  THE STAR, WANTING special St. Patrick’s Day photos, sent out five of the sweetest little outfits, dresses, bloomers, and bonnets, all mint green in color and covered in tiny sprigs of emerald clover. Mr. Davis—Fred, as he’s insisting I call him—also had tissue-covered shamrocks for the girls to hold for the photos. Annette is always the ringleader, and the rest scrambled to mimic her, putting the shamrocks on their heads like crowns or in front of their faces as if they were peering through the portholes of a ship, then waving them wildly over their heads like they were going to lasso a steer. They are such clowns.