by Shelley Wood
Lewis is coming to fetch me tomorrow morning after he’s plowed the road. I’ve been working in the evenings on a watercolor of Edith—a surprise for my mother and father. I’m not sure how I’ll manage to smuggle it into the house without them knowing.
December 18, 1937
EDITH FELL ASLEEP on my lap, a hand clamped to my waist, as I was reading her a bedtime story. I waited until I was sure she was really and truly out for the count before wriggling from underneath her and tucking her in under the covers. It’s not so comfortable trying to write in my cot in this dim light, but I don’t much feel like going back downstairs and getting caught in a political discussion with Father.
Lewis gave me some news which I can’t stop thinking about. He’s leaving Callander and starting a job next month at Canadian Car and Foundry in Montreal. I’d never heard of it, of course, but that’s no surprise. He says it’s a company known for automobiles and trains, but that they are expanding into aeronautics and taking him on as a junior engineer. He’s obviously thrilled—I don’t think he stumbled over a single word the whole time he was talking, his hazel eyes dancing. I’m happy for him, of course—of course—and I said so. But I will miss him. He’s been like a brother to me, a sounding board for some of the strange twists and turns at the nursery this past year, with Ivy gone. Now he’s leaving too, heeding the call of the big, wide world.
“What does your father think?” I asked.
Lewis’s smile dimmed for a minute, but not by much. “He’s pleased for me, and proud, I know he is. But he’s also worried, particularly because of the tensions in Europe.”
“Have you told him you won’t be flying any planes? That might reassure him.”
I don’t know why I said that.
Lewis turned to look at me, a flicker, then turned his eyes back to the road.
“No,” he said. “No, I haven’t. I can’t promise him that.”
When we reached Mother and Father’s place, I said again that I was very pleased for him and wished him a merry Christmas, his father and mother too.
“You’ll have to keep in touch,” I added brightly. “Write and tell me all about Montreal. I’ve never been.” How brash! I realize now. How presumptuous. I think I made him blush.
“I’ve never been east of Ottawa,” I babbled on, trying to sound light. “Plus I love getting mail and Ivy doesn’t have much time for writing anymore.”
Now he had trouble finding his tongue again. “In fact, I was going to ask if perhaps you could write to me with news of how the quintuplets are getting along,” he said at last. “Could you do that? I want the real story, not just what I can deduce from Fred’s photos in the paper.”
We laughed about that, which was a good way to part. But Lewis flying planes. Such a strange thought. When would that happen, I wondered. How often? I have an inkling now of why Mr. Cartwright would prefer Lewis spend his days stuttering in front of a noisy classroom rather than cutting a swath through the skies.
December 30, 1937 (Toronto Star)
* * *
WON’T EXHIBIT QUINTS DESPITE $500,000 OFFER
CALLANDER, Ontario—An intimated payment of $500,000 from directors of the 1939 World’s Fair in New York has failed to convince the guardians of the Dionne quintuplets that the five babies should be taken to the exhibition a year from now.
“Nothing doing,” Dr. A. R. Dafoe and Judge Valin, two of the Quints’ guardians, said today.
It may be a long time before the world sees a group picture of the Dionne family, including the quintuplets. Conflicting contracts over pictures prevent Mr. and Mrs. Dionne from being photographed with their five famous children.
Mr. Dionne is under contract to a New York syndicate with exclusive rights to photograph him. Another syndicate has exclusive picture rights to the quintuplets, which provides a considerable portion of their living expenses of $24,000 a year. Until these contracts expire, it will be impossible to pose Mr. and Mrs. Dionne with their five famous babies.
Would-be amateur photographers of the babies are still causing some concern at the nursery, Dr. Dafoe said today. Despite signs warning that no snapshots of the Quints may be taken, a few tourists attempt to get pictures of the babies through the viewing screen.
“It was necessary to seize film every day last summer,” Dr. Dafoe said. “On one occasion Annette noticed a man taking a picture of her and called to her nurse, who immediately asked for the film. It was even necessary to destroy a complete roll of moving picture film which one tourist had taken of the babies. We hung this film over the front door as a warning to others, since taking pictures of the quintuplets is strictly forbidden.”
The Hollywood moving picture company which has already made two full-length features of the quintuplets will begin work on a third picture next June. Their $300,000 contract with the quintuplets, providing for four full-length features, has provided the bulk of the babies’ fortune.
Used with permission.
1938
January 3, 1938
I’m back at work after what ended up being a longer Christmas break than planned: I came down with bronchitis and Dr. Dafoe asked me to stay with my family in town until I was feeling better rather than put the girls at risk. I was glad to have the extra time at home with little Edith, despite feeling poorly. Mother and Father seemed genuinely pleased to have me back home for such a stretch. They are proud of me, I realize. A new sensation. They loved my painting of Edith with her toy bunny, but, more than that, they are pleased to see me so settled in my “career,” as they’ve started to call it. I don’t think of it as a career, myself. It is simply my life.
Dr. Dafoe came by the house Friday to make sure I was cleared of any infection and agreed I was 100 percent recovered, so I’m back at the nursery today. Mr. Cartwright senior picked me up and brought me out first thing. For once he didn’t much seem in the mood for talking other than to say that Christmas had been lively. His other son, Bernard, Lewis’s brother, was in town with his wife and their little girl, Sheryl, who must be about the same age as Edith.
I let a beat pass before I said, “And how is Lewis making out in Montreal?”
Lewis left for Quebec New Year’s Day, Mr. Cartwright replied stiffly, but they hadn’t heard from him yet. “I reckon he’ll make out just fine.” His tone implied he wanted to leave it at that.
The girls absolutely mobbed me when I came in the door at breakfast time, spilling their juice and rattling their spoons. Émilie more than all of them scarcely let me out of her sight all day.
Almost everyone else is also back at work today, or returned before I did: Fred and George came up to Callander from Toronto yesterday, and Dr. Dafoe returned from his vacation last week. Miss Beaulieu will arrive tomorrow, joined by Dr. Blatz, who is expected to visit for several days to discuss plans for the quintuplets’ education and care in the coming months. I can’t say I’m thrilled to hear he’s coming back.
Still, something shifted here while all of us were away, or that’s how it feels. Maybe it’s these short, dark days, but a certain levity is missing from the nursery. The girls seem more guarded and anxious to please. I can’t help thinking that without Sylvie’s booming laugh or the goofy antics from George and Fred, there’s been a lack of gaiety in the nursery these last few weeks.
Miss Tremblay and Nurse Noël have formed a strong bond, that’s clear. Miss Tremblay told me that M. and Mme. Dionne were over most days during the Christmas period, which is astounding given how seldom they visited last autumn. There is much talk of Maman and Papa from the girls, too, which is unusual. But then Miss Tremblay seems to be taking pains to remind them of the kind of girls their Maman wants them to be. I predict a clash with Miss Beaulieu, who tends to rule the roost when it comes to what constitutes good behavior and what doesn’t.
January 5, 1938 (Toronto Star)
* * *
QUINTS LEARNING ENGLISH—“PLEASE” IS FIRST LESSON
Use Only That Language at Lunch
“They are able to chatter back and forth fluently in French,” Dr. A. R. Dafoe says. “Each quint has a vocabulary of between 300 and 400 French words. They began to hear English a month ago, and they know 20 to 25 English words now.”
All conversation at the lunch table in the nursery is now carried on in English. “This is bread,” “this is butter,” say their three nurses and teachers.
Dr. Dafoe, who has been in charge of the babies’ health ever since they were born, is called “docteur” or sometimes “Docteur Dafoe” and occasionally “Da-da.”
This spring, the public will be barred from viewing the quintuplets the minute they show any signs of strain or fatigue, Dr. Dafoe declared, acknowledging that occasionally the girls can hear their visitors. Half a million tourists visited them in Callander in 1937.
“We are bringing them up to take all this attention in their stride. Their attitude must be like that of princesses in England: they must not notice anything unusual in all of the attention that is bound to be lavished upon them.”
Used with permission.
January 6, 1938
The New Year is just a few days old and already the mood in the nursery is curdled with tension, the poor girls at the center of it. This would be funny if it wasn’t so awful, and if I had someone to laugh about it with.
Mme. Dionne has been sick, I learned, likely with the same cold that triggered my own illness over Christmas. She—or Papa Dionne—must have decided she was well enough to visit today, and visit she did, bringing with her a large cake she’d baked to celebrate the “Solemnity of Mary,” whatever that is. Well, I shouldn’t say “whatever that is,” because I got an earful about it from Miss Tremblay, who clearly knows her Catholic holidays. It’s a big feast day, apparently, to celebrate the eighth day of Christmas. The problem is, today’s the wrong day. Even Miss Tremblay looked a tad sheepish about this. January 1 was the feast day, but as Papa Dionne explained to the girls, Maman was too ill last Saturday, so they would be celebrating today.
The Dionnes arrived all bundled up against the cold, snow melting on their hats and shoulders. Mme. Dionne was carrying a pedestaled cake platter with a domed tin cover that she set down on the games table, then lifted off the lid with a flourish. The girls’ eyes practically bugged out of their heads, and they rushed over to take a better look, squealing, “Legato, legato!” Maman’s broad face broke out in a smile—so rare a sight, I was caught off guard. Nurse Noël sailed off to get a knife, forks, and plates while I stood back and tried to keep my mouth shut. The girls are not allowed cake and other sweets—this is one of the strictest rules in the Blatz handbook—but they know le gâteau from the few times they’ve been allowed to have it, usually for a photo shoot for special occasions (the Solemnity of Mary not included). Moreover, Dr. Dafoe was due to arrive at any moment with Dr. Blatz and Miss Beaulieu. Miss Tremblay had pulled a large chair over to the quintuplets’ tea table, and Mme. Dionne had managed to lower herself into the seat, her eyes shining as the girls reached out tentative little fingers and poked them into the frosting. I know I should have spoken out, but I was loath to draw attention to myself and something about the sight of the girls crowded around their beaming mother made me keep my distance.
Of course, just as Maman Dionne was cutting the cake, the doctors arrived and fireworks ensued. Miss Beaulieu bustled in, clucking, and tried to take the cake from the table. Mme. Dionne bellowed at her to back off and grabbed at the platter, dislodging the cake, which tumbled facedown onto the linoleum. The girls froze, poor lambs, their eyes wide and darting as their treat plunged through the air. Marie and Cécile started whimpering and groping for each other’s hands, while Émilie simply stared from Miss Beaulieu to Mme. Dionne. Yvonne, little rascal, dropped to all fours and thrust her fingers into the side of the cake, bringing a sizable handful swiftly to her mouth before anyone could stop her. Dr. Dafoe actually laughed, but Dr. Blatz was furious, launching into a high-pitched diatribe, in English, about why sugar was not permitted, particularly in the morning. I thought M. Dionne was going to combust, and Mme. Dionne burst into tears, bending awkwardly to try to retrieve the cake, looking every bit like a sofa cushion trying to fold itself in two. I managed to sweep the girls out of the playroom before the fight began in earnest, but they could hear the argument despite my best efforts to get them into their snow gear and out into the private yard. We didn’t see the Dionnes leave.
Later, Dr. Dafoe summoned me, Miss Tremblay, Nurse Noël, and Miss Beaulieu to his office, where he and Dr. Blatz had been sequestered for most of the afternoon. They didn’t say a word about the incident with the cake, merely presented us with Dr. Blatz’s new “quintuplet schedule” as he likes to call it. It is much the same as the old one, with every single minute of the day accounted for, including Toilet Trips, Nourishment, Relaxation, and Directed Play.
“The parents must be reminded of the importance of visiting during Outdoor and Indoor Free Play times, but not during Directed Play or Constructive Play times,” Dr. Blatz said sternly. “We have explained this to them today, but we would ask that you help to reinforce this message. This is essential for the equilibrium of the nursery.”
I did my best to translate for Miss Tremblay. I could see none of this was sitting well with her, or with Nurse Noël, but they didn’t say a word.
January 11, 1938
LAST WEEK’S FIASCO with M. and Mme. Dionne has left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, especially the girls’; they keep asking when the “legato” is coming again. Miss Tremblay and Nurse Noël are clearly fuming over the treatment of the parents and are at pains to make the girls take sides. Yesterday, when the girls heard Dr. Dafoe’s car pull up outside the rear playroom, where they like to wave and blow kisses, Miss Tremblay pulled them away from the windows, telling them, “No, no, Docteur is not nice, the doctor is dirty.” Dirty is a ridiculous word, but it’s clearly something the girls picked up over Christmas. I find it very unsettling. Things they don’t like are now “dirty” and “naughty”—words we’ve never used with them in the past. They scrunch their sweet faces when they say it and whip their heads back and forth as if smelling something bad, plainly mimicking their prudish minders.
I took Miss Tremblay to task over this today, and she was cold as ice, blinking at me sideways and twitching her beaky chin up and down like a sparrow, saying I must have misunderstood what she’d been saying.
On the other hand, when M. and Mme. Dionne visited this afternoon—the first time they have done so since the Virgin Mary’s rescheduled Feast Day—Miss Tremblay put on a great pantomime of enthusiasm and happiness at their arrival, working the girls up into bewildered excitement. Nurse Noël was actually nudging Em and Marie to go and give their mother and father a hug and a kiss. It is terribly confusing for all of them.
January 23, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Miss Trimpany,
Happy New Year to you and everyone else at the Dafoe Nursery. I’ve spent the past month trying to think of something interesting to tell you about Montreal. The plain truth is, I haven’t had much spare time to explore the city, although I’m quite taken by what I’ve seen so far of the architecture. I’ve never visited Europe, of course—not yet—but I’d say some of the buildings here have the same grace and grandeur as those in Paris.
I do miss home. I miss the bright white of the fields and the fresh sprawl of the open land. We had a foot of snow here yesterday, but it turned to sooty slush in the city streets within a matter of hours. And the cold here is worse than the cold back home. The bitter wind funnels around the city buildings like it’s being chased by winter himself. There is a church on the corner that serves a hot supper in the basement every evening, and you can’t help but feel for the folks lining up around the block while the wind slices t
hrough like a knife.
It’s been a real change of pace, sitting at a desk again with paper and instruments. These are skills I feared I’d lost. My current project relates to landing gear—those are the wheels used when a plane takes off and lands again. I dreamt last night of wheels that can retract like the legs of a falcon when he tucks them tight to his stomach, or perhaps trail behind, like those of a stork. Something to make our plane more streamlined and aerodynamic. Can you picture it? I can.
I’d wager this is going to be a lonely city for an Anglophone, although the men at work are a mix of French and English and seem a decent, if serious, group of chaps. I hope you’ll write.
Yours truly,
Lewis Cartwright
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
January 27, 1938
I love to be in their bedroom before the girls wake, listening to them sleep. Yvonne and Cécile have started snoring sweetly, something Dr. Blatz naturally feels needs to be thoroughly investigated. Émilie is an early riser these days, like me, but she simply lies looking up at the ceiling nattering to herself. I can’t understand a word of it, but occasionally one of her sisters will wake and answer her in the same lilting sounds and syllables. It’s only when they try their private language on us, the nurses and doctors, that it lets them down, and unless we can swiftly guess their meaning they’ll start stamping their feet, incredulous at our stupidity. Dr. Blatz disapproves of their strange language and scolds them when he hears it, insisting that they speak in “proper” French or English. I like it. Whatever they are discussing softly at first light sounds happy and soothing, like a burbling brook. I’ve even picked up the odd word: ba-ba-bah for crying, shoh-shoh for soft, le-lay for milk.
