by Shelley Wood
April 21, 1939
I ASKED GEORGE about the documents he had to compile for the government, and he told me he has submitted the records for every transaction since the girls were born. He says the trouble now is with the pending contracts. Apparently the offers from the radio people have been withdrawn because of the little prank the girls played last month when they refused to sing in English. The newsreel company, Pathé, has also given word that they will not be filming the girls’ fifth birthday.
“Is that a lot of money?” I asked. George’s eyes look so sunken these days, his lids heavy. Today I spotted a patch of skin along his jawline that he’d missed with his razor. I don’t think he’s left the nursery in days.
He grimaced at my question. “Yes, it is. It’s a lot of money.”
What I wanted to ask is whether there is sufficient money in the girls’ trust fund that they will always be okay, no matter what. Whether they stay here until they’re grown, or whether they will go back to live with their parents or move to a new home—will they always be okay?
Instead I asked him about the calendar company. I’ve been working on twelve paintings for the 1940 calendar commissioned by Brown & Bigelow. Last year’s edition was a huge success, according to Dr. Dafoe. I felt sick asking the question, but I wanted to know for the girls’ sake as much as for my own, so I managed to ask: “What about the calendar? Will the Brown & Bigelow calendar be renewed?”
George had gone back to the books and papers on his desk, pushing his hand through the hair that always swings forward, no matter how many times he swipes it back. He smiled ruefully at my question.
“The calendar contract is not in jeopardy, not yet at least.” He glanced up at me. “A calendar can be both French and English,” he added. “It doesn’t need to speak either one fluently.”
I made to leave, then turned back to ask, “Why ‘not yet’?”
“They’re growing up.” He sighed. “Plus the coming war.” He caught my eye. “It is coming, Emma. Sooner than you think. Canada is bound to have more on its mind soon than five little girls.”
April 22, 1939
OFFICIAL WORD TODAY in the papers that Their Majesties will permit the quintuplets to be presented to them in one month’s time, in Toronto. We’d already been counting on this, but still. To see it in print makes it real.
April 22, 1939 (Toronto Star)
* * *
NEW DIVE BOMBER IS CANADA’S CONTRIBUTION TO THE SKIES
Fighter does 300 miles an hour in tests over Montreal
MONTREAL, Quebec—A droning streak of fighting power has been cutting capers over Montreal. The FDB fighter and dive bomber, the first military airplane developed in Canada, has been put through rigorous tests and has exceeded 300 miles an hour at less than full throttle. Lewis Cartwright, a junior engineer of the Canadian Car and Foundry Co, working with Canada’s first lady engineer, Miss Elsie MacGill, designed the plane with retractable landing gear to give added streamlining. Canadian Car and Foundry Co, under Miss MacGill, has also stepped up production of the Hawker single-seater fighter dubbed the “Hurricane” under a special order from the British Royal Air Force.
Used with permission.
May 1, 1939
More confusion in the bath with the girls today with much talk in French about this being dirty or that being dirty. I had so hoped we were finished with this when Nurse Noël was fired, but according to Nurse Corriveau, who continues to jot nervous notes in the book she keeps in a pocket she’s stitched into the underside of her nurse’s apron, the girls have started saying it again. She wanted to show me the record she took of an exchange when they were splashing in the play pool yesterday, while their mother sat at the edge, but I told her she must take it to Dr. Dafoe instead.
I can well imagine what Mme. Dionne must have said. She has forbidden the new photographer to take any pictures of the girls in their little pool, never mind the thousands of people who come and watch them playing here firsthand. Her view, the view that she’s teaching them by example, is that five-year-old girls frolicking in their swimming costumes or having their bath are “dirty” in their own skins. It breaks my heart. I scolded Yvonne for saying silly things as she was climbing out of the bathtub this evening, then bundled her in my arms when I saw her eyes pool with confusion. “Not dirty, my sweet girl,” I whispered to her. “You are perfect. Every bit of you. Perfect.”
I’m copying Nurse Corriveau’s idea and sewing a little pocket into the underside of my apron for my diary. Can’t hurt.
May 1, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
The whole factory is to be turned over to Hurricane fighter planes, which means we’ll have to ditch many of the designs we’ve been working on, no doubt my landing feet included! No one is especially cut up about it—we’re all so excited by the new planes. Today I looked up at the sky and pictured them soaring, diving, and swooping, then quite suddenly tried to imagine someone squinting up at our planes out of fear, not wonder. It gave me pause.
Unfortunately I won’t be visiting Callander anytime soon and I, too, would like the chance to see you. Here’s a bold proposition, and I hope you’ll at least consider it: would you pay me a visit in Montreal? You could travel with the quintuplets to Toronto for their audience with the Royals, then continue on by train to Montreal. Surely the other nurses and staff could manage the return journey to Quintland on their own?
I’ve taken the liberty of asking my boss, Miss MacGill, about suitable lodging for a young lady traveling on her own, and she has kindly offered to host you in her own home, which is rumored to be very grand, on the west side. So you see, my intents are honorable—and from your letters, I figure you could use a proper break.
I would be thrilled to show you around Vieux-Montréal and maybe even take you out to the hangar to see our planes. Plus, we’d get a chance to speak of some things that don’t belong in a letter. I’m sure you’d be very comfortable staying with Miss MacGill—you’ll like her, I know it.
Hopefully I haven’t shocked you with this idea. Give it some thought and let me know what you want to do.
Yours sincerely,
Lewis Cartwright
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
May 5, 1939
Mr. Munro was at the nursery today to collect the last of the documents for the government audit. He asked me to step into Dr. Dafoe’s office when George was taking his lunch. He pointed me to a chair at the table, then took a seat across from me, peering out from under his snowy mane.
“I’m bound to inform you that the record of payments made to you, Emma Trimpany, since you started receiving commissions from commercial entities for your portraits of the Dionne quintuplets has been turned over to M. Dionne’s lawyer, at M. Dionne’s insistence.”
I stared at him, wondering if I was supposed to be alarmed. He raised a hand to stop whatever I’d been about to ask.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “These payments have all been scrupulously documented.” He tucked his chin and glowered at the papers in front of him before continuing. “Thank heavens for George, that’s what I say. If only all of this had been managed differently from the outset.”
He pushed a piece of paper across the table toward me.
“I want to be perfectly sure you understand your personal account,” he said. “This is the name of the institution where your account is currently held.” He poked with his pen. “This is the account number. A number of payments have come through since we last met. This is the current total.”
My eyes must have bulged out of my head. I managed to look up at Mr. Munro, but his face was blank. “Royalty deposits will continue to be made accordingly, but no one can withdraw funds without your signature, do you understand? Not M. Dionne, not Dr. Dafoe. This money is yours. You are the only one who can access these funds.”
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p; I managed to stammer out my question. “But what about the fund for the quintuplets? Are they getting a share of the revenues? Do they have enough—?”
Mr. Munro snorted. “Fear not, my dear Emma. The quintuplets are getting their fair share. As for whether it’s ‘enough’—that’s the problem with money, isn’t it? No matter how much of it you manage to acquire, you will always feel the need to acquire more. This will no doubt be true even for the famous Dionne quintuplets, who have never seen a shop, or a bank, and wouldn’t have the first clue what to do if silver dollars started falling from the sky, which”—he snorted again—“in their case has more or less been happening since birth.”
He paused here to scratch at his mustache, blinking his eyes closed as he did so.
“Open your eyes, Emma,” he said, though his own remained shut. “There’s no shortage of money flowing in and out of Quintland, but, as best as I can tell, it’s brought more strife than it has stability.”
Mr. Munro inserted a pinkie finger into his ear and started rooting for something deeply buried. His eyes reappeared again through the dense thicket of eyebrow. “On that note, we’re all done with the audit at the nursery. George and I agree that everything tots up.”
I hadn’t spoken, but he sighed as if I’d asked something else he didn’t want to answer.
“Now Dionne is also asking for Dr. Dafoe’s private records,” he continued. “That’s not my concern, of course. I’m only involved in managing the money being paid the quintuplets. But—” He spread his hands wide and hunched his shoulders toward his ears.
“Surely Dr. Dafoe’s records will reflect the same thing?” I said. I was thinking, perhaps this is what has George working late into the night, trying to reconcile Dr. Dafoe’s accounts with those of the nursery as some sort of duplicate record.
But Mr. Munro shook his head. “No, my dear, not the same thing. Dionne is asking for payments made to Dr. Dafoe directly.” He saw my face and gestured at the framed photos and advertisements on the walls around us, the corn syrup ad I’d painted among them. Every square foot showed the girls since their infancy, pictured with everything from dental cream to automobiles to cod-liver oil, Dr. Dafoe sitting in their midst with his creased brow, his downturned mouth. Indeed, I realized, following Mr. Munro’s gaze, that a dozen of the advertisements, perhaps more, didn’t even include the girls—they just featured Dr. Dafoe. Advice for Mothers from the Doctor to the Famous Dionne Quintuplets.
My face must have registered a slow dawning of comprehension, because Mr. Munro started nodding. “You see what I’m saying. Direct payments. M. Dionne’s lawyer has requested a record of all payments made directly to Dr. Dafoe, quite apart from any paid into the quintuplet fund.”
May 8, 1939
A LETTER FROM Lewis inviting me to visit him in Montreal, and to pay for my ticket from Toronto after I’ve gone with the girls to meet the King and Queen. I’m not sure what to make of this. I would love to see Montreal, but to visit a man, in a different city? To have him pay for my ticket? I’m not sure what is implied in such an invitation. What would it say about me if I said yes? I admit, after the last few months and all the drama here, it’s very tempting. I would very much like to see Lewis Cartwright.
But I’m not sure what to think or how to respond.
May 9, 1939
I SPOKE WITH Ivy by telephone this afternoon using the private line in Dr. Dafoe’s office. Ivy had news: she’d bumped into Nurse de Kiriline on Yonge Street! Apparently the Captain never returned to nursing and still lives up North, on Pimisi Bay, but was in the city to see her editor—she’s become renowned for her nature writing. Ivy and the Captain ended up going for tea and talking about “the old days” at the nursery. All these years later, “Boss Number Two” confessed to Ivy the real reason for her abrupt departure: Dr. Dafoe had asked her to marry him! She had turned him down politely, but he persisted, she said, and in the end she had quit her post to escape his ardent advances. Ivy and I had a fit of giggles over this, because it’s simply impossible to imagine fuddy-duddy Dafoe in hot pursuit, although we could well remember how highly he thought of her. Still, I was very glad to hear the Captain was doing so well and had made such an interesting life for herself.
The real reason for my call to Ivy, of course, had been to ask her advice regarding Lewis’s offer to visit. What is meant by it, what might be his expectations or intentions, and what would it say about me if I went? Once we’d finished gossiping about Louise de Kiriline, I couldn’t bring myself to speak of Lewis. Ivy says she will come and meet me for a fleeting visit at the government offices in Toronto, where the Royals are to meet the Dionnes, but she has also suggested I come back to their home afterward, taking a few days’ leave for a proper visit. I hemmed and hawed but didn’t say yes or no either way. I know she can’t understand my indecision.
Instead I prattled on about my portfolio, which is all done now. She’s kindly agreed to ask Fred to photograph each piece for me, so I can put the collection together as an album and send it to Mrs. Fangel, or anywhere else for that matter. That’s how it’s done, I gather. I’ve packaged up and posted the whole lot to Ivy and Fred this evening, so there should be enough time for Fred to take the photographs and have them processed before I arrive in Toronto. Then I need to decide what to do with them.
First things first, I need to write back to Lewis.
May 15, 1939
JUST ONE WEEK before the big trip to Toronto and everyone is excited and anxious by turns. Miss Callahan is as sprightly as ever, especially so, perhaps, since she learned that George has been given a berth on the train in order to accompany Dr. Dafoe.
Nurse Corriveau, on the other hand, is a nervous wreck. Twice now Dr. Dafoe has summoned us to a meeting in his office to explain in solemn tones the complicated precautions and arrangements being taken for the special train that will transport us all from Callander to Toronto. There are to be five cars in total. One will be a day coach for the police guards and reporters, the second a business car for the use of the guardians and the railroad officials. Next are two sleeping cars to accommodate the guards, reporters, Dr. Dafoe and George, Judge Valin and his assistant, and the Dionnes and their seven other children. Last but not least will be the nursery car, complete with a playroom, where the girls can frolic, attached to four separate bedrooms. For the first time ever, the girls will actually be separated to sleep, two per room, with the fifth sharing with one of the female staff while the other two staff share the fourth bedroom.
Nurse Corriveau is absolutely adamant that she wants to sleep in the nurses’ carriage with me or Miss Callahan, rather than have the responsibility of sleeping with one of the girls on her own. I’m the opposite. All these years we’ve never been permitted to sleep the night in the same room as the quintuplets—I’ve already said I’d be delighted to take this berth.
May 17, 1939 (UP/Spokane Daily Chronicle)
* * *
ÉMILIE DIONNE SETTLES QUESTION OF CURTSY WITH A HEAD STAND
CALLANDER, Ontario—Émilie, mischievous member of the Dionne quintuplets, had the entire nursery staff in a diplomatic dither today through her insistence that a royal curtsy must take the form of a head stand.
Her sisters—Yvonne, Annette, Cécile, and Marie—are letter perfect in the gestures of homage they will pay to King George and Queen Elizabeth at their audience on May 22. At the practice sessions they made graceful curtsies in the best court manner, but Émilie stood on her head.
The trouble is, Nurses Corriveau and Callahan admitted ruefully today, that they made the mistake of laughing when Émilie first performed the stunt. They fear that Émilie, the marked individualist of the five girls, will perform her upside-down curtsy to get a royal laugh.
The quintuplets will be presented to Their Majesties in the music room of the Ontario legislature buildings with only the royal couple, two ladies-in-waiting, Papa and Maman Dionne, and the two nurses in attendance.
Used with permission.
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May 22, 1939
After the excitement of the day, Émilie is out like a light. I can’t hear her soft snores over the clank and bang of the wheels on the tracks, but I’ve twice leaned into her bunk to make sure her eyes are closed and her breathing even. I worried about switching on the light so I could scribble in my journal, but she’s sound asleep. It’s been such an astonishing day, I feel all thrumming and jangly—like the train itself. I can’t lie down without writing everything here before I forget. This journey is the start of something extraordinary for our girls, but also an ending. I can feel it in my bones. For the first time, the gates of Quintland swung open for them. They saw the world beyond the fence line and the world saw them. Whatever happens, things will be different from this point on.
I got my wish, which was to share this sleeping room with Émilie. The other girls all made a big show of saying they didn’t think it should be Em getting the chance to share with Nurse Trimpany, it should be me, or me, or me. In the end, they were too excited and then too tired to put up much of a fuss about who was sleeping where. It was all so novel, despite all the efforts we’d made to tone things down. They’ve eaten their supper from the same dishes they use at the nursery and are sleeping under the same quilts with the same dolls and toys as they do each night. They are not the slightest bit fooled, however. They are merely exhausted.
In every other way, we tried to make the day seem normal. The girls woke this morning at the nursery the same way they always do these days, within seconds of each other. It’s as if their eyelids are joined by invisible threads, one set of eyes blinking another set awake. I myself had been up for hours, had barely slept the night, then had to busy myself with the regular routine of toilet and bath, clothes and breakfasts. Like any other day, we followed our schedule of indoor and outdoor, quiet and active play. There were more cars than ever before coming to and going from the nursery, and the visiting hours were busier than we’ve seen them even in the height of summer. Everyone knew that today was the day the girls would leave the nursery for the first time. Presumably the crowds turned out in such great numbers in the hopes of getting the chance of seeing them being driven to the station. The girls felt it, they must have, the charge in the air. They kept saying, “When will we go? When will we go?”
