The Quintland Sisters(34)
It’s been a strange week for us, with Fred gone to cover the mine disaster in Moose River. It’s the first time the Star has assigned Fred to a story other than the famous Dionne quintuplets, or at least in the time we’ve known him. His photos from Moose River have been on the front page of the Star for days. I like to think my sketches can capture something that a photograph cannot, but I’m not sure I can say that of Fred’s haunting photos—the stooped men coming out of the mines, their long faces as they sat in the back of the ambulance waiting to be taken from the dark grave they’d finally escaped.
Last week the Canadian Radio Broadcasting Commission actually had a man stationed at the mine itself, giving hourly updates on the rescue efforts. Ivy and I agreed, we’ve never heard anything quite like it. We were on tenterhooks—he made us picture the barren plains, the dark mine shaft, the chill of the rocks, and the steady drip of rising water. It gave me goose bumps. Ivy was even more caught up in it, no doubt convincing herself that Fred and all of the newspapermen, photographers, newsreel men, broadcasters, and medics camped out at the site for days were themselves at risk of plunging down a mine shaft the very next instant.
We cried when we heard the men coming out of the mine, on the radio. One man didn’t come out, of course, or not on his own two feet. That is the worst thing to think about. Not only were the men trapped in a space the size of a privy but they were trapped with the body of Mr. Magill for days.
I have a hundred questions for Ivy, but she was given the night out to visit her father with Fred. With luck the Dionnes won’t show up for Mass tomorrow; we could use a quiet day to settle back into our regular routines. Dr. Dafoe has told us the work crews are coming to break ground for the new playground and gallery starting Monday. I can’t imagine what M. Dionne thinks about that.
May 8, 1936
NURSE JACQUELINE NO?L has joined us on staff. She is short and stout, to put it kindly, but surprisingly dainty on her feet. She moves like a barge gliding silently down a river and has twice made me jump by tapping my shoulder as I sat behind my desk, thinking myself alone. The girls have fallen swiftly into line, leaping to obey her commands.
I came here to Mother and Father’s house tonight. Mother has been asking me to bring my art supplies home from the nursery so I can sketch Edith, and I’ve done so. I’m trying to ignore the irony here—Mother spent years discouraging me from “scribbling,” as she always called it, only to turn around and ask me now if I’d sketch my baby sister.
I arranged to get a lift with the Cartwrights after they’d delivered the day’s stones. I had my overnight bag plus my easel, sketchbook, and the big case that holds my paints, palette, and pastels at the back door when they brought their truck through the inner gates of the nursery after supper. Both Lewis and his father hustled over to help.
Lewis smiled and dipped his head, saying nothing, but Mr. Cartwright had half a dozen questions, asking me if I was running away from the nursery. I laughed and explained that I was going to do some sketches of my baby sister, and they both seemed delighted. I don’t suppose they knew about my drawings of the quintuplets, or that I had been helping Mrs. Fangel, which is a good thing, I suppose. I said that I’d been drawing the babies since they were born and that Dr. Dafoe encouraged me, even supplying me with my pastels, charcoal, and paints.
Lewis nodded his head slowly and murmured, “It’s r-rare these days that we get the time to do the things we care about.”
Mr. Cartwright opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut again, as astonished as I to hear his son speak up. That’s the most I’ve ever heard Lewis say in a single breath! He carried my supplies to the truck, then put his hands on the sides and swung himself up, settling himself beside my things, his back against the rear of the cab. For someone so tall and gangly, he moves with surprising grace. I suppose he must be very strong, filling all those buckets of stones.
Climbing behind the wheel, Mr. Cartwright launched into a long story about how he used to dabble in writing the odd verse and how he had intended to do more of that in his retirement. “But look at me now!” he said cheerfully, gesturing at the road and laughing. “This doesn’t look much like poetry, does it?”
When we pulled up at the house, Lewis hopped out of the back again and helped me lift out my easel and bags. He cleared his throat and said, “My father and I would love to see your sketches, if you’d be willing.”
“I’ll likely have something to show you Sunday night. Unless Edith’s a monkey and won’t keep still.”
He looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t, doing his default blink and nod. Lewis has quite unusual eyes, wide-set and a bit large in his long face, but a lovely hazel color, like his father’s—deep blue at the edge, turning dark amber near the pupil. Tricky to paint, I’d imagine. I must be getting to know him better, because I realized from his silence that he didn’t mean Edith.
“You mean, you want to see my sketches of the quintuplets,” I corrected myself.
He looked up and flashed the ghost of a smile.
“We would indeed, Miss Trimpany,” he said and busied himself brushing the dust off my bag. “It’s a bit of a joke Father and I have that we’ve made more trips to the Dafoe Hospital and Nursery than anyone in the world, yet we almost never get a chance to see the babies.”