The Quintland Sisters(43)
Used with permission.
December 21, 1936
Miss Emma Trimpany Dafoe Hospital and Nursery Callander, ON
Dear Em,
Just because I haven’t written doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of you and the girls and the nursery a dozen times a day. How are you all doing? Who else has joined the staff? More importantly, what is the latest on Maman and Papa Dionne? I can tell you, the Americans absolutely adore every bit of news they can get on the quintuplets and Dr. Dafoe, but they are very hard on the parents. The press characterizes them as ignorant peasants, which makes me smile when I think of M. Dionne in his shirt and tie and his fancy hats, selling his signature for 25 cents from his colossal souvenir stand.
Mind you, if I were born and raised in New York, I might think the same thing. This city is simply extraordinary—you will have to visit one day. The buildings are so tall you’d think they might blow over in a strong wind if they weren’t made of stone and steel. And all of the restaurants and theaters and dance clubs, the crush of people and cars on the streets, it’s hard to describe how busy and noisy it all is. It puts the Callander-Corbeil traffic in perspective, I can tell you. And the ladies’ fashions here would amaze you. Every day I’m seeing more women in trousers, often cut so wide that each leg could be a full-length skirt in and of itself. But wouldn’t that be so much more comfortable than skirts and stockings, particularly this time of year? What would Fred think of me in trousers, I wonder. He is coming down to visit after Christmas. Perhaps I’ll splurge on a pair and surprise him.
Suffice it to say, this experience has been everything I imagined it would be and more. I am enjoying the preparations for the radio show, and everyone has been wonderfully kind and enthusiastic, saying they expect the ratings for the show will be off the charts. Frankly it’s hard for me to understand why anyone would be interested in tuning in for a half hour to hear how many diapers we changed each day, or how we managed bath time for five, but our listeners, I’m told, will be hanging on every word.
I miss them so much. Do write and tell me how they are doing. Funny. Now I’m the one wanting desperately to know about diapers and baths.
All my love, Ivy
1937
January 6, 1937
Ivy’s voice on the radio this afternoon: her program comes on when the girls are having their outdoor nap. The weather was clear today and not too cold, so they were bundled in quilts and mufflers, the winter sun desperately trying to seek them out through the bleached canvas tops of their prams. If it weren’t for my girls, I would wish for colder weather and bleak days, something more suited to my gloomy spirits.
Is it better or worse to hear Ivy’s voice? It is hard to think of the voice as Ivy’s, because for it to be Ivy it means she is, in fact, miles and miles away, in New York City. Yet the voice is hers, absolutely, in every way. Low and rolling, which is how I know she is smiling as she speaks. If the girls had woken today and heard her, they’d have been dumbfounded with joy, twisting this way and that, I’m sure: “Nurse Lewoo? Nurse Lewoo?” They missed her dreadfully those first few weeks, tantrums, tears, and looking up sharply whenever a door opened and a white uniform stepped into the room. The sight of their little faces falling over and over again. It tore my heart in pieces, every time.
The announcer calls her Nurse Yvonne Leroux, Nurse to the Famous Dionne Quintuplets. A mouthful. Today he asked her about the health-giving qualities of fresh-air naps, and that prompted me to pop my head out on the porch and make sure the girls were still sleeping. He asked her about cod-liver oil and pabulum, and when to introduce carrots and peas. “And do the Quints all play together? Or do they tend to keep each to herself? What are their favorite toys?”
Ivy had all the answers on the tip of her tongue. So do I. If we didn’t, we could consult the record books, shelves of them, every little detail observed and noted for posterity. But we know them, we know them so well.
January 8, 1937
MOTHER HAS BROKEN her ankle on the ice. They kept her at St. Joe’s in North Bay for a few days, but she’s now been sent home. Dr. Dafoe was clearly vexed by the news, as if somehow I could be at fault, but agreed with a deep sigh to let me cut back my shifts so I can spend more time helping at home.
Strange to be back in my old room—all done up fresh for paying guests in the summer months—but lovely to have some time with little Edith. She is a chubby, busy bundle these days, all tiny front teeth and smiles, lumbering around the house on sturdy legs.
Dr. Dafoe has arranged for the Cartwrights to pick me up at Mother and Father’s and take me out to the nursery before the 8:00 A.M. breakfast, then bring me home straight after the late-day meal. A local girl comes in during the day to help Mother and look after Edith while Father is at the post office, but I’m typically back home to help with supper, bathing, and bed. I’m exhausted, but at least it’s kept my mind off missing Ivy.
Most days it’s Lewis Cartwright who ferries me to and fro. He is marginally more at ease with me now that we’re seeing each other twice a day, his words faltering only if I catch him off guard with a nosy question. When I insisted that he stop calling me Miss Trimpany, he shyly asked that I call him Lewis, which I am doing, although I notice he has yet to call me by my given name. He is a homely man, Lewis, with large, protruding ears and a long, pointy nose that looks as if it was somehow stretched to fit the proportions of his narrow face. But it’s a kindly face, I think.