The Quintland Sisters(66)
I would like to have a word with Fred about what kind of commission I should be paid by the American corn syrup company. He comes in only a few days a week now and rarely stays at the nursery long enough for us to speak. Perhaps George might give me some advice. He might know what Mrs. Fangel was paid, although of course I couldn’t be paid at the same rate. Perhaps I’ll write to Ivy.
March 25, 1938
FINALLY SOME LAUGHTER again in the nursery. The Star newspaper has provided all the props and costumes for a special series of photos of the girls in which they act out scenes from Mother Goose. Today they dressed up for “Sing a Song of Sixpence” and thought it was wonderful fun.
They scarcely stayed in one character long enough for Fred to get his pictures before tearing off their robes and dresses and climbing into something else. Yvonne played the king while Marie had the choice role of queen, managing to devour the bread and corn syrup before Fred could even duck behind his camera. I was tickled at the idea of émilie as the maid, hanging laundry on the line and not a clue as to what she was supposed to be doing. Nurse Ulrichson has been painstakingly teaching them the rhyme, explaining each English word, and they have been singing it at top volume, although their accents make them almost unintelligible. They love the end the best, piling on Yvonne, captive under her thick robes, and trying to clamp their sticky mouths over her poor nose.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king!
The king was in his counting house, counting out his money.
The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,
Down came a blackbird and nipped off her nose!
March 26, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany Dafoe Hospital and Nursery Callander, ON
Dear Miss Trimpany Emma, I was sorry to hear of more comings and goings in the nursery. All that flux must be awfully hard on the little girls. How are they faring?
We had a mild weekend here, so I got the harebrained idea to hike to the top of Mont Royal, which is the mountain in the middle of the city. At the top, the Saint-Jean-Baptiste charitable society has erected a cross more than 100 feet tall, lit up at night by dozens of electric bulbs. I can actually see it from the window in my rented room. Up close, by daylight, it is not nearly as impressive, but the views of the city are something. The air at the peak seemed fresher and cleaner than it does down below—more like home. And the sky was cloudless: the kind of blue that makes you feel like it goes on forever and could take you anywhere you wanted to go.
Back in my cold room now, my legs are stiff and I have blisters the size of a silver dollar on both heels. I will regret my little expedition tomorrow.
I have a rock dove who has taken to roosting on my windowsill. He arrived last month and has really settled himself at home, making a terrific mess of the wall. The green and violet iridescence on his throat is quite something to see up close. He seems pleased as a peacock to have me admiring him through the glass, strutting to and fro and sizing me up with his orange eye. I’ve named him Howard Hughes.
Yours truly,
Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
April 11, 1938
Dr. Dafoe gave me the afternoon off today to work on my first painting for the corn syrup company. I’m trying a different type of oil paint that is much brighter in color. It’s taken a bit of practice to understand how to mix and layer it, but I’ve got the hang of it now, I think. I’m not painting a scene for this one, just the faces of the girls based on the pencil sketches I’ve been working on. I’m pleased with how it’s going. Today I could hear the girls playing outside in the private yard—this was the first warm day we’ve had—and their happy voices helped me work.
At one point, George tapped lightly, then popped his head around the open door. I love it when he stops by to see my progress. Today he peered at the painting for no more than a second or two, then strolled away.
He did a distracted loop of the room the way he does when he’s looking for ideas for his column, then plunked himself on the bench by the windows. When I glanced over, he appeared to be watching the girls outside, a faint smile on his lips.
“Imagine being so carefree,” he said.
I scarcely paid attention. I was struggling with Marie’s mouth, which is smaller than those of her sisters.
“They’re in a bubble. We’re all in this bubble, aren’t we? It’s as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
He turned to look at me. I kept puttering with my paints, but I could sense his gaze on me and felt myself growing flustered.
Then, out of nowhere he said: “Do you know that more than ninety-nine percent of voters in Austria voted to join Germany in yesterday’s plebiscite?”
I blushed even deeper, jabbing my brush into my palette and smudging the colors.
He gave a groan. “Emma, you must follow some news, surely? Europe is falling to pieces while a self-proclaimed demigod marches around, annexing countries for Germany. Europe is sliding again toward war, you know that, right?”
I set my brush down and turned to look at him, the heat still in my face. “Of course, I’m aware,” I snapped, wiping my hands on a rag and standing up. I drew back from my easel and pretended to assess my work. “It’s not as if Canada will get involved again,” I said, although not with the certainty I would have liked.