The Quintland Sisters(73)
July 1, 1938
MARIE AND EM got their Dominion Day outfits absolutely filthy, filling the moat for the sand castles they’d built with water they hauled over from the pool. They looked very sweet, splattered with muck, but it made for an extra bath, midday, and more work for the housemaids to get the outfits laundered in time for the weekend.
The guards were moving the hordes of people through the viewing corridor so quickly today it sounded like a herd of elephants. At one point, I looked up from where I was seated in the sandbox with Annette and Yvonne to see that émilie was standing right under the viewing glass frowning at the shapes behind the screen. Even from where I was sitting with her sisters I could hear the exclamations of excitement from the visitors’ platform. I’ve noticed that the women who visit us, no matter what their class or country, make a strange, low purr when they see the girls for the first time, a gasp or a covetous little moan. It doesn’t matter whether they are French, English, Canadian, or American, they sound the same when their hearts are being tugged in this special way. I’ve even heard it from the men, from George, and even from Dr. Dafoe, who is just as likely to be stern and clinical with the girls as he is to coo over their dear antics. The girls are simply that sweet and enthralling. And, of course, little rascals too.
Watching émilie, her tiny hand reaching up to tug at her earlobe the way she does when she has a particularly tricky puzzle that needs solving, squinting at the shapes crowded behind the one-way glass—I knew she could hear them too.
The Dionnes, of course, arrived smack in the middle of the public playtime and made their usual grand entrance, and it was like a cloud swiping across the face of the sun—our boisterous, clown-about girls falling so suddenly still and silent. It squeezes the heart to see it.
“Bo-jo, Papa,” they say quietly, their eyes dipping to the ground, then darting aside. “Bo-jo, Maman.”
July 3, 1938
I HAVE FINISHED my commission for the American corn syrup company and handed it in to Dr. Dafoe, who will share it with the other guardians tomorrow. I’m very pleased with it. I’ve painted Annette and Yvonne in the foreground and the other three grouped behind. The painting shows only their heads and collars, which I’ve painted in white and turquoise, although in real life these collars are in the official color for each child. But I think I’ve achieved what Mrs. Fangel never quite cottoned on to—and how could she?—and that is the essential differences between the girls.
I dodged the public playtime this morning by saying I had to put some finishing touches on the piece, which wasn’t true. But it got me out of a sweltering hour with the Dionnes, who arrived as Nurse Corriveau and Miss Rousselle were leading the girls into the playground. I guess I was distracted by the thrill of showing Dr. Dafoe the finished product, because I left my easel, drawings, and this notebook in the quiet play area when I went to visit George. Then I lost track of time.
When I returned, Mme. Dionne was in the playroom, planted stoutly over my things. What was she doing inside? The girls were still playing outside, and the queue of visitors, I could see through the window, still stretched for hundreds of yards from the entrance.
“Madame?” I said. She looked irritable and flustered, taking a few paces back.
“It’s too hot outside,” she said finally, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve and swabbing at her brow. Then she looked at me defiantly, willing me to contradict her.
Hot or not, what was she doing nosing around my things? Had she leafed through my sketches? Did she poke her nose here, in my scribble book? I’m kicking myself. I simply can’t understand why I would have left my journal just lying around, especially when Lewis has put the question mark in my mind about what is private and what isn’t. Can she even read in English? Can she read at all? I have no idea. I won’t do this again, leave my little book lying around. I’ll take my old notebooks back to Father and Mother’s place next time I go, and keep my current one tucked away somewhere safe or on my person at all times.
I got the courage to gather my things, and, lucky for me, she didn’t stay or say anything more; she gathered her purse and waddled off toward the back door. Is she pregnant again? You’d think the papers would have said.
July 4, 1938
IVY AND FRED got married today in Toronto. Ivy has promised to phone me and tell me all about it. I’m so happy for them and more than a little bit sad for me. I’ll be sorry when Fred leaves us for good, and the girls, the girls will be devastated.
I toyed with sending Fred and Ivy a Quint-stone as a gift. I know Ivy would laugh, but Fred might find that uncomfortable. I mentioned it to George, just as something to say, and he thought it was a very funny idea.
In the end I sent them a miniature of the girls in their bassinets as babies, based on sketches I did so long ago now. That’s when Ivy knew them best.
July 5, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany Dafoe Hospital and Nursery Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
First things first, it’s true; the plane I’m working on is a fighter plane, called an FDB—a fighter dive bomber. Sounds dramatic, I know, but that’s what makes it exciting. It’s made entirely of metal and we’ve devised the riveting to be flush with the body so it’s sleek as a fish. We have a Russian chap who’s joined us, and it’s his designs we’re working off primarily, although I can say I’m the man in charge of the undercarriage. You’ll also be interested to hear that the company has hired a woman to be our chief aeronautical engineer. Her name is Elsie MacGill and she’s quite famous in my line of work. Some of the men are grumbling a bit about the idea of a woman at the controls, but I think she’s really something.