The Quintland Sisters(87)
The father said Dr. A. R. Dafoe and Judge J. A. Valin and other members of the Quints’ board of guardians have not yet been advised of his acceptance of the invitation.
Le Droit, the French language newspaper in Ottawa, published the text of Mr. Dionne’s acceptance letter, addressed to Hon. Harry Nixon, Ontario provincial secretary, March 9, accepting the invitation.
Used with permission.
April 1, 1939
Finally, a self-portrait, if I can call it that. I gave up on the mirrors and the angles, and gave up on drawing me the way I think I must look. Instead, I closed my eyes, pictured me at my happiest, and ended up with a line drawing of me and little Em, age two or three, curled in my arms. It lacks the detail I expect is required for a portfolio, but I don’t care. I’m not sure it’s even recognizable as a woman and child. It’s certainly not recognizable as me. But the more I look at it, the more I’m pleased. In technical terms, it’s not the best thing I’ve ever done, not by a long shot. But I love it. It’s simple and sparse, with a softness somehow. I’ve captured something important to me.
April 2, 1939
SOMETIMES AT NIGHT I hear footsteps in the hall, the shy squeak of a hinge. I’ve not gotten up to investigate. I assume it is Miss Callahan slipping out to wherever it is George is sleeping in the nursery, or more likely George tiptoeing to her room. I am na?ve, I know. I have only the most rudimentary idea of what it is that might be happening behind closed doors, all of it derived from my textbooks at nursing school and nothing more. I can’t spend any more time thinking about this than I already have.
April 3, 1939
Miss Emma Trimpany Dafoe Hospital and Nursery Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
Our plane flies! It flies beautifully. It roared straight up into the sky as smooth as if we were diving into a lake, only in reverse (and much more noisy). Adye—that was the pilot—gave me the thumbs-up after working the lever to raise the wheelbase. He said later that the stick moved easily, with no need for force. He did a wide loop over the city, and I can tell you it was the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen, Montreal laid out below like a feast, the cross on Mont Royal looking every bit like a candle on a cake baked to celebrate the day. I held my breath for a moment as the plane descended, worrying about my landing gear, but it settled into place smoothly as Adye released the lever and I knew we’d done something right. It took all of 15 months, but we’ve done something right.
I hope you were not angry or worried. I thought of telephoning you at the nursery the day of the flight, but I realize I’m not sure if that’s permitted or what it might cost you to take a call from me, financially or otherwise.
Yours sincerely, Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
April 16, 1939
Which is better,” Annette asked me today, eyes wide, her face crumpled, “French or English?” I took her into my arms and hugged her tight. “They are completely the same,” I said in French, then again in English for good measure. “They are both completely the same.”
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