Chapter Fifty-Two
Having been a member for a year or more, I finally paid my first visit to the offices of the Incorporated Society of Authors, Playwrights and Composers.
I was given a brief tour of the book-lined and smoke-filled rooms, accompanied by the clatter of typewriters, before being ushered into Mr George Thring’s office by his secretary, Miss Chandler.
Since joining, I’d done what I could to keep the case against the Germans at Prana Film at the forefront of the Society’s mind.
‘As I outlined to you in my last letter, my dear Mrs Stoker,’ began Mr Thring after we’d exchanged pleasantries and I’d taken the offered seat.
His voice sounded different in person. Deeper, more considered, less inclined to reveal the limits of his patience.
‘There are those among our members who feel that the Society’s, ah …
energies, have been consumed by your … frequent demands.
I’ve had dozens of letters from you.’ He rested a hand on a nearby file filled with the blue stationery I favoured.
‘On top of numerous phone calls. Need I remind you that you joined only when you were in difficulties.’
I cocked a brow. ‘Indeed. But what’s the point of the Society if not to help members when in difficulty?’
Mr Thring cleared his throat. ‘Well, the management committee feel their time would be better spent on supporting longstanding members. Those perceived as more … deserving of our support.’ He drew breath. I took the opportunity.
‘My dear Mr Thring,’ I began, deliberately imitating his tone and style. Heat travelled up my neck and a furnace burned in my centre, a fire that had been stoked by the endless (and mostly useless and repetitive) correspondence from this very man.
I tried to bring him into focus, his neat swollen suit, finely trimmed moustache; a neck that rolled over the edges of his tight collar.
Well fed, my mother would have said. Corpulent, would have been Bram’s word.
All the same, I wondered if Mr Thring was echoing the committee he represented or whether he had taken a set against me and was determined to fob me off.
After all, I was merely a writer’s widow, not the talent himself.
And yet, when I first joined the Society, they’d taken my complaint about Nosferatu seriously.
They’d assured me that yes indeed, I was owed money from Prana Film, who were most definitely in breach of copyright.
As time passed, I received what can only be described as wishy-washy replies from Mr Thring: ‘We’re still dealing with the matter’, ‘It’s not as clear-cut as first appeared, Mrs Stoker’, ‘These things are complex’. It was as if I was a child dabbling in an adult world in which I had no business.
I took a deep breath and rested a hand against the desk. ‘Deserving, you say. Explain to me then, Mr Thring, what is your purpose if not to help members in a crisis? Or do you simply exist to take membership fees and ensure your salary is paid?’
There was very little point remaining after that. Mr Thring muttered some platitudes about following due procedures and that I must be patient – advice that always rankled, more so now I was older. Time was not on my side.
As I made to depart, he said one last thing. ‘Rest assured, Mrs Stoker, when there’s news regarding your case, you’ll be among the first to know.’
I paused in the doorway. He’d already picked up his pen and opened a ledger; a passive dismissal.
‘And you may rest assured, Mr Thring, I will ensure I am.’
I made no friend of Mr Thring that day. From then on, he refused to take any of my calls. One time, I even overheard him telling Miss Chandler to say he was in a meeting.
Left with no recourse but to write, I did, and often.
After all, if I didn’t pursue the matter, who would?
When Mr Thring wrote that the Society would no longer embroil itself in the ‘messy’ Nosferatu business some weeks later, I turned to friends.
Arthur Conan Doyle used his influence to speak to the Society’s committee on my behalf, as did George Bernard Shaw and Mr Heinemann.
For a brief time, their weight added to my cause and momentum was achieved.
Until everything once more ground to a halt. It was a confounding time.
Then, in June, I received the news that Prana Film had declared bankruptcy.
I telephoned Noel immediately.
‘Well, Mother, no-one can say you didn’t exhaust every possibility,’ he said. I could hear Ann singing in the background.
‘Have I, though?’ I sighed. ‘Has the Society?’
The telephone crackled. Noel never felt the urge to fill silence. Nor did I. That had been Bram’s role.
‘What upsets me most, Noel, is that if these filmmakers don’t face some consequences, what’s to stop anybody else doing the same? Stealing another writer’s work?’
Noel chuckled. ‘I think bankruptcy is a fairly large consequence, don’t you, Mother?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Look, if you’re a bit short, I can always forward you —’
‘No,’ I snapped. The last thing I wanted was my son loaning me money.
‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t fine, not by my standards.
But I was deeply disappointed. Of all Bram’s works, Dracula was the one book that continued to pay royalties.
Admittedly, these were on the decline. I’d hoped pursuing the makers of Nosferatu might at least provide me with something.
But there was a bigger issue at stake. Once again, Bram was being cast in the shadows. Worse, someone was taking credit for his creative labours. Hadn’t I sworn to do all in my power to ensure Bram got the recognition – and me the damn money – he deserved? Oh, to hell with these annoyances!
What was fast becoming apparent was that Mr Thring and Prana Film hoped to wear me down. Well, I was Mrs Florence Stoker and nothing and nobody would accomplish that, not while I lived and breathed.