Chapter Thirty-Two
When I received notice that Noel had been accepted as a private boarder in Oxford for the following school term, I marched into Bram’s study and insisted that as soon as Macbeth finished its run, he take us on holiday for the summer.
I let Bram pick our destination. My only request was that it be far away from London.
He chose the seaside town of Whitby.
Macbeth had played to standing room only for over six months.
Whether it was the play’s themes of ghosts, dire prophecies and witchcraft coming on top of the Whitechapel murders (as they’d come to be called), I’d been unsettled the entire season.
My ‘odd turn’ (as Henry described it) on opening night was put down to a combination of these.
The logical part of me knew the ghostly man wasn’t real, that it was my overwrought mind playing tricks, while a tiny voice persistently said the opposite.
I tried hard not to listen to it, but it wouldn’t go away.
Enough procrastinating. It was a sign that the time had come to tell Bram about my ‘fatal vision’, as Macbeth called his apparitions.
So, one night a few days before we left for Whitby, I told him how what had started as dreams of the deserter who died in our old house had slowly metamorphosed over the years into waking visions of the dead man, as if he were real and whole.
Afeared Bram would disbelieve, mock, or call me hysterical, I was relieved when he did none of these things. Instead, he took my hands and said, ‘Describe him to me.’
We were in the drawing room. The curtains were shut; the only sounds were the clock, the haunting whistle of the wind racing down the chimney, and my heart drumming in my ears. Lamplight flickered across Bram’s face, plunging it half into shadow.
‘The first time I saw him,’ I began cautiously, looking around to ensure we were alone, ‘he looked just as he did that day in the dining room.’ I shut my eyes. ‘The wet, crumpled suit, the terrible grey skin and blue lips, the long teeth.’ I shuddered. ‘And those red eyes …’ I opened mine.
‘George explained that was caused from haemorrhaging.’
‘I know. But it was more than simply broken veins. It was as if they were alight with a devilish fire.’
Bram clicked his tongue. ‘He sounds like Jack the Ripper or that fellow Spring-Heeled Jack …’
He was referring to the well-known legend of a tall, thin man able to leap impossible distances, who was possessed of metal fingers, wore a cloak and reputedly breathed fire.
He’d attacked women in London decades ago, long before the Ripper.
I shook my head. ‘This … this is different, Bram.’ I explained how I had seen him at the train station and aboard the steamship before it sank; and at the Lyceum when Hall told me about his friend Dr Tumblety.
‘No-one else sees him. Only me, so I know he doesn’t really exist, but … ’
‘It’s understandable you’d be plagued by such a sight,’ said Bram, his voice kindly.
‘The trauma of witnessing someone die, and my predilection – and yours – for macabre tales would no doubt have a cumulative effect. And what with all and sundry recently gripped by the Ripper stories, and Macbeth on top of all that —’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said with no small degree of exasperation. ‘I know they must all have had an influence, but I’m no hysteric, Bram. I’m not.’
‘I know, Florrie.’ He squeezed my hands. ‘Please, go on.’
‘The thing is, the last few times he’s appeared …’ I hesitated. ‘He’s looked … different.’
‘Different how?’
Did I admit the man had taken on some of Henry Irving’s characteristics? He’d become thinner, taller, possessed of hollow cheeks and slightly sunken eyes. His grin had the macabre shape of Mephistopheles. Sometimes, his hands and suit were stained with blood in the same way Macbeth’s had been.
‘More … Satanic, more monstrous,’ I allowed. ‘His teeth are long, sharp, pointed even. And his hands …’ I gave an involuntary shiver. ‘The palms are coated with thick hair. Thick hair congealed with blood.’
We talked for longer, Bram plying me with questions.
He was both sympathetic and curious. He didn’t pour scorn or tell me I was seeing things.
He wanted details. Later, he escorted me to my bedroom and remained while I changed into my nightgown, and tucked me under the covers.
Instead of holding me or comforting me with a gentle story, he said goodnight and retreated to his study.
The dark hours passed. The house creaked and groaned. Wind fought the windows. An owl hooted, followed by the squeak of bats. Though my eyes were shut, I felt the apparition’s presence.
I’d foolishly hoped that telling Bram would banish it forever.
It didn’t, but neither did it make things worse.
In fact, over the following weeks, I gradually ceased to fear the apparition quite so much.
I began to rebuke him for startling me and to greet him when he did appear.
He didn’t return my salutations or acknowledge my reprimands, he was simply there, a benign if unusual observer of my life.
I didn’t like it, but understood that if I couldn’t banish him, then uneasy acceptance was the next best thing.
Whitby wouldn’t have been my first choice of holiday destination.
A wild, remote place in the north, Bram had discovered it on one of the Lyceum’s provincial tours.
Divided by the River Esk, the township was built below and along a clifftop on one side of the river and crawled up the slope of another on the opposite bank.
It was renowned mainly for being the port where Captain James Cook left for the Pacific.
We travelled up by train from Kings Cross in late July and stayed at Number 6 Royal Crescent, a hotel squatting high upon the western cliff.
We had a perfectly lovely suite and from just about every room there were sweeping views of the blue-grey ocean and Whitby Sands.
Despite my fear of the sea, I rather enjoyed being able to gaze upon this ever-changing vista.
There was also much to do in Whitby, and I swiftly fell for its charms.
We’d been here a week already and were staying for three. It was proving to be a lovely antidote to the panic and fear caused by the Ripper and my own disquieting visitations.
While we spent every evening as a family, the days were mine to fill, which included entertaining Noel.
His father had taken him swimming in nearby Robin Hood Bay the day after we arrived.
Knowing Noel couldn’t swim, he’d nevertheless left him to flounder.
Naturally, Noel panicked. I was furious when I found out.
In the face of my anger and Noel’s distress, Bram simply shrugged.
‘He was never in any real danger. Anyway, how else is he to learn?’
Each morning, Bram took long walks along the cliffs, climbing the many steps to visit St Mary’s Church on the eastern side of the river, and tromping about the vast grounds of the magnificent Whitby Abbey.
Often, when I rose, he’d already gone. Today, he’d been abroad bright and early, but returned for breakfast.
‘Good book, laddie?’ asked Bram, reaching over to ruffle Noel’s hair. Midway through munching his toast, Noel nodded, gave a half-smile, then returned to Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He’d barely had his nose out of it.
A maid scurried over and, moving aside Bram’s ever-present notebook, poured tea, then waited to take his order.
We spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries about the weather and plans for the day. I watched Bram concentrating on slicing bacon, stabbing pieces of egg, but noted that while he ate, his mind was most definitely elsewhere.
Finally, he said, ‘I’ve an idea, Florrie. For another book.’
‘Another one!’ I was surprised – and pleased. ‘But you’ve not finished the one you started after meeting that American publisher, have you?’
After years of tinkering with his dream of becoming a writer, and encouraged by a publisher who’d recently entered our social circles, Mr John Harper, Bram had begun work on a novel set in western Ireland.
And now one more was waiting in the wings.
This is what I wanted him to be doing. Something for himself. Writing. Creating.
‘The Snake’s Pass is all but complete,’ said Bram, fork aloft.
‘And yes, another idea has taken root. You can’t help it when the muse sings, Florrie.
Actually, I thought up the concept a while ago, during our stay in Cruden Bay, but I wasn’t sure what to do with it …
until now.’ He rested the fork on his plate, then placed his hand atop mine on the table. ‘And I’ve partly you to thank.’
‘Me?’ I blinked in astonishment. ‘How?’ The last time I inspired my husband – after Henry had terrified Noel during the run of Faust – he’d produced the godawful ‘The Dualitists’.
‘Well?’ I prompted as he fell silent and gazed out the window. ‘Don’t leave me in suspense.’
‘Indulge me, dear, while I provide some context.’ Pretending a reluctance he clearly didn’t feel, he gave a mischievous grin and opened his well-thumbed notebook, flicking past pages of scrawled code to reveal what looked like a timetable and some rough drawings of a ship.
‘Look at this.’ He pushed the notebook towards me.
‘I was talking to some fishermen yesterday.’ Bram was always conversing with the locals.
‘Their dialect is fascinating, quite difficult to tune your ear to, but once you do, it’s an embarrassment of riches.
’ He chuckled. ‘Anyhow, I’d not long come from the lighthouse —’ he gestured towards the east pier, ‘when I met a coastguard who told me about a ship that had run aground after a particularly rough storm some years back.’ He jabbed his finger on the page. ‘The Dmitry.’
His sketch was excellent. ‘Russian?’