Chapter Fifty-One
It was the tenth anniversary of Bram’s passing and, as he had every year (except during the war), Noel came to visit.
It was obligation rather than genuine affection or concern for my wellbeing that brought him to my door, we both knew that.
He’d still not forgiven me for what he called my outrageous behaviour following his father’s death.
It wasn’t Bram’s death per se that had made me act as I did, oh no. Rather, it was the reasons for it. My memories were forever tarnished. I was possessed by the knowledge Dr Browne had given me. It had been a stake to the heart.
Consequently, I did the worst thing a mother, a widow, could do: I became a source of tattle and rumour.
First, I’d auctioned Bram’s precious books, manuscripts, the artworks he’d collected, the items he’d purchased from Henry Irving’s estate, and all his other paraphernalia.
Any reminders of him, his foiled ambitions, the mementoes of our life together, had been too painful to keep.
They had to go and, if I profited from their removal, well, it was the least I deserved.
Dismayed I was being so cavalier about things that had been dear to Bram, my family and friends tried to dissuade me. But receiving four hundred pounds for what was, in my view at the time, largely dreck, was a windfall. I’d been ready to burn the damn lot.
Then I insisted people stop referring to me as Mrs Bram Stoker and call me Mrs Florence Stoker instead.
Within weeks, I’d cast aside my mourning garb and thrown myself into a range of distractions: lunches at Foyles with Lucy, Nancy and, occasionally, Ellen.
Opening nights at the theatre, often with Violet.
I went to dinners, book readings, invited people for afternoon tea.
Services at Brompton Oratory soothed my soul and gave my life a sense of ritual and meaning.
I went on a Hellenic cruise, taking a companion with me.
I returned to Paris to do some shopping.
I spent time with Genevieve, made regular visits to the family in Dublin.
My appearance became more important than ever as doubt ate my soul.
I’d hear people referring to me as the ‘merry widow’. It wasn’t a compliment.
I joined Noel, Neelie and my granddaughter Ann for summers on the Isle of Wight. I knew they invited me out of a sense of duty, but I went all the same.
After years of being content to let Bram steer our lives in the direction he chose, I took the helm. Before the auction even took place, I sent the publishers a curt letter informing them that all matters pertaining to Bram’s works must come to me.
It was a difficult time. Inside, I was reeling, seething with anger, betrayal and humiliation. A heady combination as it turns out; restrained emotion can make you do things that seem, to those who don’t know the reasons, rash, selfish and cold.
I heard Lucy tell Nancy one day it was ‘grief’ that made me act so; in the kitchen Maria and Mary muttered that my husband’s death had changed me.
‘Unhinged’, ‘frivolous’ and ‘superficial’ were among the kinder epithets. I wore them stoically. Only George understood. He kept his word, and the secret of Bram’s death followed him to his grave two years ago.
Today, I hoped to breach the defences Noel had erected. No, that wasn’t fair. It was my own conduct that had caused him to put distance between us.
I studied him as he sat on the lounge, the cup of tea in his hand, the dark, tailored three-piece suit; his brown hair, lighter than mine had once been but with a touch of Bram’s russet, was just starting to grey at the temples.
I wasn’t convinced the moustache suited him, not that I’d dare say.
He’d done well for himself, had Noel. He had a fine house, a loving wife and lovely daughter.
‘And Ann is well?’ I asked after we’d discussed the weather, the state of the roads, the new pope and the Prince of Wales’s visit to Japan.
‘Very,’ said Noel, a tad cautiously. ‘She’s showing a real talent for painting.’
‘On top of her music? Clever girl.’
‘Where’s Phillippa?’ asked Noel, looking around as if my niece and companion might suddenly manifest out of the walls.
‘Taking Moonbeam for a walk,’ I answered, glancing out the window, half-expecting to see a slender figure with a little Pekingese in tow.
When Phil first suggested her daughter, Phillippa, move to London and become my companion, I bristled.
Old women had companions. But Phillippa, with her bright laugh, twinkling eyes and clever observations about people and things, her ability to know when I wanted time to myself, was a delight.
I saw the world anew through her eyes – her unaffected joy at London, her excitement at meeting my friends and acquaintances, an enthusiasm that hadn’t diminished over the years she’d been with me.
‘I can’t believe that Mr Conan Doyle comes to dinner!’ she’d exclaim. ‘You aren’t dazzled at all, are you, Aunty Florrie?’
‘My dear,’ I’d said, repressing a smile, ‘when one counts the likes of Ellen Terry, Genevieve Ward and Sir William Gilbert among their dearest friends, has laughed with royalty, watched Jules Verne dance on tables, been snowbound in a hotel with an American president, it’s hard to be overwhelmed by anyone anymore. ’
I sank back into the chair, hands gripping the wide cushioned arms, as Noel crossed to the window.
The faint warble of a blackbird welcoming the shafts of sunlight piercing the rain clouds sweetened the day.
A motor car drove through a puddle. I liked that sound, the lovely swish.
It reminded me of Gilbert. Dear God, that was so long ago.
It’s funny how time can alter how one feels about something, about someone … including my husband.
After Bram died, I became the executor of his literary estate, such as it was.
Almost immediately, I was approached to finish putting together a collection of short stories Bram had been collating before he died.
Instead of three volumes, only one was commissioned, but this was to include a deleted chapter from Dracula.
The last thing I wanted to do back then was finish Bram’s incomplete work.
Everything was too raw, so I declined. Then I was asked to write the preface.
This was offered to appease me but, because it gave me latitude and authority, a recognition of my new role in relation to Bram’s creations, I capitulated.
The collection was published as Dracula’s Guest and the subsequent royalties were very helpful, which was just as well, because apart from Dracula and Jewel of the Seven Stars, earnings from his other publications were pitiful.
Over the years, through Bram’s publisher, I’d sold some translation rights, fielded interest in the reprint of one or two books (rarely did these amount to anything), but nothing of any significance had arisen … until now.
‘Noel,’ I began cautiously. He turned around. ‘There’s something I need your advice about. It’s to do with your father’s literary estate.’
In the past, Noel had suggested I reach out to the Society of Authors for counsel, but I’d been hesitant to do so.
I was still bridling over the pathetic one hundred pounds the Royal Literary Fund had given Bram when he’d sought help and, consequently, had developed a general distrust of literary organisations.
I picked up the thick envelope I’d been sent anonymously and extracted a large sheet of paper. ‘Take a look at this and tell me what you think.’ I handed it to him as he sat down.
It was an advertisement for a film and featured a figure, more monster than man, bald, with a bulging forehead and a small mouth from which two rat-like teeth protruded.
He had a large hooked nose and enormous malevolent eyes.
When I first saw it, my mind filled with wasps that buzzed and stung, and my hair stood on end.
An old memory pushed itself forward. It was as if whoever had composed the artwork had drawn inspiration from the dead man who once haunted me.
After Bram died, and I slowly rebuilt my life, my apparition appeared less and less until, one day, I realised he was no longer there. Initially discommoded, as if I’d lost yet another acquaintance, I’d search for him in the shadows. To no avail; after all those years, he was finally vanquished.
Yet, the moment I laid eyes on the flyer, it was as if my revenant had returned. The resemblance was uncanny.
Noel’s brows crept to the top of his forehead. ‘Good Lord!’
‘I doubt He had anything to do with it,’ I said dryly.
‘Ghastly, isn’t it? This came with it.’ I handed him what else had arrived in the envelope: a booklet, a program to be exact.
‘Keep reading,’ I said, flapping a hand as he looked at it, then me, in disbelief.
‘Seems a German company have made a moving picture of Father’s novel, Dracula. ’
‘Prana Film,’ read Noel. ‘I didn’t know you’d sold the rights, Mother,’ he added snippily.
‘I haven’t. I knew nothing about any of this until the package arrived in the mail.
’ I leaned over and stabbed the flyer. ‘It states here the director’s a fellow named Murnau and the so-called screenwriter is Henrik Galeen.
Together, they’ve “freely adapted” your father’s book and turned it into a film.
Look. It says that right there, without so much as a by-your-leave or anything in the way of compensation. The gall of them!’
Noel shook his head in disbelief. ‘For a professional company, they’re either incredibly foolish or indifferent to the implications of what they’ve done.’
‘Perhaps both,’ I huffed. ‘As you can see from that program, the film was shown at the Berlin Zoological Gardens last month. Hundreds paid to see it.’
‘I wonder why they called it Nosferatu when they “freely adapted” Dracula?’ Noel returned the offending pages to me. ‘Since they openly admit to using Father’s work, why change it?’
‘They probably thought by calling it Nosferatu, no-one would notice they’d plagiarised Bram’s work.’
‘Somebody noticed.’ Noel picked up his neglected cup of tea and finished it, pulling a face. ‘Do you have any idea who sent these to you?’
‘Not a clue. But somebody is looking out for me.’ I smiled lest my words be misinterpreted as a criticism of him, but not before a frown marred his usually serene brow.
Once more, I’d said the wrong thing. ‘Which is why I need your assistance,’ I added hastily.
‘What can I do about this? I can’t let them get away with blatantly copying Dracula, can I? Stealing your father’s work.’
‘Of course not,’ said Noel indignantly.
‘Well, what do you suggest?’
Noel sighed. ‘What I’ve been saying to you for years now, Mother. You must join the Incorporated Society of Authors, Playwrights and Composers.’
I buried a smile. I’d known what Noel would say, of course. But I enjoyed the ‘told you so’ tone all the same. ‘Frankly,’ I replied, determined to remain stubborn a little longer, let him believe he was persuading me, ‘I don’t see what they can do for me.’
Noel gave a half-laugh of exasperation. ‘For a start, they can ensure your rights as Father’s literary executor are honoured.
They can see to it that you’re paid for …
for that.’ He gestured to the advertisement.
‘If you’d joined when I first mentioned them, you wouldn’t have had all those problems with that publisher in Leipzig. ’
‘You mean Max Altman. The one your father gave the German translation rights to Dracula.’
‘The man who’s given you grief over accounts and royalties.’
I gave a dramatic shudder. ‘Horrible man. Makes everything such a chore. Maybe he’s behind this Prana Film thing. I wouldn’t put it past him to have sold the rights to Dracula without telling anyone, let alone paying me. He’s probably never forgiven us for winning the war.’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Noel in faux shock.
The one good thing about getting older was you wise up to the benefits of being able to say what you think. No-one checked an old woman. Too often, they simply ignored her.
‘The thing is,’ continued Noel, ‘the Society can help you deal with men like Herr Altman. You need expert advice, Mother, about contracts, copyright, the legalities, and they’re the people to provide it.’
I cocked my head and regarded my son. ‘Alright,’ I sighed. ‘If you think so. I’ll approach them. See what they have to say for themselves.’
‘Well,’ said Noel, leaping out of his chair. ‘What are you waiting for? Call them.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not? It’s business hours. There’s no point delaying, not once you’ve made up your mind.’
I pretended to procrastinate.
‘I’ll be here to help.’ He held out his hand.
Together, we entered the hallway. I was about to reach for the telephone, when he gently caught my wrist.
‘Ask for the secretary. His name is George Thring. But, if I may offer extra advice?’
‘By all means.’
‘Don’t mention this Nosferatu business, not yet. Wait until you’re a member.’
‘Why? The whole purpose of joining is to get their help sorting out this mess.’
‘I know that. But these societies have rules. If Mr Thring thinks you’re only joining to get something out of them, he might become difficult; create obstacles. Just say who you are and that you want to become a member.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Years of dealing with bureaucrats does give me some idea of how they operate. Call him, Mother, and let’s get you signed up. Oh, there’ll be a fee.’
‘Of course there will.’
I quickly looked up the number Noel had given me years ago in my little telephone book.
I smiled at my son. He gave my shoulders a squeeze.
Unaccountably, tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them back.
My plan had worked. I’d hadn’t felt so close to him since we sat across from each other the day of Bram’s death.
But it was more than that. It may have taken years, but my hot anger and wretched confusion over Bram, my shame and deep hurt, had altered.
It had softened. Our dark confidence, the secret of his death, remained that.
Now others were attempting to dishonour him, albeit in a different way, and in doing so dishonouring and underestimating me.
They were attempting to tread on Bram’s legacy, render what little we had achieved valueless.
This was my chance to pay tribute, if not to Bram, then to his work – work for which I was the custodian. It was up to me to protect it. How it would be remembered in the future was down to my actions now.
If it so happened I was rehabilitated in my son’s eyes during this process, that was a wonderful bonus.
Before I could change my mind, I picked up the receiver and dialled.