Page 102 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I handed him the two letters that had arrived in the morning post. They were from Hall and Ellen. They’d also written to me. Many of our friends were doing that, corresponding with each of us separately, determined to only relay positive news to him, buck up his flagging spirits with wicked stories and funny anecdotes, anything to avoid asking after his health. Questions concerning that were my province, as were their worries for his prospects. Apprehensions I still shared, though not with my friends. It was hard to believe that after all these years of steady, well-paid employment, we’d so little in terms of savings.

There was only one person I blamed for both our change of fortune and Bram’s stroke. Even from beyond, Henry Irving managed to control my husband, working him almost to death. I couldn’t shake the idea that somehow, like a vampire, Henry would reappear and claim Bram.

I began to draw the curtains tightly at night, shut the windows in Bram’s bedroom. I’d ensure a fire was lit in the grate, that the lamps were left burning to discourage any restless spirits. Not mine, however. He’d followed me to Deal, lurking in corners, an expression on his benighted face I could almost mistake for sympathy. I wondered if he was there to offer the dubious comfort of the strangely familiar. Or was he here to reinforce that I couldn’t escape him? Bram would watch my nocturnal preparations with a bemused expression.

‘It’s in case you call for me during the night, dear,’ I’d explain weakly, ‘and I have to come to you.’

Before I’d leave the room, I’d pray to the Lord to watch over my husband, help his broken body and spirit mend.

‘Please, God,’ I’d whisper, ‘keep his immortal soul safe.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Durham Place, 1907 to 1908

No longer able to afford the spacious house in St Leonard’s, in the spring of 1907 we shifted to a smaller flat around the corner, 4 Durham Place. Its claim to fame was that Captain Bligh of the Bounty had once lived there. Our belongings were brought over by cart, and I supervised them being unloaded while Maria, Mary, Louisa and Ada bustled around unpacking. (Ada and Louisa were to leave us at the end of the month. We could no longer afford – nor did we need – four servants.)

Bram had gone back to work the moment we returned from Deal. When The Vicar of Wakefield closed a couple of months after it opened, no-one, least of all Bram, was surprised. Even so, it was a blow. Managing a theatre company had been Bram’s main source of income for almost three decades. Who would take him after the failure of this production?

Kept awake at night worrying about how he was going to rescue us from our impecunious straits, Bram was up before dawn each day. Unable to do anything by halves, and ignoring his brother’s advice, he threw himself into finding work. He applied for so many jobs, often dictating the letters to me just so they would be written quickly and make the morning’s post. He published a book, started another, wrote some short stories, planned others, gave talks, accepted freelance work with the Daily Telegraph, interviewing our famous friends and acquaintances – including Gilbert, and Randolph Churchill’s son, Winston. Ironically, young Winston, who was making a name for himself, only agreed to talk to Bram because we’d known his father and because Bram was ‘the author of Dracula’.

Dracula. Of all the books Bram had written, it was this one that continued to make money for us; not much, but it was consistent. The Germans had recently bought the rights to a translation.

While it must have been a blow to Bram’s ego to be interviewing some of those he’d helped find success, he took whatever work was offered and refused to accept that perhaps he should consider ‘slowing down’.

‘Don’t say those words in my hearing again, Florrie,’ he complained one evening. ‘I’ll slow down when I’m dead.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ I said. He laughed and planted a kiss on my cheek before retreating to his study.

Though our residence had changed, the location hadn’t. We were still in Chelsea, in the hub of things, and I soon resumed my Sunday salons with Bram’s blessing. Though the guest list had shrunk, and the wine wasn’t as fine a quality, the number of platters of food not quite as generous, and the room smaller, no-one complained. Our friends still attended, and we even welcomed a fading Mr Samuel Clemens one afternoon, who’d crossed the ocean to receive an honorary degree from Oxford.

Yet, I’d never felt so impotent, so feeble, so utterly dependent. Along with my husband, my currency was in decline, even though Noel, bless him, would always tell me how proud he was to escort his lovely mother anywhere.

Sons should say that kind of thing to their mothers, shouldn’t they? It didn’t mean anything. Likewise, I put little stock in Bram’s pretty reassurances. It was his duty. And like most duties, he performed it well. We’d reached a stage in our lives where we could appreciate each other in ways we maybe hadn’t before; build upon our strengths and ensure we kept our weaknesses securely hidden.

One Tuesday evening in mid-winter, as the snow fell thickly, muffling the cabs and motor cars outside, cocooning the house in its icy embrace, I heard a loud bang from the study. Afeared Bram had collapsed again, I burst in the door, only to find him sitting behind his desk with his head in his hands.

He looked up, bleary-eyed.

‘Bram!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you alright? What was that noise?’ I crossed to the desk, put a hand on his shoulder and looked about the room. Only then did I see the magnifying glass on the floor in front of the fire.

‘I’m fine.’ He tried not to snap, but I could hear the frustration in his voice.

‘Really?’ I retrieved the magnifying glass and slid it towards him. ‘You’re lucky it didn’t break.’

‘I’ve others.’ He leaned back in his chair and opened the desk drawer. Tucked inside were more magnifying glasses. Noel had bought him one with an ivory handle for Christmas. Violet and Hall had also gifted him one each.

I sat opposite and lay my hands on the desk, palms up. He hesitated a moment and then placed his huge hands over mine. We sat, looking at each other. I studied him, this great bear of a man I’d been married to for nearly thirty years. Now sixty, he stubbornly determined to press on as if he was half that age. The fire crackled and coughed to our right. I could just hear a ship’s horn sounding in the distance.

The white lacing his hair was prominent in the lamp’s soft glow. So was the evident strain in his eyes. The large pupils, the broken veins that surrounded those lovely grey orbs. ‘Let me be your eyes,’ I said finally.

Bram withdrew his hands and made a scoffing sound.

‘I’m serious, Bram.’ I was a little affronted by his reaction. ‘You let me write letters for you, read through contracts and other important documents before you sign them. Let me write your —’

‘Books? You want to write my books?’ Bram pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. ‘Honestly, Florrie, you want to take away —’

‘No, you great eejit,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to write your books. As if I could. I want to write your words. If you dictate to me, because God knows I can’t decipher your codes and shorthand or read your dreadful handwriting, I can scribe on your behalf. It doesn’t have to be all the time. Just when you need to rest your eyes, when holding the magnifying glass and writing becomes too arduous.’