Page 110 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

CHAPTER FIFTY

I don’t recall much in the immediate aftermath of Bram’s passing. Noel organised for the doctor to attend the house and confirm his death, fill out a death certificate. He also arranged for messages to be sent to George and Tom. I would write to Ellen, Lucy, Violet and Genevieve, Phil, Thornley, and the remaining Stoker family in Ireland in due course. Maria and Mary came and paid teary respects to the master they’d adored, standing at the foot of the bed, expressing their sorrow and then, almost as an afterthought, their condolences to me. Numb to the core, I think I mumbled something in return. What the women must have thought, let alone the doctor, as I sat dry-eyed and still as a statue, I’m reluctant to think. I refused to move or relinquish Bram’s hand. Relieved his suffering was over, that the long months of waiting for the inevitable had finally arrived, I don’t think I truly understood he was gone. As the minutes then hours ticked by, it slowly dawned on me that this wasn’t something he would stir from and reach for me. This was the end.

What I had yet to realise was that it was Bram’s end, not mine. At first, it was as if I too had died. After all, my life for better and worse had always been defined by Bram, whoever and whatever he was.

It was only when Noel escorted the doctor into the drawing room and left me to bid my husband a final farewell, telling me the coroner would arrive shortly to remove the body (no longer ‘Father’ or ‘Bram’, but ‘the body’), that the tears came.

‘Oh, Bram,’ I whispered, stroking his beard, marvelling at how young he suddenly looked without pain and struggle on his features. I kissed his hand, those lovely fingers, then rested my head on his motionless chest. ‘What will my life be like without you?’ I muffled my sobs against him.

I couldn’t bear the thought.

Once news of Bram’s death spread, friends poured into the house to pay their respects and offer the comfort only loved ones can: George and Tom, Ellen, Lucy and Nancy, Genevieve and Violet. Arthur Doyle, George Bernard Shaw and so many of Bram’s writer friends and acquaintances from the Lyceum either called or left cards. Noel and Neelie, reluctant to leave me alone, surrendered me to Ellen’s care. It had taken much persuasion, but I’d finally convinced her to go home: I needed solitude.

Thus, I was quite alone when Dr Browne called a few days before the funeral to give me Bram’s death certificate – the piece of officialdom I needed in order that our lawyer might act for his estate. I pulled it out of the envelope, intending to only give it a cursory glance, when I saw there were three causes of death listed: Exhaustion. Granular Contracted Kidney (he’d had Bright’s disease for some time, so no surprise there). But then there were words I didn’t understand.

Locomotor Ataxy 6 months.

‘Locomotor Ataxy?’ I looked at the doctor. ‘What on earth is that, Dr Browne? I’ve never heard of it. Bram had it for six months?’

Dr Browne shifted uncomfortably. He put down the tea Maria had served and began to swiftly do up his satchel. ‘Indeed.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Likely longer. Years, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Years?’ I stared at the certificate, then at Dr Browne. ‘What is it?’

He swallowed. ‘Err … It’s not uncommon, Mrs Stoker. Not really. I’ve treated many patients with the condition. Some recover, others … well … Oh, is that the time?’ he exclaimed, pulling out his pocket watch, a poor actor reciting his lines. He stood. ‘I must be on my way. More patients, you understand. Thank you for the tea.’ He donned his hat.

‘Wait. Dr Browne.’ I stood in his way. ‘What is Locomotor Ataxy exactly? It’s not a term I know.’

Dr Browne cleared his throat twice more and wouldn’t meet my eyes. ‘It’s … err … it’s syphilis, Mrs Stoker.’

‘Syphilis?’ I gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that your husband died with syphilis.’

Before I could ask any more, Dr Browne made a rapid exit, his footsteps receding down the stairs.

The word echoed in the cavern my mind had become. Syphilis.

I fell back into my chair. I picked up the certificate and read it again, as if the words might magically alter under increased scrutiny.

Locomotor Ataxy … Syphilis, six months. I struggled to comprehend what it signified – about Bram. The doctor must be mistaken … surely?

I wasn’t so naive as to not be aware of the talk surrounding men believed to have contracted the condition, some passing it on to their unfortunate wives. When someone disappeared from society without good reason, it was oft thought it was for treatment – mercury, arsenic compounds. The supposed cure often worse than the disease. Why, some gossips had attributed Poor O’s death to syphilis, blaming his debauched lifestyle. Thank God, dear Mr Turner had set that right.

But syphilis was associated with depravity, with immorality of a specific kind. It also suggested a libidinousness and choices of the kind I found hard to attribute to Bram. And yet … I sat there as the room grew darker and colder. Maria came to light the lamps, tend the fire. Oblivious to her ministrations, I was like a scientist, examining Bram’s life through a microscope. His friendships, his travels, the time away from home; his long evenings at the theatre, talks at gentlemen’s clubs, returning after the sun was up. Where had he really been? What had he been doing? Was he dallying in some bawdy house? Paying someone to satisfy his urges?

From the moment we arrived in London he’d been surrounded by other women – fascinating and beautiful ones – actresses, writers, other men’s consorts and wives. Unable to help himself if a damsel needed rescuing, Bram was there. There’d been talk, of course there had. Initially confused by the female attention he received, wondering if it was something more than genial (they called him Uncle Bram, after all), and if I was being credulous, or worse, fooled, Ellen had reassured me Bram didn’t stray. But how would she know? How would anyone? When I confronted Bram about his indifference towards conjugal relations, and realised it wasn’t women he was interested in, I was relieved people might consider him a philanderer; it was an excellent diversion. For while people were looking one way, they weren’t looking the other, were they? But how had he contracted the disease? Was it from a man? Men? ‘I’m not Oscar,’ he once said to me. I’d assumed he meant he wasn’t reckless. What if I’d been looking the wrong way? What if my husband had alluded to preferring men so he might pursue women? What if he had dalliances with both? What if everyone knew except me? Were they all laughing at me? Stupid, blind Florence. Is that what Bram thought of me?

After all, I was merely the Wife.

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the chair.

Bram once told me that life wasn’t fair. I’d thought him bilious and paid scant attention. But he was right. Four words had turned my life upside down; made what I thought fair most foul.

Locomotor Ataxy. 6 months.

He was meant to be discreet. That had been our agreement.

Dying with syphilis was hardly that.