Page 111 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Did others know? Had he given it to anyone else? Dr Browne said the disease wasn’t uncommon, as if that somehow made the diagnosis, and the reasons for it, more palatable. Bloody men! God, he couldn’t look me in the eye when he told me. Of course, Bram must have known he had it and for months. More likely years …

He never told me. Not a hint. Not a whisper.

My face grew hotter; my mind was afire. I needed to discuss this with someone who could, if not reassure me, give me some understanding. Before I changed my mind, I phoned Bram’s brother, George.

‘Florrie! Do you know what time it is?’

I glanced at the clock. It was ten past ten in the evening.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked when I didn’t respond.

I told him. When I finished speaking, there was silence. It went for so long, I thought the operator had lost the connection.

‘George? George? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Florrie. I am.’

‘Well? What does it mean? What’s the significance of it? Did Bram know?’

‘Really, Fl … Fl … Florrie,’ said George, stumbling over my name. ‘I’m not sure you should be asking me.’

‘Why on earth not? You’re Bram’s brother. You treated him for years. You must have known.’

George went silent again before releasing a long, long sigh. ‘I’m coming to see you.’

‘When?’ I asked, staring into the mouthpiece as if he might manifest.

‘Now.’

When George sat me down, looking quite ruffled and tired, poor Maria stumbling out of bed and insisting on making a pot of tea and ensuring whisky was on hand, I tried to prepare myself for whatever I might hear.

‘According to the certificate,’ said George, placing it down carefully, ‘Bram’s syphilis was advanced – tertiary.’

‘Tertiary? There are degrees?’

George nodded.

My stomach clenched. ‘I see. So, he had it longer than six months.’

‘Much longer.’

‘How long do you suppose?’

George shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I doubt Dr Browne would, either. Once contracted, it can remain dormant in the body for years, up to thirty in some cases —’

Thirty!

‘But my guess is Bram had it for a couple of decades, at least. His symptoms fit.’

‘What symptoms?’ I snapped. ‘He had Bright’s disease. We all knew that. He was exhausted.’

‘Yes. Yes. He did. He was,’ said George, losing patience. ‘But the ulcerated sores, the strokes … well, they can also be a symptom of —’ He indicated the certificate, reluctant to pick it up again. ‘He was also losing his eyesight, had difficulty with his balance. In the last couple of years, he struggled to walk normally.’

An image of Bram stamping on the sands at Whinnyfold, shouting at the ocean, bloomed. Not eccentric after all. Syphilitic.

‘These are all signs of … the other underlying condition. So was his moodiness, his sometimes strange behaviour.’ George ran his fingers through his hair. Despite the chill the fire couldn’t keep at bay, he was sweating. ‘Do you recall when he started handing out oranges at the king’s coronation? He was like a lunatic street vendor, passing them to all and sundry. People didn’t know what to make of it, this gentleman pushing fruit into their hands.’

I did remember. We laughed it off that day. Decided Bram was caught up in the splendour of the king’s formal ascension to the throne after the drawn-out mourning for the queen.