Page 115 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘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.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

London, 1923

Having been a member for a year or more, I finally paid my first visit to the offices of the Incorporated Society of Authors, Playwrights and Composers. I was given a brief tour of the book-lined and smoke-filled rooms, accompanied by the clatter of typewriters, before being ushered into Mr George Thring’s office by his secretary, Miss Chandler. Since joining, I’d done what I could to keep the case against the Germans at Prana Film at the forefront of the Society’s mind.

‘As I outlined to you in my last letter, my dear Mrs Stoker,’ began Mr Thring after we’d exchanged pleasantries and I’d taken the offered seat. His voice sounded different in person. Deeper, more considered, less inclined to reveal the limits of his patience. ‘There are those among our members who feel that the Society’s, ah … energies, have been consumed by your … frequent demands. I’ve had dozens of letters from you.’ He rested a hand on a nearby file filled with the blue stationery I favoured. ‘On top of numerous phone calls. Need I remind you that you joined only when you were in difficulties.’

I cocked a brow. ‘Indeed. But what’s the point of the Society if not to help members when in difficulty?’

Mr Thring cleared his throat. ‘Well, the management committee feel their time would be better spent on supporting longstanding members. Those perceived as more … deserving of our support.’ He drew breath. I took the opportunity.

‘My dear Mr Thring,’ I began, deliberately imitating his tone and style. Heat travelled up my neck and a furnace burned in my centre, a fire that had been stoked by the endless (and mostly useless and repetitive) correspondence from this very man.

I tried to bring him into focus, his neat swollen suit, finely trimmed moustache; a neck that rolled over the edges of his tight collar. Well fed, my mother would have said. Corpulent, would have been Bram’s word. All the same, I wondered if Mr Thring was echoing the committee he represented or whether he had taken a set against me and was determined to fob me off. After all, I was merely a writer’s widow, not the talent himself. And yet, when I first joined the Society, they’d taken my complaint about Nosferatu seriously. They’d assured me that yes indeed, I was owed money from Prana Film, who were most definitely in breach of copyright.

As time passed, I received what can only be described as wishy-washy replies from Mr Thring: ‘We’re still dealing with the matter’, ‘It’s not as clear-cut as first appeared, Mrs Stoker’, ‘These things are complex’. It was as if I was a child dabbling in an adult world in which I had no business.

I took a deep breath and rested a hand against the desk. ‘Deserving, you say. Explain to me then, Mr Thring, what is your purpose if not to help members in a crisis? Or do you simply exist to take membership fees and ensure your salary is paid?’

There was very little point remaining after that. Mr Thring muttered some platitudes about following due procedures and that I must be patient – advice that always rankled, more so now I was older. Time was not on my side.

As I made to depart, he said one last thing. ‘Rest assured, Mrs Stoker, when there’s news regarding your case, you’ll be among the first to know.’

I paused in the doorway. He’d already picked up his pen and opened a ledger; a passive dismissal.

‘And you may rest assured, Mr Thring, I will ensure I am.’

I made no friend of Mr Thring that day. From then on, he refused to take any of my calls. One time, I even overheard him telling Miss Chandler to say he was in a meeting.