Page 116 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Left with no recourse but to write, I did, and often. After all, if I didn’t pursue the matter, who would? When Mr Thring wrote that the Society would no longer embroil itself in the ‘messy’ Nosferatu business some weeks later, I turned to friends. Arthur Conan Doyle used his influence to speak to the Society’s committee on my behalf, as did George Bernard Shaw and Mr Heinemann. For a brief time, their weight added to my cause and momentum was achieved. Until everything once more ground to a halt. It was a confounding time.

Then, in June, I received the news that Prana Film had declared bankruptcy.

I telephoned Noel immediately.

‘Well, Mother, no-one can say you didn’t exhaust every possibility,’ he said. I could hear Ann singing in the background.

‘Have I, though?’ I sighed. ‘Has the Society?’

The telephone crackled. Noel never felt the urge to fill silence. Nor did I. That had been Bram’s role.

‘What upsets me most, Noel, is that if these filmmakers don’t face some consequences, what’s to stop anybody else doing the same? Stealing another writer’s work?’

Noel chuckled. ‘I think bankruptcy is a fairly large consequence, don’t you, Mother?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Look, if you’re a bit short, I can always forward you —’

‘No,’ I snapped. The last thing I wanted was my son loaning me money. ‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t fine, not by my standards. But I was deeply disappointed. Of all Bram’s works, Dracula was the one book that continued to pay royalties. Admittedly, these were on the decline. I’d hoped pursuing the makers of Nosferatu might at least provide me with something.

But there was a bigger issue at stake. Once again, Bram was being cast in the shadows. Worse, someone was taking credit for his creative labours. Hadn’t I sworn to do all in my power to ensure Bram got the recognition – and me the damn money – he deserved? Oh, to hell with these annoyances!

What was fast becoming apparent was that Mr Thring and Prana Film hoped to wear me down. Well, I was Mrs Florence Stoker and nothing and nobody would accomplish that, not while I lived and breathed.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

London, 1924

4 Kinnerton Studios,

William Street,

Knightsbridge, London

13 July

Dearest Phil,

I cannot tell you how relieved I was to read that John is much improved. I confess, I was shocked at how gaunt he’d become when I saw you both back in March. Let’s pray he’s soon back to his former self.

Thank you for your kind thoughts about Genevieve. We may not have seen each other much in her final months, nor as often as I’d have liked, but eighty-five is a mighty age to reach, don’t you think? Especially when you consider those we lost far too soon.

I’m still lighting a candle for Poor O. It’s funny, Phil, but the longer Oscar is gone from this life, the greater a presence he is in mine. Time has been kinder to his memory, and I find people are now content to discuss him quite openly and fondly, recall his great wit and talent and politely forget the scandal that marred his final years. Not that there haven’t been those still trying to profit from it. Did you see that so-called friend of O’s, Robert Sherard, has written another biography about him? The first left a nasty taste. I don’t know why he penned it, except to make money (not that there’s anything wrong with writing for bread, unless it’s to mar a person’s name, especially one who can no longer defend himself). I was most disappointed with Bosie’s effort, too. Mind you, Oscar’s plays are, dare I say it, wild(e)ly popular again.

Whenever I hold my little Sunday soirees, I make sure to draw attention to the books Oscar signed for me, and his lovely painting. O’s little watercolour creates much envy in the breasts of the Oscar cult. That’s what I’m calling them, these women and men who gush over him. Did I tell you I met the brother of Robert Ross? Mr Ross was one of the few people who stood by O through thick and thin and was with him in Paris. A lovely man, he’d kept in touch with O’s sons. Sadly, Cyril died during the war – a German sniper in France. They say his other lad, Vyvyan, has ambitions to be a writer. Quite the name to live up to, isn’t it, being the son of Oscar Wilde. Though Vyvyan uses the name Holland, so maybe not. It was arranged that Vyvyan would visit, and I told all my guests, but he never showed. He was talked about at great length, though, as was his father. O would love that he’s still the subject of gossip, wouldn’t he?

I’ve been out no end this season, with theatre and parties and dinners thrown in. It’s tiring, but I enjoy every moment. I’ve reclaimed the zest I thought extinguished long ago. Wherever I go, there are those who, once they learn I’m Bram Stoker’s wife, insist on telling me about the time they met him, or what he did for them, and this more than twelve years after his death.

Just as it was when he was alive, he’s best known for the Lyceum and Henry Irving. I try to give a different perspective on that arrangement, explain how essential he was, how important, and while some are curious, I find most people would much rather remain fixed in their understanding. However, when I mention that I’m currently in the midst of a legal battle over the rights for Bram’s novel Dracula with a German film company, interest is suddenly kindled.

I can honestly admit I don’t think anyone would give two figs for me if I wasn’t once married to Bram. It’s as if I’ve no identity of my own, as if Florence never existed. I’m subsumed. Yet, who else is fighting to keep Bram’s literary accomplishments alive? Only me. So, I’ve decided that going forward, I’m going to sign myself Mrs FAL Bram Stoker. If I have to use his name again in order to be taken seriously, to fight for his legacy, then I think it only fair I have equal billing.

Next week, I’m meeting with a young Irish producer and playwright by the name of Hamilton Deane to discuss bringing Dracula to the stage. I was very set against the idea for such a long time. Well, I’ve changed my mind. (Older women may not be entitled to much, including film rights, but I am to this!) Mr Bang (William Heinemann’s friend), who I seem to have collected along the way, has become my agent. He says there could be a ‘tidy sum’ to be made. Noel agreed. So, I’ll meet Mr Deane (who used to perform with Henry Irving’s Vacation Company – am I never to escape ‘the Chief’?) in two days’ time and see what he has to say. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of Dracula being a theatrical production. It’s what Bram always intended (though a part of me feels he’d love seeing it transformed into a film as well – just not the German version). If it all goes ahead, I’m quite determined to have a say. This might be my last chance to shape Dracula into something more palatable for the public and, I pray, successful.

I’ll let you know the outcome of the meeting in my next letter dear one.

Love always,