Page 117 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Your Florrie, to be known henceforth as Mrs FAL Bram Stoker

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

It was a Monday when I first met Mr Hamilton Deane. He came to my flat just past ten of the clock. Mr Bang had arrived earlier, and we’d swiftly gone over the kind of questions I should ask. Phillippa took Moonbeam for a walk, promising to stay away for a good couple of hours.

It was one of those spring mornings that announce nature’s rebirth with a burst of colour, comforting warmth and a delightful breeze. Well, it would have been delightful had it not carried the odours of the streets. The sun was shining, birds were twittering and the cheery voices of neighbours drifting in the window lifted my heart. Why, even Vera, my maid, was singing.

Mr Bang was most congenial, and we agreed about everything – except my intention to have a say in the production, should it proceed. Mr Bang was of the mind that we should hear what Mr Deane had to say before I put in my tuppence worth lest I risk the opportunity. I disagreed. It was against this setting that Mr Deane made his entrance.

There was something about Hamilton Deane that, despite my determination to keep him at arm’s length and act like the consummate businesswoman, I warmed to immediately. It wasn’t only that he grew up in my old neighbourhood of Clontarf, or that his mother knew Bram many years ago, or that he possessed the roguish charm of so many of my former countrymen. It was quite simply that he reminded me of Oscar.

There wasn’t a physical resemblance, not really, apart from the high forehead and the expressive mouth. It was more his style, the hand gestures, the confident walk. The way he gave such a formal yet enchanting bow over my extended hand before collapsing with fluid grace into the armchair near the window.

I made a conscious effort not to touch my hair, my skirts. Not to stare as, barely drawing breath, he excitedly told me how much he admired Bram’s work, the drama of it, the way he was able to create worlds, evoke such deep emotions with words.

My heart swelled. I couldn’t recall the last time someone spoke so generously about Bram’s writing.

‘You’ve read all his books then?’

Vera chose that moment to enter with a tray containing tea and slices of Battenburg.

‘All? Erm … why, yes. I mean, I’m not certain. I’m referring of course to Dracula.’

I inwardly groaned. ‘I see.’ Frost framed my next words. ‘Dracula was not the only book Bram wrote. In fact, he wrote a total of eighteen.’

Mr Deane took the teacup from Vera. ‘Eighteen! I … I’d no idea he’d written so many. I will amend my oversight immediately. I’m afraid all my spare time has been devoted to the one I’m here to talk to you about.’

‘You disappoint me, Mr Deane. You can hardly declare yourself an aficionado of my husband’s work if you’ve only read one of his books.’

Mr Bang choked on his beverage. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

‘Oh, but, Mrs Stoker,’ continued Mr Deane, smiling in a disarming way, ‘I am an aficionado of Dracula. I’ve read it so many times, I defy anyone to claim they know it better.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that there would be at least one other person, but he was dead. Mr Bang discreetly coughed into his napkin. Mr Deane then proceeded to prove how well he knew Dracula by taking us through the book blow by blow. When he began to recount Renfield’s predilection for rats, I put a stop to it. Nevertheless, I felt guilty that, unlike this stranger, I was not as well acquainted with the tale. With my eyesight so poor, I doubt I could manage a whole book anymore. I determined to ask Phillippa to read it to me.

Mr Deane placed his cup and saucer on the table. The china clinked repeatedly. Why, the poor man was shaking.

My frost began to melt.

‘So, Mr Deane,’ I said. ‘Let us get to the heart of the matter. The reason you’re here. I understand you wish to turn my husband’s novel into a play.’

Mr Deane’s shoulders lifted; his spine straightened. ‘I do, Mrs Stoker. I do. I’m an actor-manager who fancies himself a novice writer.’ He grinned. ‘For my sins, I’ve a small troupe that performs under the name the Hamilton Deane Company. We tour the provinces mainly. Dracula would, I’m afraid, have its premiere and initial run there.’

It was hard not to express relief.

‘Though, naturally,’ he continued, ‘I’m hoping that the big cities will call —’

‘Naturally,’ I said.

‘And I’m of the conviction that if any play can turn around the fortunes of my little company, it’s Dracula.’ He hesitated, flashed a grin at first me, then Mr Bang. ‘As I envisage it.’

I tried not to pull a face. This novice had lofty ambitions. I still remembered the only time Dracula had been in a theatre – the copyright reading at the Lyceum. The last thing I wanted was a production replicating that effort. ‘You’ve just spent the last twenty minutes expressing your admiration for the novel, Mr Deane, yet you would change it. In what way?’

Mr Deane cleared his throat. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Mrs Stoker, a play is a very different beast to a novel. Cuts are required. Reorganisation. A fresh vision, if you like.’ He inched forward and lowered his voice, as if he was about to share a confidence. ‘If I may be so bold, I’ve already taken the liberty of commencing a draft.’ He nodded, smiling, like a child seeking approval.

Mr Bang’s considerable eyebrows travelled up his forehead and he opened his mouth.

‘Have you now?’ I said before Mr Bang could interject.