Page 119 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘What do you think, Mr Deane?’ I asked. Young enough to be my son, I fought not to overlay my memories of Oscar on him.

‘You see Dracula as … domesticated.’

I laughed. ‘I do. And yet not so domesticated he can be tamed. That would defy his purpose, would it not? But the suggestion he could be should … linger as a possibility in the audience’s mind.’

First putting his pen and notebook aside, Mr Deane slid forward and, with great reverence, took the teacup out of my hand, placed it on the side table then folded his long fingers around mine.

‘I think you’re a genius, Mrs Stoker. A bona fide genius.’

We shared a long smile.

‘Do we have a deal?’ asked Mr Deane softly.

I hesitated, pretended to consider his proposition. He squeezed my fingers.

‘We do.’ The smile deepened.

‘Good. We’re agreed then,’ said Mr Bang, his voice cutting through the moment. ‘Time to discuss percentages.’

And so the conversation turned to money.

Over the following weeks, contracts were negotiated and signed. Bram’s vampire would live again.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Derby, 1924

Dracula, the play, made its debut on 5 August at the Grand Theatre, Derby. Accompanying me to opening night were Mr Bang, Phillippa, Noel and Neelie. Lucy Gilbert, Nancy and Arthur wanted to attend as well, but I was anxious how it would be received, so begged them to come another night. I didn’t mention there were only to be three performances.

Whereas Mr Deane had intended to play the count, he’d ended up casting Edmund Blake in the role and taking on the part of Van Helsing. His reasoning was the doctor had more dialogue. Honestly, actors and their egos. Just like Henry Irving, it was all about being centre stage the longest.

The censor had demanded some changes: the vampire’s death wasn’t to be shown – too gruesome a spectacle – and Lucy’s neck was not to appear penetrated. Even without those, the play was as grisly and frightening as the book (Phillippa had read it to me in the interim and I’d even used Bram’s old magnifying glass to read sections for myself). The atmosphere was grim, dark. Though I knew what was to happen, I was on edge. A sense of doom pervaded, so much so, I began to have flashbacks to the drowned man. Not the dripping corpse on the dining table, but as he used to appear in corners and shadows, a demonic presence or a dark guardian. I could never be certain.

The play was not the novel. It wasn’t accomplished enough for that. And yet, as abridged as it was, it managed to encapsulate the mood – the dreadful supernatural and the hopeful spiritual. What pleased me most of all was seeing how well the count played as a gentleman of refinement. No longer was he the brusque, crude and hideous undead monster. Dracula now moved among the ladies and gentlemen, entered their inner sanctums, posing a greater threat than ever because he was just like them.

Neelie gripped Noel’s hand as the play progressed, and startled exclamations escaped Phillippa throughout. Gasps and even small screams erupted around the theatre. I took joy in others’ discomfort. Did that make me a monster, too?

The audience clapped for a long time, the cast beaming as they were called back onto the stage to take their bows not once, nor twice, but thrice.

I hope you’re watching, Bram, I silently prayed. You too, Henry.

Overall, I was delighted with the play’s reception. Mr Deane had been a good choice. The audience loved it.

Sadly, reviewers weren’t so generous. Not that this prevented Mr Deane from touring the country and playing to sold-out audiences for months. All the time, he awaited the longed-for call from London.

I, too, was waiting for London to call, more specifically the Society of Authors to tell me that my long battle with Prana Film was finally over.

When they did eventually contact me, the news was not what I wanted to hear.

‘I’m afraid our victory in the German courts against Prana is short-lived, Mrs Stoker,’ said Mr Thring. I should have known when he telephoned and exchanged pleasantries with more grace than usual that he was preparing to deliver a blow.

‘What do you mean, short-lived?’ I sat on the little stool in the hallway, unwilling to trust my legs as a wave of disbelief and fury washed over me. ‘Last I heard was that despite declaring bankruptcy, they’d been ordered to pay me five thousand pounds. I distinctly remember you saying it was better late than never.’ I’d always loathed platitudes, they struck me as lazy and somewhat judgemental, but in this instance, Mr Thring’s had been warranted.

‘Yes, I did, but —’ he paused. ‘I was hasty.’

I waited for him to continue. I could hear my breath echoing down the receiver, laboured and heavy.

‘They’re simply trying to grind me down,’ I said. ‘They’re waiting for me to surrender. Well, I’m not going to, Mr Thring, even though I know you’d be glad if I did.’