Page 46 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

At home, Bram was an altogether different prospect. It wasn’t so much that he ceded control to me, though in many ways, apart from handling bills, he did. I was responsible for the day-to-day running of the house – with a great deal of help from Mrs Daw and Emma. Matilda had moved into her own accommodation after we returned from holidays, a small flat not too far away, so we still saw each other regularly. I don’t know where I would have been without Elizabeth either – certainly not able to perform at the Lyceum. But seeing Bram execute his duties as acting manager, with forty-eight staff at his beck and call, as well as handling distinguished audiences every single night, made me see a different side of him – a more authoritative one. I liked it, or more accurately, I admired and respected this side of his nature.

When one of the lads in the orchestra left his violin case in the aisle, blocking it, Bram was on the warpath.

‘Whose is this?’ he called angrily, holding the offending item aloft. A young musician held up a trembling hand. ‘Mine, Mr Stoker,’ he squeaked. The orchestra ceased tuning their instruments, the conductor glaring at the shaking lad.

‘The aisles must be clear at all times, do you understand?’ said Bram. ‘Even something as insignificant as this can cause injury.’

The lad nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He went to climb out of the pit to retrieve it.

‘Stay there, Joshua, isn’t it? I’ll bring it to you.’ Bram strode down the aisle and passed it to the red-faced lad.

‘How’s your mammy, by the way?’ he asked, his martial tone evaporating. ‘Has she recovered from the ague she was suffering?’

‘Y–yes, s–sir, thank you, sir,’ stammered Joshua, taking his case and sitting down.

‘He can be a right bastard, Mr Stoker,’ whispered one of the vestal virgins, watching the incident unfold. ‘It’s that Irish temper. I wouldn’t want to be on the end of that.’

‘I can think of something I’d like to be on the end of,’ said another of the virgins, sidling up and winking. There were giggles. Among the extras, no-one knew I was married to Bram.

‘Say what you like,’ said another. ‘But he never forgets to ask after family, does he?’

There were nods and gentle murmurs. More than a few women’s eyes stayed on Bram. Now I could add these virgins to the ever-growing tally of women who loved him. Was I the only one inured to his charm?

I was there the day his Irish temper flared again. This time, it was with Jonathan Hurst who oversaw the box office.

‘Jonathan!’ Bram hollered from the middle of the auditorium, almost bringing the rehearsal to a standstill. He was doing a check on the seating plan for the premiere. In less than two weeks, the play would open.

Jonathan appeared at the back of the theatre, before he scurried down the aisle to where Bram stood, sheets of paper in his hand. The carpenters and upholsterers repairing some seating darted out of his way.

‘These seats belong to Lord Southby and his party,’ said Bram, his voice carrying. ‘Not as you’ve allocated here, the duke and his entourage.’

Jonathan stared at the page Bram showed him. ‘I … I thought a duke should be given precedence, sir.’

‘Not in my theatre,’ said Bram darkly. ‘Lord Southby is not only a loyal and frequent patron, he’s a Beefsteak Room regular. They always get preference, understand? Now,’ he continued in an ordinary tone, his anger forgotten, ‘here’s the names of those Henry wishes to be given complimentary tickets. See they’re sent an invitation.’ These were issued on specially printed cards, like a summons to a ball or royal event. Another Bram innovation.

‘Yes, sir.’

Was it only me who saw the flash of bitterness Jonathan levelled at Bram when his back was turned? He wasn’t the only one. Bram set high standards and expected others to follow them.

I marvelled at Bram’s vitality, knowing that once he finished here, he still had correspondence to deal with, plus all the social engagements Henry organised. How he managed to spend any time at home or focus on his own writing was indeed a miracle.

Perhaps I was too hard on him. Perhaps my expectations were too high.

Yet, having seen my husband take command when Henry wasn’t to be found, watching him in a subservient role the moment the man materialised became increasingly repugnant. He trailed after Henry; ‘Yes, Chief’, ‘No, guv’na’. It pained me to see him reduced so.

It was only when he was in Henry’s company that Bram became somehow diminished. He was like a puppy, tail wagging, slavishly devoted. My husband was quite the conundrum. At times, he was all manliness and leadership; at others, womanly and eager to be led. It was confusing and it troubled me in a way I couldn’t articulate. I wondered how long Bram could tolerate such a situation.

I could scarcely stand it.

The opening night of The Cup is seared into my memory. Not so much for the excitement of being on stage before a full house, at one moment alive with noise and movement and the next, as the lights dimmed and the music commenced, falling silent – but because of Oscar.

Over the months, apart from occasionally hearing his name in relation to salons or as part of a Beefsteak dinner (to which I hadn’t been invited), I’d managed to push him (mostly) to the back of my mind. Married life and motherhood didn’t allow room for the perfidious ideas that used to crowd my head. Oscar began to fade into the background as a fond memory of what might have been but wasn’t. Or so I told myself.

Until The Cup.

It was half an hour before curtain call. I was sitting in a corner of the large room given over to the extras for dressing and make-up, when I saw Ellen’s maid, Judith, push her way through the crush. I was dwelling on what I’d be doing had I been at home and feeling more than a little grateful I was here, about to embark on an adventure instead of putting the babbie to bed or sitting by the fire reading. I wasn’t aware Judith sought me until there was a light tap on my shoulder.

‘Miss Terry is asking for ye, missus,’ she whispered.