Page 50 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Phil’s fiancé, the delightful John Knott, a wiry teacher with round spectacles and a soothing voice, joined us for dinner. Sat around our old dining room table that first evening, watching Alice, Catherine and Phil tease each other, bait Father, and plead with Mother about going to the theatre unaccompanied, made me realise how much I’d missed them. Missed the easy banter, knowing that even when you disagreed or argued, you were still loved. My eyes filled.

‘Are you alright, Kitten?’ whispered Phil.

I dashed away the tear running down my cheek. ‘Don’t be nice,’ I hissed. ‘I’ll be quite undone. Quick. Call me names.’

It was something Phil and I did when we were on the brink of crying – demanded the other think of awful things to say.

‘You’re a proper dryshite,’ she gibed. ‘You’re so ugly, even the tide wouldn’t take you out. You’re a right gombeen —’

‘Enough, enough,’ I began, smiling wanly.

‘You can thank me later.’ She put her hand over mine. ‘We need to talk.’

‘We do,’ I said, and extracted my hand. It was the last thing I wanted.

I hadn’t accounted for Phil’s determination. After John had left, along with James and Billy, I pleaded weariness and, first making sure Irving was settled, retreated to my brothers’ old room where I was sleeping. I changed and sat by the window, gazing upon Marino Park. The late evening sky was a glorious rainbow of violet, gold and rose. Couples enjoyed the balmy weather; men were out walking dogs, and two women pushed a stroller. The ducks that normally occupied the area near the rotunda were roosting by the pond. Above, a murmuration of starlings circled and glided, little blots of darkness against the paintbox sky. Lost in memories of meandering walks, picnics on the grass, and other times, my ribs grew tight, my throat too. Sweet Jesus. Was it just three years since I married and left Dublin? It felt a lifetime. I’d been another person.

The door opened, and in slipped Phil. My heart sank. I knew that look.

‘Out with it,’ she said.

She dragged over a stool and joined me by the window. ‘There’s no use denying it, Kitten. I can see you’ve something on your mind, something that makes you forlorn. No, it’s worse than that. I sensed you were withholding in your letters. What is it?’

‘Naught, Phil.’ I flashed a tired grin. ‘You’re imagining it.’

‘Ha! You’ve always said I’ve no imagination. You can’t grant me one now just because you don’t want to divulge the source of your unhappiness.’

‘I’m not unhappy.’

‘Then why do you have a face like a slapped arse?’

I gave a bark of laughter. ‘Where did you learn that one?’

‘John’s mammy. Now, stop avoiding my question. Tell me, what’s Bram done?’

‘How do you know Bram’s done anything?’

‘I didn’t, but I do now.’ She waited, then reached over and took my hand in hers, stroking my fingers. Damn if my eyes didn’t well.

I released a long sigh. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

‘Not when it’s you, Kitten, no.’

‘I don’t want to foist my problems on you. You’re about to get married, and John’s lovely.’

She scoffed and waved her hands. ‘More reason to tell me – I’m immune, inoculated by love.’ Her mirth died when she saw my expression. ‘Oh, Florrie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mockery of —’

‘No, no, it’s not that. You’re not. It’s just —’ Then, before I could change my mind, I told her – about how Bram behaved around Henry Irving, their strange, unbalanced relationship. How Bram idolised the man, failed to recognise his faults. How Henry was akin to a parasite, demanding all Bram’s time and attention, leaving nothing for me or Irving. ‘Worse,’ I added, ‘Bram appears to be willing to sacrifice everything for him. Apart from some children’s stories – many of which he’d written before we ever moved to London – his dreams of being a serious novelist appear to have been discarded. Everything he does now is to further Henry Irving’s ambitions …’

What I didn’t admit were my doubts about the nature of their relationship; how I feared it was more than hero-worship. How these doubts grew to encompass any man who came into Bram’s ken. Though Phil and I had read The Symposium together and resolved not to condemn those who loved their own sex, to understand them even, I told myself it wasn’t fair to divulge my concerns to her. Anyhow, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with. I might be mistaken …

When I finished, Phil was silent. Outside a cat wailed. From within the house, Captain Walton began to bark. There were footsteps, a shout, then the soft tinkle of the piano forte.

‘Oh, Florrie,’ said Phil. ‘Are you sure —?’

‘Please,’ I said, holding up my palm. ‘Don’t say I’m mistaken, that it’s just Bram being loyal and doing a wonderful job. I’m not and he is. This is more than that. I can’t put my finger on it exactly … I just feel Bram is diminished by Henry when the opposite should be true.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Phil finally. ‘I can’t imagine this man you’re describing as Bram Stoker.’