Stokers Shadow (14 page)

T
HE FOG
presses thick against the windows as Florence's taxi zooms along. The silence of the journey is unnatural and threatening. She should have brought Mrs. Davis, she thinks to herself, at least for the outward journey. She has so seldom travelled on her own. The nearest she ever came was travelling with William when he was a child and when Bram was busy on one of the Lyceum's American tours. Sadness tugs her heart. What ever happened to that dear little boy? So trusting and open. She remembers the rescue off the coast of northern France when their ship went down; she can see him in front of her again in his sailor suit, wedged fast between adult passengers, so brave and quiet, as the sea spat its salty foam at them in through the swaying blackness.

Then she remembers how he had been snatched and replaced during one of his school terms. The surly child that
returned one winter was clearly an imposter. Yet it is he she now has to rely on in her old age. How chivalrous the real William would have been! How dutiful and attentive! She thinks of how she would have thrilled at the glimpses of adventure he would have given her, the descriptions of battles fought, great events attended, palaces and factories built. He would have taken her arm under his and shown her all from a safe distance the way Bram used to.

Florence gazes into the fog and tries to imagine her London flying past, the London of confidence, order and lavish gaiety: Oscar with his yellow silk gloves and hair like raven's wings; Irving and her husband with their wild schemes of taking America; the unashamed luxury of the Lyceum with its peacock wing patterns papering the foyer. She thinks of William Gilbert with his magical catacomb sense of humor and his private menagerie of exotic animals. She remembers the little Madagascar monkey he presented to her and how the gift seemed to represent something so touching, as though he had chipped off a piece of himself for her, recognizing a kindred spirit.

Florence stares into the milky greyness wondering about that gift, remembering the tiny clutching hands as the little animal stood on her shoulder. The memory merges into the star in the eye of her portrait which stands on her bedroom dresser. There was such humour and optimism in that drawing too. Was this merely the flattery of a paid artist, or was there really something different about her then? It all feels as distant to her now as ancient Egypt must seem to the crumbling bones and bandages in the British Museum. The car slows to a halt
by the curb. The lights of the nearest building blur through the fog, sending a little wave of trepidation through Florence's heart. Am I really going to go into battle tonight? she asks herself as she leans forward to pay the driver. Have I really left hearth and home for the dank uncertainties of this alien territory and unknown foes?

The driver opens the door for her at last and Florence steps onto the cold ringing pavement. She feels the indifference of the man like tiny icicles in her bones as he zooms off into the darkening fog. She looks up at the Methodist-plain block building before her. She finds it hard to believe that this is where her enemies are hiding. Bland yellow squares of light puncture the greyness all around her, one below, one above.

She forces herself to move without thinking, pushing the heavy painted door which is wedged slightly open. The dust of a low-grade government office or public library pervades her senses in the austere hallway. She can well imagine Bolshevik rumblings echoing around this unwholesome space with its grey, white and black floor tiles and its wide featureless stairway and bannisters leading up. She obeys a neat chalk-written message and arrow on a small sandwich board and begins to ascend the wide stairway. Loneliness reverberates in her heart with each accompanying step. As she reaches the top of the staircase and glimpses the rows of cheap wooden chairs through the open double doors, she feels an unbearable greyness descending. Her face burns as she crosses the threshold avoiding the glances of several curious, drab intellectuals, some young, some her son's age. To her alarm, one of the men, who walks with a harassed air between the screen and the
projector, screwdriver in hand, even looks a little like William – round-shouldered and glum-faced. It's as though they could both be part of the same tribe of such creatures.

Florence takes a seat, scanning the others who number fourteen or fifteen in all. She is clearly the oldest here. But she is pleased to see she is not the only single woman. There are two others who appear neither to be accompanied, nor to be together, although they do seem startlingly similar to each other, both about Maud's age but dressed like librarians in deliberately unflattering brown and grey.

The man with the screwdriver now shuffles his feet. He coughs and the sparse audience ceases to murmur. “Good evening,” he says, the screwdriver still in his hand. “Some new faces today, I believe,” he adds, squinting, Florence feels, in her direction. She feels her blood race again in fear of discovery, but no one looks around. “The film we are lucky enough to have acquired for this evening is a rather remarkable one, reflecting the exciting new movements in German art and the way it translates into the medium of film.” The man shuffles, full of nervous twitchings and awkward enthusiasm. Florence is disappointed that her enemies should remain hidden beneath such bland and human exteriors. His gentleness is confounding her. “It's a small-scale production, particularly when compared to the very large filmmaking on America's west coast. But that is not necessarily to its detriment. The subject of this film,” he pauses looking for the right words, and Florence feels her chest hammering in anticipation of what he is going to say about her husband, “is perhaps a surprising one. Um … the filmmakers have chosen a rather old-fashioned
Gothic relic, one that might have seemed to be out of date in terms of style even when it was written twenty-five years ago. But they have turned it into something remarkable.”

A flash of violence runs through Florence. She feels her sinews tighten and her breathing turn to short gasps. This is worse than anything. Not only are these people failing to be outraged at the plunder of her husband's work, they are actually lauding the vandals and disparaging the rightful owner! She comes to the very brink of shouting out and interrupting him. But she is held back for a moment, not by shyness but by some vaguer impotence – by the simple task of finding the right words. There are so many choices, so many valid reasons for urgent protest that she finds herself delayed by the selection. And, as the light goes out and the screen flickers to life, she finds her pounding heart beginning to settle. She finds that the interruption she would have found easy a few moments ago suddenly becomes much harder. Uncertainty and selfconsciousness have gripped her. She is watching a performance, and her long acquaintanceship with the theatre has taught her that there is nothing more sacrilegious than upsetting an audience.

T
HERE IS A
happy silence between William and Mary. The morning room clock ticks cozily, its creaking wood acknowledging the ease of the situation. Gloved by this feeling, they have drifted onto the subject of Dracula again. Mary is excited by her theory; it is a love story, she has tried to explain. William leans forward, takes a sip of tea and listens. Her freshness charms him and she is gaining in confidence and eloquence.

“Don't you see what I mean?” she says, moving forward in her chair. “It's all about people longing to connect with each other, as though they can't get close enough except by drinking each other's blood and sharing thoughts, and when Mina says that Dracula is the saddest soul of all, it's as though she wants the same thing too.”

“I'm sure you're right,” William says, warmly taking a sip of tea. “People aren't allowed to love in this country. I'm sure at it's core, Dracula is a sad love story.”

William has taken himself by surprise. Not allowed to love. The phrase repeats in his head. What did I mean by that? he asks himself. The phrase came out with such conviction and melancholy, he is afraid he has broken through the barriers of propriety when he was not ready to do so. Mary is looking at him intimately too, as though she believes he is talking about himself. A tingle goes through him, a double charge; half excitement, half fear. He realizes he is within easy reach of the girl's emotions. And now that her face glows under the influence of the hearth, and her skirt hisses gently as she moves, he is intoxicated by the power he apparently wields.

William glances at the fire which glows steadily but sizzles now and again with an unusual amount of ash on the surface. He tries to slow himself down, remembering how he felt before he arrived, about the girl's youth and vulnerability. But it is hard because now she looks older and less helpless. In the evening and the glow of firelight, her skin has taken on an almost voluptuous translucence and her eyes and lips are those of a woman, not a girl.

William moves uneasily in his chair and tries to pin his thoughts down to the original intention of his visit, to his plan to put the financial proposal to his mother. There was something noble about this mission, he tries to tell himself; he should not sully it. But an echo twists darkly at the tail of this thought. How else might my motivations be viewed? it mocks.

William catches Mary's sympathetic, smiling face and reaches out for a subject that might distract him.

“Have you finished Dracula?” he asks.

Mary's expression drops suddenly. “No,” she replies. “I won't be able to finish it now.”

“Why not?” asks William confused, thinking he has missed something.

“Mrs. Stoker found out and destroyed it.”

“Destroyed what?” He thinks of the film, not understanding. “You mean the book?”

Mary looks at the fire and then at William. William fixes on the piles of ash between and over the coals. He raises himself from the chair and approaches the hearth, his eyes resting on the grey dust and what now shows itself to be scattered, scorched paper. He turns to Mary again.

“She burned your book?”

“She made me put it in the fire.”

Her voice is wounded and her eyes glisten with incipient tears. William feels the ghosts of Irving's fingertips on his face, and the smell of greasepaint and turpentine overlay the curious burned fragrance in the room. The two events – book burning and face painting – clang together like great bells
announcing a new kind of connection between himself and the girl. There is something in the very substance of both actions that breathes the same fumes. And there is some quality in Mary and in the child he once was that now bleed together in William's mind. He recognizes the fear and hurt in Mary's voice just as if it were once his own. Her age does not matter, nor does her ability to pinpoint the injustice in her accuser's actions; in terms of her ability to defend herself she is a child, and it is the helplessness that seeps through her words.

Rogue and knight begin battling in William's mind again – shields and swords clashing and armoured bodies tumbling. Mary joins him at the hearth unexpectedly and they are both silent. “I'll lend you my copy,” William says. “And, don't worry. I'll have a talk with my mother and sort all this out.” He feels Mary lean towards him and senses her trust. Suddenly, they are orphans together, viewing the ashes of their home. A new kind of comfort descends upon William. He will inevitably do the right thing. The knight is winning. He may as well make it a willing and resounding victory, not one edged until the last moment with conflict and uncertainty. He gives Mary up in that instant, resolving to help her instead.

T
HE BOULDER IN
William's chest swells and turns as he slopes off down his mother's street. The fog has mixed with factory air, creating an unwholesome cocktail, and the chill has him turning his coat collar upward. He wishes he was home. A vision of Maud at her needlepoint flashes before him. He thinks of the quiet, patient, certain air she has about her, and the way her calm gaze sticks to a purpose. The boulder heaves
again and he realizes how closely the two correlate – his yearning unhappiness and thoughts of his wife. An unanswered question returns. “People aren't allowed to love in this country,” he said to the girl, a sentence quite unbidden and unspoken before that moment. What did he mean by it? He knew right away he did not mean Mary; the words had rolled out with the sadness of some years and from a cave, normally inaccessible, deep within his heart.

William sees Maud, her face touched by fire glow as she reads from his father's book, infuriating him. He thinks of the twin barriers of fear and dishonesty that keep his own thoughts from his wife. He visualizes a huge, wrought iron and dusty chest with a secured lock at the front and a chain wrapped around many times, tight enough for its rust to have become moulded into the metal. The phrase repeats in his head, not allowed to love, and he realizes he was not talking about a book, society, or forbidden desire he felt for the girl. He now knows he was talking about himself and Maud.

The screen is alive with fear – crooked shadows, madness, storm-bound ships and scurrying rats. Florence's plan to disrupt the evening has long since subsided. She is trapped by the studious young people on either side, by the nauseating power of the film, and by her growing shyness. The film's style does hold some threadlike connection with her husband's writing, something beyond plot, an echo of Bram's twisted nightmare imagination
.

If she had really considered her plan in advance she would have realized these things were bound to happen, that she would be unable to object or even to leave. Why should I so want to trick myself like this? she wonders, staring at the flickering image of the ghost ship floating into the harbour, its mast reaching into the grey sky. The answer comes in the scent of ashes and the dull sound of a book hitting the coals, sending snakelike hisses into her room. She realizes that in burning the book she crossed a line, and that her crumpled,
abject manner while she acted was a sign of the profoundness of her desecration
.