Stokers Shadow (7 page)

A pale brick wall comes into view with ivy trailing upwards like a river. William follows spirit-like, inhaling the white ivy blossom as he reaches it. He finds his outstretched hand is touching the cool moist stone, and slowly his hands and feet join onto the wall and brush against the ivy leaves and branches as he begins to ascend. His fingers ease effortlessly into the wall as though it were putty and he feels a sweet sensation as if his hands and fingers have gained the ability to taste. A hummingbird whirs at his shoulder and he lifts himself higher, enjoying the sweet moisture from the brick as it seeps into his skin. He raises himself from sunlight into
a patch of glistening moonlight and becomes aware of soft ringlets of gold suspended above him. He ascends further and feels the silken joyous texture of golden hair tumbling upon his forehead and cheeks, like delirious, sparkling rain. He caresses the hair with his hands and whispers tenderly the name: “Mary, Mary,” as her face comes into view before him
.

A second later things have changed. Mary is in Middle Ages costume again and William is standing in a dungeon with his back against a dripping wall. William looks into her bright smile and ocean-blue eyes. She pulls the black shackles from his hands, letting them drop like licorice. Mary comes closer, her lips so close to his neck that her warm breath touches. “Mary,” William murmurs again. Darkness closes around him and he notices that everything has turned to a horizontal position and that the dungeon wall has become soft and hollow, obeying the contours of his back. He calls her name into the darkness once more and then sees the window and dressing table in the indistinct moonlight
.

He shoots up in bed, aware suddenly of Maud's warmth beside him. He watches her dark shape closely making sure his wife is asleep
.

S
HE MAKES A
low primal groan which subsides into a slow exhalation. William assumes she must be in a deep sleep. Reassured, he gazes towards the moonlight-brightened curtains and remembers last night's vision. He feels drawn to the impossible, to the idea his dreams are part of a message in cipher, something that will lead him ultimately into the garden
of paradise he keeps glimpsing – towards the notion that his father's spirit might be a messenger leading the way, telling him where he took a wrong turn.

Carefully, he pushes the covers off his legs and turns so that his feet touch the rug. Then, shivering from the unexpected chill, he stands and takes a step towards the windows.

“What,” Maud moans.

William realizes he has miscalculated; she is waking. He feels trapped.

“What!” she says louder.

“It's … don't worry, it's just me,” he replies, not moving any closer to the window.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you ill?”

The moonlight catches her bare arm which reaches up to her forehead; her neck is raised from the pillow.

“I'm just going to check the garden,” William says, too muddle-headed to think in terms that make any sense.

“Check the garden? You know I'm a light sleeper, William. I wish you wouldn't do this.”

“I've never done it before,” he replies, comically stranded on the rug, as though unable to continue without permission.

“You did it last night,” she replies sighing and banging the pillow behind her. “Why are you checking the garden? What's wrong with it?”

“There's a man standing in the middle of it.”

“What?” she replies laying her head down again on the pillow. “You're having a nightmare. Come back to bed.”

He sighs, turns and climbs back into bed. He watches the curtains move slightly although the windows are closed.

T
HE SHINY PALE
leaves and knotty clumps of oriental twigs and branches look incongruous to Mary's eyes, especially beneath the sliced fruit cake. But it is as though nothing in England is English – at least not the china she has been polishing all morning. In the last hour, she has travelled the globe. She has encountered the curved, bronzed features of Indian princes with loose silken trousers and earrings. She has viewed the snow-ridged mountains of some unknown eastern highlands populated by men with huge furry hats and skinny moustaches. And now finally she is gazing at the sparse, decorous beauty of the Japanese court with single trees, waterfalls and beautiful white-faced women.

“Shall I take the tea in, Mrs. Davis?”

Mrs. Davis glances up as she places the teapot on the tray. She smiles naturally, like one used to pleasing.

“Well yes, Miss Manning, that would be a nice idea.”

Mary wonders whether Mrs. Davis is as confused by Mary's status as she is herself. “Miss Manning” seems wrong coming from a lady twenty years older than her. She has always been just Mary in Ireland. And here her elevation makes little sense. She does the chores of a servant most of the time. She lives in the servants' quarters. Yet Mrs. Davis is almost deferential.

Mrs. Davis opens the scullery door and Mary departs holding the tray tight, trying not to let the Japanese china clink so hard it may break.

The tray wobbles as, one-handed, she opens the door. She remembers not to knock – knocking, she was told very early on by Mrs. Davis, is a faux pas. (Mary did not know what a faux pas was and Mrs. Davis had to explain it to her. From then on the puzzle has been less about strange customs and more about why the English constantly lapse into some foreign dialect when they feel threatened.)

Within, Mrs. Stoker sits with the bald, bespectacled man to whom Mary had answered the door. Mary wants another look at this Mr. Thring who seems like a character from Dickens, all angular details, and delicate, thought-out movements. Neither Mrs. Stoker nor Mr. Thring look up as she enters and places the tea before them on the little mahogany table, but there is a silence and she assumes one of them is about to address her. But no; it's just a lapse in the conversation.

“Well, when your son came to see me yesterday, I realized that if I had any news at all – good or bad – I must take the golden opportunity to visit the famous Mrs. Stoker.”

Mary feels stranded between Mr. Thring and Mrs. Stoker, her shoulders beginning to slope as she tries to work out whether she should speak, leave or pour the tea. She is about to ask Mr. Thring whether he takes milk and sugar when Mrs. Stoker answers him.

“I do believe, Mr. Thring, that you are an incorrigible flatterer, but may I say a delightful one.” Mary turns to see the bright openness of Mrs. Stoker's pale blue eyes; it seems she has become a different person entirely – younger, happier, almost playful. Then she hears a more familiar offhand whisper saying, “Just leave the tea, Mary, I'll deal with it.”

Mary's ears begin to burn only when she gets to the threshold of the sitting room and the hall; only then does she feel the full force of the disparity, the less-than-nothing esteem in which she is held. She catches muted words through the closing door:

Mrs. Stoker: “Poor girl, I hoped that London might have made something of her.”

Mr. Thring: “How generous of you to take her in.”

Mary faces the closed door and breathes in the foreign scents of wood and wax pervading the hallway. For a moment she hopes they are talking about someone else. After all, the exchange makes little sense with reference to herself – she was in a better social position in her own homeland by far, especially on this evidence. But with a dull thud, she realizes that the unthinkable is true. She is the unnamed “her,” the imaginary figure cowering in the gutter. She wanders slowly back into the scullery, towards the little oasis of civility she finds in Mrs. Davis.

The housekeeper's dark, intelligent eyes catch hers for a second as she kneads a wedge of dough. Mary peels off her apron, feeling like a ghost – numb and detached from reality.

“Mrs. Davis, I'm going out for a bit if you don't need me.”

Mrs. Davis smiles, her hands still working. “So you should, Miss. Get out and see some sights.”

M
R
. T
HRING IS
conjuring a magic world for Florence – her own past coloured by the admiration of youth. He is describing what she had believed the world to have forgotten – the flamboyant and invincible circle to which she once belonged, characters
who could easily have been woven into the great mythic tales: Arthur and his knights, Jason and the Argonauts, Sinbad and his wild voyages in search of riches. He talks of men who leaped through flames, daring all upon principle – Whistler's libel action against a spokesman for the brutish, philistine public and the penury that followed him; poor Oscar's fierce last stand and the even worse fate that came to meet his defiance. But they were men alive with the fire of valour and faith. These things are their own rewards.

“And where are we to find such colour in today's drab world?” says Mr. Thring.

Florence feels the warmth of comradeship in the heartfelt comment, so much so that her sadness spills into words before she can stop them.

“My son, for instance.”

“Ah,” Mr. Thring notes, not disagreeing.

She wonders at her cruelty but feels a twinge of revenge not so much against the forty-year-old man as against the insolent boy who had once eavesdropped at a dinner party and then answered so sullenly.

“Not like his father,” she adds, twisting her hands together.

“Indeed, but what an act to follow, Mrs. Stoker!” He is now defending William, it seems, albeit gently. “What a man to live up to!”

“How true,” Mrs. Stoker says quietly, guilt stirring then subsiding. “Author, theatrical manager and barrister-at-law.” She plucks out the titles one by one, like trophies. Her favourite is the last – she never really enjoyed his stories,
although she was pleased when others said they did – law's respectability and stature speak for themselves.

“I had no idea Mr. Stoker had been called to the bar,” Mr. Thring says, impressed.

“Indeed he was, Mr. Thring.”

“Did he practice often?”

“No, he didn't actually practice,” Mrs. Stoker says, wondering why this always comes up as an issue.

“Not at all?”

“I believe not,” confirms Mrs. Stoker taking a sip of tea.

“Goodness! Too busy with Sir Henry, I suppose.”

The unhappy thought enters Florence's mind that her husband could indeed have achieved much that was both respected and remunerative if he had not been so tied to Irving. Why had he made life so difficult for himself? It's a dark puzzle she is afraid of unpicking. And there is another piece of business pertaining to Bram's career. Mr. Thring is so charming she has almost forgotten the news he has come to give is not good.

“Now, to get back to this film, Mr. Thring,” Florence prompts.

“Of course,” he replies.

“I understand that the company – “

“ – Prana Films,” Mr. Thring nods.

“Quite so … that has committed this atrocious theft has gone bankrupt and that this may delay punishment and destruction of the film itself.”

“Yes,” Mr. Thring replies colouring a little. “All the property of Prana Films has been in the hands of the official receiver, it transpires, for some weeks … “

“And the culprits are free?”

Mr. Thring shifts in his seat. “Prana Films no longer exists as a legal entity. So any claim to damages would have to go through the official receiver.”

Florence lays her cup down. “This is most unsettling,” she says. “For a theft to take place and then for the perpetrators so simply disappear in a puff of smoke is …”

“Most unjust, I quite agree,” Mr. Thring says firmly.

“And it is not damages I want from them, Mr. Thring,” Mrs. Stoker continues, her courage rising. “It is damage I would like to do to them.”

“Quite so,” Mr. Thring says very seriously.

“When I think what might have happened, and that only providence prevented this thing from coming to London to smear my husband's memory in the open. I must have this film destroyed at the very least.”

Mr. Thring lurches forward in his seat. “Unfortunately,” he says wringing his hands, “there are probably a number of copies.”

“A number!” Florence exclaims. She feels as though her problem has just multiplied like so many fast-breeding insects. “Why would there be more than one?” She hopes he has made a mistake, that he knows nothing about this business.

“It is common practice, I believe, to have many copies of a moving picture so it may show in many cities at one time.”

Florence has to prevent herself from rising. The image of this horror spreading like a disease around the world is just intolerable.

“Please don't alarm yourself, Mrs. Stoker,” Mr. Thring says calmly, “I'm sure we will find a way. We will be patient and
hope for co-operation from the receiver. This is an outrage and we will do all in our power to put it to rights.”

Florence looks into Mr. Thring's dark, trustworthy eyes. She begins to breathe more easily.

“Now,” he says, looking down at her Persian rug. “There is one last little problem.”

The pause makes Florence worry.

“There is a very small ‘film society' as they call themselves, here in London.” Mr. Thring takes out his handkerchief and dabs his mouth. “They meet somewhere in Knightsbridge, I believe. Only very limited numbers turn up, I'm sure.” Florence senses that a dark invasion is about to overtake the green and ordered land of her memory. “They appear to have got themselves a copy and are advertising among their very small membership a presentation of the film tomorrow night.”

The invasion has started. The barbarians are overrunning the hills. Florence takes a deep breath. She feels the galloping in her chest and hears herself called to action. She thinks of Bram diving into the murky waters of the Thames, regardless of propeller and undertow. And then she sees it in herself: the shining, swift blade of defiance.