The Monster Trilogy. Brian Aldiss
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the sturdy door was set a panel of bull’s eye glass. He became aware that someone was studying him through it. Despite the gathering dusk, he saw it was a woman. Came the sound of bolts being drawn back. A lighted candle appeared, with a hand holding the candlestick and, somewhere above it, a plump and unfriendly woman’s face.
‘Who are you, pray?’ He was surprised to see that as she spoke she held a small crucifix in front of her. Giving her a guarded explanation, he asked for Mr Stoker and inquired if it would be possible to beg a night’s lodging.
‘Where are you from? Who’s that you have with you?’
‘Madam, I am from the United States of America. This is a criminal in my charge. I hope to return him to the USA. Perhaps we might lock him in one of your outhouses for the night.’
‘You actors – all the same! You will not learn to leave poor Mr Stoker alone. He’s not well. He has the doctor to him. Still, I know he would not turn you away. He has a kind heart, like all Irish people. Come in.’
They entered the rear hall, going through into a scullery which contained a large stone sink and a pump with a long curving iron handle. A maid in a mob cap was inefficiently stringing flowers up at the window. The woman, evidently Mrs Stoker, ordered her to get the key to the tool shed.
A male servant was summoned. He and the maid accompanied Bodenland out to a tool shed standing at the end of the terrace to the rear of the house. The male servant had lit a storm lantern. It was already very dark.
The driver was whimpering, and refused food and drink.
‘I shall be gone from here by morning,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have departed from human life.’
‘Sleep well,’ Bodenland said, and slammed the door.
When the back door was closed and the bolts drawn across, the little raw-handed maid picked up her flowers again.
‘What are you doing?’ Bodenland asked curiously.
‘It’s the garlic, sir. Against the critters of the night.’
‘Is that an English custom?’
‘It’s Mr Stoker’s custom, sir. You can ask the cook, Maria.’
Mrs Stoker returned. She was a solid middle-aged lady, impressively dressed in a gown of grey taffeta which reached to the floor. She had over it a small white frilled apron, which she now removed. Her hair was brown, streaked with grey, neatly parcelled into a bun at the back of her head. She was now smiling, all defensiveness gone from her manner.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Borderland.’
‘It’s Bodenland, ma’am. Originally of German extraction. German and English on my mother’s side.’
‘Mr Bodenland, pardon my hesitation in letting you in. Life is a little difficult at present. Do please come through and meet my husband. We should be happy if you would consent to stay overnight.’
As he uttered his thanks, she led him along a corridor to the front of the house. In a low voice she said, ‘My poor Bram works so hard for Mr Henry Irving – he’s his stage manager, you know, and much else besides. At present he’s also writing a novel, which seems to depress his health. Not a happy subject. I’m not at all sure gloomy novels should be encouraged. My dear father would never allow us girls – I have four sisters, sir – to read novels, except for those of Mrs Craik. Poor Bram is quite low, and believes strange forces beseige the house.’
‘How unfortunate.’
‘Indeed. Happily, I inherited my father’s strong nerves, bless him. He was a hero of the Crimea, don’t you know.’
She showed Bodenland into a large drawing room. His first impression was of a room in a museum, greatly over-furnished with pictures – mainly of a theatrical nature – on the walls, plants in pots on precarious stands, ornate mahogany furniture, antimacassars on over-stuffed chair-backs, books in rows, and heavy drapes at windows. Numerous trophies lay about on side tables. It seemed impossible to find a way through to a thick-set man busy adjusting garlic flowers over the far window.
Better acquaintance with the room enabled Bodenland to appreciate its graceful proportions, its ample space, and its general air of being a comfortable if over-loaded place in which to spend leisure hours.
The man at the window turned, observed that it was almost dark, and came forward smiling, plucking at his ginger beard as if to hide a certain shyness, and put out his hand.
‘Welcome, sir, welcome indeed. I’m Abraham Stoker, known to friend and foe alike as Bram, as in bramble bush. And this is my wife, Florence Stoker, whom you have already met, I see.’
‘I’ve had that pleasure, thank you. My name is Joseph Bodenland, known as Joe, as in jovial.’
‘Ah, then you’re a son of Jupiter – an auspicious star. Are you a military man, Mr Bodenland?’
‘No, by no means.’
‘Both Florence and I are of military stock. That’s why I ask. My grandfather was Thomas Thorley of the 43rd Regiment. Fought against Bonaparte, later took part in the conquest of Burma, 1824. Florence’s father, Lt Colonel James Balcombe, served in India and the Crimea, with great distinction.’
‘I see. Came through all right?’
Florence Stoker asked, to cover her guest’s awkwardness, ‘Is your family prosperous? You Americans are so expert at business, so I hear.’
‘I know your compatriot, Mark Twain,’ Stoker said, turning to give an anxious tug at the curtains. ‘Most amusing chap, I thought. I tried to get him to write us a play.’
Genially taking Bodenland’s elbow, he led him through a maze of tables on which various keepsake albums and other mementoes lay, towards a cheerful log fire.
Over the fireplace hung a large oil, its eroticism not entirely out of keeping with the luxury of the rest of the room. A naked pink woman sat fondling or being fondled by a cupid. Another figure was offering her a honeycomb in one hand and holding a scorpion’s sting in the other. The figure of Time in the background was preparing to draw a curtain over the amorous scene. Bodenland regarded it with some amazement.
‘Like it?’ Stoker asked, catching his glance. ‘Nice piece of classical art. Bronzino’s celebrated “Venus, Cupid, Folly, and Time”. An all-embracing title.’ He laughed and shot a glance at his wife. ‘It’s a copy, of course, but a good one.’
When they had settled down in armchairs, and Mrs Stoker had rung the bell and summoned the maidservant, and the maidservant had adjusted the curtains to everyone’s satisfaction – ‘That girl has no feeling for the symmetry of folds,’ said Mrs Stoker, severely – they lapsed into general conversation over a glass of sherry.
At length Bodenland said, ‘Of course, I know your name best as author of Dracula.’
‘Is that a play you would be speaking of?’
‘A book, Mr Stoker, a novel. It’s world-famous where I come from.’ After a long pause, he added, ‘All about vampires.’
‘What do you know about vampires, may I ask?’ Looking suspicious.
‘A fair deal, I guess. I’m given to believe I have locked one in your garden shed.’
At this news, Stoker pulled again at his beard. He went further and pulled at his lip. Then he got up rapidly up from his chair, wended his way across the room, and peered through the curtains, muttering.
He came back, still muttering, frowning, his broad and rugged face all a-twitch.
‘I shall have to see about that later. Anyhow, you’re mistaken, allow me to say. It does so happen that I am writing a novel at present all about vampires, which I intend to entitle “The Undead” … Hm, all the same, I like the starkness of that as a title: “Dracula” … Hm.’