Stokers Shadow by Paul Butler Read Free Book Online

places it back upon the mantelpiece wondering why she has chosen it now. Perhaps she wants her son to see it as a judgment.
    Florence turns to William to see him totally wilted. When he answers, it’s in a feeble voice.
    â€œMother, I know you’re a widow. That is precisely why you must supplement your situation when a legitimate chance presents itself. Like this film.”
    â€œNo, William, that is precisely why I have to guard a more precious honour and integrity than mere money.”
    â€œHow would you not be doing so by claiming royalties?” he asks quietly.
    â€œWilliam, do I really have to explain it to you?”
    â€œYes, Mother,” he replies, “I think you do.”
    Florence returns to her seat.
    â€œI am too old to join the suffragettes.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œI cannot chain myself to a public building when I feel a principle has been violated. My options in life are limited. My powers are curtailed.”
    William looks at her dubiously for a second but then his head bows.
    â€œBut when foreigners distort my husband’s words for their own ends, I will use every means I have at my disposal to put an end to their treachery.”
    William stares at her, pink-faced and unhappy. He nods again.
    W ITH LEADEN MOVEMENTS , William makes his way to the front door. Mary is already standing there in a plain grey coat and umbrella. She looks down, flicking through several letters in her hand.
    He takes in her scents – homely, clean and new – and the grey phantoms of his tiredness disperse almost immediately. “We meet again,” he says, managing a smile.
    Mary laughs as though he has just delivered the cleverest of quips. Her eyes focus on him conveying limitless trust. She eases on her thin gloves. William opens the door and holds it for Mary who smiles again as she precedes him outdoors.
    They walk down his mother’s red tiled path hearing their heels clatter through the silence. It is as though the mild flirtatiousness was safe inside his mother’s house. Here, without any such canopy, it is more of an effort.
    â€œLooks as though the weather’s holding off after all,” he says.
    â€œI love it when the clouds groan and threaten for hours.”
    William smiles at her freshness. They are standing now on the curb outside his mother’s home. “Which way are you going?” he asks.
    â€œThat way to the post box,” Mary answers, pointing.
    â€œI’ll walk along with you,” William announces casually. “I have to go that way too.”
    The streets are very empty and quiet and amplify their footsteps.
    â€œSo, how are you settling in?” he asks.
    â€œVery well, Mr. Stoker, thank you.” She blushes slightly. “I got a book from the library a few days ago. It was your father’s book, Dracula.”
    William lets out in involuntary groan, the cloak of last night’s phantasm returning – the rolling rocking coach, and the vivid hallucination in the garden.
    â€œPardon me?” she asks.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mary. That particular book has caused a little trouble recently. What do you think of it?”
    â€œOh it’s so exciting, not at all like the books I normally read.”
    William nods, wondering what a young uneducated girl would make of his father’s turgid prose, thick as it was with cultural information and geographical detail.
    â€œYou must find it difficult,” he says with sympathy.
    â€œOh no. Not at all. It’s very simple, like a fairy tale.”
    William slows down, perplexed. “You read a great deal then?”
    â€œOh yes, I devour books. But Dracula is different. Not at all serious.”
    â€œNot serious?” William exclaims.
    â€œNot literary, I mean.”
    He looks at her profile, trying to understand the change. One moment she is a charming, simple rustic from an obscure part of Ireland, the next she is dismissing his