‘Welcome, Mr and Mrs Ashton, Trevor and Margot, I am so pleased to see you again.’ Bram Stoker had greeted the Jaran pair with genuine warmth at the front of the Lyceum theatre.
‘And we feel very much the same, Bram. How are you?’ said Ashto, shaking Mr Stoker’s hand. Atia smiled and nodded her agreement.
‘Very well, very well indeed, Trevor. As you know the theatre is currently closed for the summer with Henry Irving away on holiday somewhere in Europe – Bavaria I believe on this occasion. Do you know he is so determined to discover what the architecture in that region is like that he has taken the Lyceum’s main scene painter, a chap called Harker with him in order to make sketches with a view of reproducing them as accurate backdrops for a future production at the theatre? Henry really is quite incorrigible and very adept at spending the theatre’s money.’
‘I imagine that adds certain complications to your business manager’s role at the Lyceum?’ said Atia.
‘Indeed it does, but to be fair Henry usually knows what he is doing in that regard. Anyway, how are you my dear lady?’ said Stoker, taking Atia’s hand and kissing it while looking longingly into the eyes of the Apprentice Commander. Atia was reminded how she seemed to have become a focus for Bram Stoker’s amorous attentions.
‘I am very well too,’ said Atia smiling inwardly again at the rather silly Earth custom of the kissing of female hands. ‘Can I inquire how your writing and your researches into the superstitions of Eastern European countries are progressing?’
‘Very well, Margot, very well I must say. As you know our visit to Whitby gave me a great many ideas that I have been thinking about since then and with the theatre closed I have had plenty of time to sit in my office and write in an undisturbed fashion.’
‘Are you still planning to write a story about mysterious counts, wolves that are half-human and things that go bump in the night, Mr Stoker?’ said Atia.
‘I certainly am, dear lady, but please call be Bram. I shall endeavour to tell you more about my poor scribblings this evening but shall we make our way to the Beefsteak Room? We have another guest who I think you will be very keen to meet.’
Bram Stoker led Ashto and Atia down the plushly carpeted corridor to the rear of the Lyceum theatre and into the ornate oak panelled dining room that was the inner sanctum of Henry Irving and his closest staff at the theatre. It was a place where excellent food would be served, fine wine and brandy would be drunk, cigars smoked, and plays and literature would be discussed at length and where some of the great and good of Victorian literary society would occasionally be invited to dine with Irving and Stoker. As the Jarans and Stoker entered the Beefsteak Room, with its paintings and beamed ceiling, a tall, rather portly man, with unusually long hair and dressed in a deep blue, velvet suit put down his cigar and rose to greet them.
‘May I introduce the writer, Mr Oscar Wilde. I believe, Mrs Ashton, that you have expressed a desire to meet him.’
In spite of herself Atia felt a little overwhelmed to come face to face with a man about whom she had recently read so much and who she had admired from afar. Notoriously flamboyant in his dress and actions Wilde bowed extravagantly to the new arrivals, his hair flopping over his face, and gently took Atia’s hand and kissed it before shaking Ashto’s hand and smiling broadly.
‘I am so very pleased to see you, Mr and Mrs Ashton. Bram has told me so much about you and I am looking forward to hearing your very vivid descriptions of your home in the United States, a wonderful country in which I spent many months touring a few years’ ago,’ said Wilde.
‘I believe the Americans did not quite know what to make of you, Oscar,’ said Bram Stoker.
‘That is so very true, but I have to say that one of the outstanding memories of my lecture tour was drinking some rather rough whisky with the miners of Leadville, Colorado. Have you ever visited there, Mr and Mrs Ashton?’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t had that particular pleasure,’ said Atia.
‘Well you really ought, it is a most fascinating place. Although the miners there are uneducated working men they showed a great deal of genuine interest in not only my ideas about the English Renaissance in Art, which was the subject of my lecture, but also in my capacity to consume a great amount of their so-called rotgut whisky to the extent that I was indeed the last man standing at the end of the evening. They were also most impressed the following morning when I suggested we should resume our whisky drinking as part of our breakfast. But probably the main thing about your country I discovered on my tour was that America has never quite forgiven Europe for having been discovered somewhat earlier in history than itself,’ said Wilde smiling in a disarming way that seemed to suggest that nothing he was going to say during this evening should be taken too seriously, although it would undoubtedly be highly entertaining.
Atia was able to discern that, like Bram Stoker, Oscar Wilde had preserved just a small part of his Dublin Irish accent. Overcoming her nerves at meeting the great man Atia was keen to ask him about his recent writings. ‘I so enjoyed the fairy tales you published last year, Mr Wilde, they gave me a great deal of pleasure.’
‘The Happy Prince and Other Stories gave me an equal amount of pleasure whilst writing them, I can assure you, Mrs Ashton. But I hear from Bram that you are both researching a travel volume about our country, a task that sounds quite fascinating.’
Oscar Wilde sounded so sincere in his comment that Atia immediately felt saddened that the book they had told so many they were planning to write would never actually be written. There was something about Oscar Wilde’s openness that she almost wanted to own up to the fact that they were merely interplanetary travellers, explorers from another world who were researching the Earth’s future potential as a member of the Jaran Galactic Federation. She had a feeling that this large, friendly and genial man would actually believe her and take it fully in his stride.
‘That is true, Mr Wilde, although this evening we would much rather hear about your and Bram’s writing than our own poor attempts at producing something of literary value,’ said Ashto.
‘Well, Bram I know is thoroughly hell-bent on writing a terrifyingly gothic tale about dark castles and huge bats that turn into voracious vampires. Every so often he tells me about some of the ideas he has come up with and although I love superstitions I have had to ask him to stop talking before he causes me to have nightmares. But, as I have said before, nothing succeeds like excess.’
Stoker laughed loudly at Wilde’s comment and Ashto and Atia quickly joined in despite not fully appreciating Wilde’s bon mot.
‘I wonder if you could tell me, Mr Wilde, about what you are working on at the moment?’ said the somewhat star-struck Apprentice Commander.
Wilde lit a cigarette after carefully inserting it into his cigarette holder with his long fingers. He smiled at Atia who had noticed that Oscar Wilde, despite his wit and seemingly confident repartee, constantly smoked probably in order to offset his nerves at meeting new people she reasoned. ‘Well, Mrs Ashton, although I always make it a rule that I never discuss anything about my works in progress, however, for one so sublimely beautiful as yourself I will make a unique exception. I am currently writing a number of articles for magazines of one sort or another, notably The Pall Mall Gazette, which always pays better than the others and then there’s my diary, which I always have near me, particularly when I’m travelling and require something sensational to read.’
Atia and the others laughed.
‘And then, of course, I am planning to write more fiction,’ Wilde continued. ‘For example I want to write plays that will doubtless eventually be performed at this very theatre under the auspices of our generous hosts.’ Wilde looked at Stoker and smiled broadly. ‘And, very much against my better judgement, I am planning to write an extended work of fiction that will, I assume, be serialised in one or other of the magazines that tediously pester me for such work. It will tell the story of a sublime looking man who makes a Faustian bargain to never grow old and to always remain utterly beautiful. However, since I have maintained many times before that modern novels, despite having many good points, are quite unreadable I very much doubt that anyone will want to read the one I produce.’
‘You underestimate yourself, Oscar,’ said Stoker.
‘That in itself would be a virtual impossibility, my dear Bram’ said Wilde leaning back in his chair, blowing a long line of cigarette smoke from his mouth and looking very pleased with himself.
‘Well, I shall certainly read it as it sounds so intriguing,’ said Atia.
‘Does your wife ever accompany you in your visits to evenings in this dining room, Mr Wilde?’ said First Commander Ashto.
‘Please call me Oscar and I will call you Trevor, if I may. Only very rarely in fact will Constance join me in a visit to this wonderful dining establishment. We do have two small sons and although we employ a nanny Connie does like to see the rascally pair as often as possible and actively enjoys putting them to bed herself. She will even occasionally direct me to read stories to Cyril and Vyvyan a task, which I have to say, I always relish and enjoy more than anything else imaginable. However, I will always bear in mind that children will begin by loving their parents but eventually end up judging them. Rarely, if ever, do children actually forgive their parents.’ Wilde leant back in his seat and sucking deeply on his cigarette, looked satisfied while the others chuckled.
‘Oscar, I do believe you are a friend of Mr Conan Doyle,’ said Ashto.
‘Perhaps more of a valued acquaintance, I would say,’ said Wilde. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I very much enjoyed his novel called A Study in Scarlet, in which he wrote about the brilliant consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. I was wondering if he had mentioned to you whether he intends to write more about the great detective in the future.’
‘Trevor, I do believe that Stoker is far more likely to know the answer to your question. Indeed I think I’m accurate in saying that he is distantly related to Arthur Conan Doyle. Is that not correct, Bram?’ said Wilde.
‘It is Trevor. In fact Arthur occasionally dines with us here when he visits London and I do believe he plans to write more stories about Sherlock Holmes. Although he has a medical practice in Portsmouth at present to tell you all the truth I think he actually dislikes being a doctor and intends to become a full time writer in the future. In my opinion he will doubtless end up living in London, sooner rather than later.’
‘That is very exciting news. I look forward to reading more about Mr Doyle’s clever detective. I think the police would appreciate having such a man helping to solve crimes in London in reality,’ said the First Commander.
‘Talking about crimes,’ said Oscar Wilde, is it true that you, Margot, found yourself recently commandeering a hansom cab in order to drive it around the East End?’
Atia was surprised: ‘how did you come to hear about that, Mr Wilde?’ she said blushing.
‘Ah, that would be telling, Margot, and I’m afraid I cannot disclose my sources although I have an unerring ear for gossip especially the sort spread by the gentlemen of the press. But I would have to say if you are concerned about people discussing you and your exploits, Margot, I firmly believe there is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about,’ said Wilde lighting another cigarette.
‘Well, Mr Wilde… Oscar I mean, we were hoping that my little legal infraction would go unnoticed. It was, I have to say, a moment of madness that caused me to take the hansom cab and attempt to steer it through the streets of London. Luckily the police were able to see the amusing side of the matter and decided not to prosecute me for my foolish behaviour.’ Atia looked at the First Commander who gave a nod that reassured Atia that she had handled the unexpected conversation in an acceptable fashion.
‘What an amazing outcome, Margot,’ said Wilde. ‘It is highly unusual for the Metropolitan Police to ignore such shows of personal freedom! I would so love to have seen you, whip in hand, scattering pedestrians left, right and centre as you careened through the byways of the capital. Can you do it again please, so I can observe what must have been one of the true wonders of the age?’
‘I do not think so, Oscar. My cab driving days are hopefully behind me forever.’
‘What a pity, Margot, young women these days seem to make it the sole object of their lives to be always playing with fire, and you should not be left out,’ said Wilde.
‘No, Oscar, it was purely a one-off event I can assure you,’ replied Atia.
‘Margot, this is the first I have heard of your escapade,’ said a surprised sounding Bram Stoker.
‘It is not something of which I am proud and I have been trying to forget about the incident ever since it took place.’
‘I understand, Margot. I have but one question however and then I shall never mention anything about it again. How on Earth did you learn to drive such a vehicle as a hansom cab?’ said Stoker.
Atia paused for a few seconds while she quickly consulted her neural implant for some information. ‘Well, er… back home in the United States of America there are plenty of opportunities for anyone to learn to drive such a horse drawn vehicle.’
‘But a woman being able to control such a vehicle is very unusual to say the least,’ replied Stoker.
‘I think that in the future, Bram,’ said Atia, ‘there will be many areas of life that women will become adept at and will be able to display their skills in all sorts of ways. Hopefully the days when women are only seen as decorative items who leave all difficult tasks to males are soon to be numbered.’
‘Hear, hear!’ shouted Wilde. ‘That’s put you in your place, my dear Bram.’
Smiling, but looking rather abashed by the Apprentice Commander’s words Stoker looked for a way to quickly change the subject: ringing the small bell on the table which was there to tell the waiters to spring into action he said: ‘er… I do believe it is time for us to eat.’