Page 72 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. Mrs Simpson’s needle hovered mid-air.

‘I wish I wasn’t called after him. I wish I had another name.’

‘Do you now.’ I ushered Irving back towards his toys, kneeling on the floor beside him, watching as he pushed his train.

I’d been so careful to ensure I didn’t complain about Henry when Irving was in earshot. I also made a point of using endearments rather than my son’s christened name, one that had never been my choice and still, years later, jarred. But I never knew it bothered him quite so much as well. From the look on Mrs Simpson’s face, she wasn’t surprised.

‘What would you rather be called?’ I asked cautiously, tugging gently at an errant curl. I racked my brain for names. Some American ones came to mind. ‘Grover?’ Irving spluttered. ‘Talcott?’

‘They’re silly names.’ He chuckled.

I agreed. ‘Spot? Blacky? Rufus?’ I thought of the neighbours’ pets.

‘No!’ he laughed. Then became very serious. ‘I want to be called Noel.’

About to tickle him, I paused. He’d clearly given it some thought.

‘It’s my middle name,’ he said. ‘We could swap it to be my first. I could be called Noel instead of after him.’

I tilted his chin towards me. He really was an unassuming, placid child; clever too. He should be so easy to love. Everybody else did … Maybe if he wasn’t called Irving anymore …

‘Very well,’ I said, cupping his face in my palms. ‘I shall call you Noel. Mrs Simpson, too.’ She nodded agreeably. ‘And, once you’re in Ireland, Granny Moo, your aunts and uncles, and your teacher, will as well.’

Irving’s eyes, grey like his father’s, sparkled.

‘But,’ I cautioned, raising a finger, ‘for the time being, let’s keep this a secret between us. Mrs Simpson and I will call you Noel when we’re alone. And, when you go to your new school in Oxford, I’ll tell your father that from hereon in, Noel is to be your name. How does that sound?’

My son stared at me wide-eyed, then flung himself into my arms, pressing his little face against my cheek. ‘Thank you, Maman,’ he said, slipping back into the French his beloved Nounou Yvette had taught him.

I hugged him tightly, feelings of such warmth and pleasure making my breast swell. My heart felt lighter than it had in a long, long time. Mrs Simpson resumed her needlework, beaming.

If only it was so easy to rid ourselves of the other Irving.

Scotland. The beauty and fierceness of the countryside had me in its thrall. Ellen and I sat by the window of various train compartments (we changed trains often), and between reading excerpts from the Scottish play to each other, we gazed with wonder upon the craggy mountain tops, the heather-covered slopes, the endless stony hills, glimmering lochs, and the occasional castle or village.

We decided to stay in Edinburgh a few days. More a large town than a city, it nevertheless had a majesty about it, and not only because the royal family had a residence there. In one direction the cobbled main street led to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, in the other was Edinburgh Castle, protected by sheer cliffs on one side and a riddle of streets, fortifications and baileys on the other. From the castle, the views were splendid: tree-covered slopes to the south and west, and the vastness of the Firth of Forth to the north and east.

While Ellen and I wandered among the streets and snickets of the Old Town, and admired the elegant Georgian buildings of the New, Bram and Henry haunted less savoury areas, searching out authentic Scottish artefacts, sporrans, pipes, bonnets, plaids, horns, as well as many grisly tales, which they regaled us with over dinner.

I’d thought the Irish fond of their bloody stories of apparitions, hauntings, headless riders, selkies and banshees, but the Scots had just as many – some so blood-curdling, I’d lie awake long after we’d gone to bed, my heart thrumming in my ears. My dreams would be a melding of drowned, grey-skinned and red-eyed men, and women with long, seaweed-green hair, all seeking to pull me down to a watery grave. I continued to start at shadows, peer into the endless mists and dim corners. I grew tired and fractious. I still hadn’t found a way to confide in Bram about my spectral companion.

Throughout the journey, Henry urged Bram to make notes – about the colours, the smells, the sounds, the garb. It was only after we’d been travelling a few days and changed trains several times, that I noticed Bram had two notebooks. One, to scribe all that he and Henry observed; the other, he most often filled at night when we were quite alone.

When Henry couldn’t see or obstruct him.

As our train headed north to Aberdeen, we passed through an area known as Port Errol, a delightful fishing village nestled within the rocky arms of a bay called Cruden. I gasped at its wild beauty and urged Bram to join me at the window.

‘Look,’ I said and pointed towards a picturesque castle atop a steep headland overlooking the churning North Sea. ‘Is that not magnificent?’ It reminded me of those you’d see in the Irish countryside, with long wide windows, turrets, towers, and sweeping stone staircases.

‘I believe that’s Slains Castle.’ Bram stared at it for a long time, a muttering Henry quite forgotten.

Caves riddled the headland upon which the castle sat; deep openings that yawned into the bay. Enormous, strange-shaped rocks rose out of the crashing sea in an uneven row, an ugly mouth forming a barrier to anyone wishing to enter the harbour. Sprays of foam dashed against their serrated peaks. The whole place was so isolated, so windswept and resplendent.

‘I’ll return,’ said Bram quietly, as mesmerised by its violent beauty as I was.

‘We will,’ I said, and squeezed his arm.

With one last contemplative look, and a smile for me, he swivelled back to Henry, pen poised and notebook open – but which one?