Page 45 of The Mistletoe Bride and Other Haunting Tales

I threaded my arm through his and squeezed. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I have a feeling it won’t be a problem any more.’

I didn’t think she would come again. Now I knew who she was and why she was stricken with such grief, she had no need.

‘You’ve found out where the sound’s coming from?’

‘Not exactly.’

Rob frowned. ‘But you know who she is?’

‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘A girl who needs to be remembered, just like all of us. A girl called Alice.’

Author’s Note

Although this is a new story, it’s based on notes I made back in 1998. At that stage, I’d published two non-fiction books and two novels, both of them well enough received, but I hadn’t yet found my voice as a writer of fiction. Coming upon these scribbled notes fifteen years later, it’s interesting to see how I was starting to experiment with a style of writing that I was to develop in my Languedoc Trilogy and The Winter Ghosts: namely, the use of real history to inspire an imaginary story, the device of a timeslip – characters separated by more than a hundred years, but connected through living in the same place; the notion that stories come out of landscape (or, in this case, the cityscape); the hope that emotion will speak across boundaries of time and context, one generation to the next, the sense that the human heart does not change so very much.

Behind the notes was a conviction that history should be the story of us all, not simply a recitation of kings and queens and generals. Even the most significant events will, if not written down, fade from common memory. We were living in Deptford, in the south-east of London, when I came across the real history of the wreck of the pleasure steamer the Princess Alice. A huge catastrophe in 1878, and much covered by the contemporary newspapers, it is one of those pieces of local history that has since faded from public knowledge.

IN THE THEATRE AT NIGHT

Shaftesbury Avenue, London

November 1930

In the Theatre at Night

Things have their own lives here.

from ‘Dispossessions’

JANE COOPER

Soft the night and the watchman carries his lamp through the sleeping theatre.

The audience has gone home, in stoles and dress coats and gloves. Carriages and footfall along the Strand and Shaftesbury Avenue, heading to Hyde Park and Soho and Kensington. The velvet red is returned to its pristine condition in the stalls and the dress circle and the benches up in the gods. The footlights are dark, no flare of sulphur or blue spurts of gas. Glass and gilt, cerulean blues and peacock purples, the painted landscape of the safety curtain, all dull and flat without the lights to bring their colours to life.

An empty theatre is a space stripped of purpose. It holds within its hushed air the echo of all the feet that have trodden the space between the rows, the spirits linger. Memory of programmes trimmed with gold ribbon and opera glasses released for a penny, feathers and silver-topped canes, the champagne corks in the boxes and the sweet wrappers in the one and nines. The hush of the pass door between the real world and the glittering artifice beyond. The smell of wood and greasepaint, the brushes and hangers and spirit gum in the wings, the plaster of Paris feasts of duck and fruit that has no taste, the metallic tang of swords awaiting hands to give them purpose.

The minutes pass, midnight tipping into one o’clock. Twenty past one, a quarter to two. The old watchman sits at the stage door, a muffler round his neck and his hands close to the heater, a nip of whisky, and tongue sandwiches made by his wife to get him through the small hours. The bell in the tower of St Anne’s chimes the hour over the streets of Soho. Two o’clock and all’s well.

A paperback novel is open on his lap. Henri Bencolin keeps him company. A locked room in a Paris gambling house, a mangled body on the floor, a severed head staring from the centre of the carpet, it’s a good puzzle. He reads, turning the pages with cold fingers, and the time between one circuit of the theatre and the next, the time stretches wider.

In the dead of night, there’s not a soul about. All the doors are locked and the customers have gone home. The actors are tucked up in bed or drinking with the girls from the Palace Theatre round the corner or with the poets and the playwrights in the Wardour Street gambling houses.

His head starts to droop. The book slips from his fingers to his lap, then onto the floor.

This is when it happens. When there’s no longer anyone watching or clapping or breaking the spell, the theatre comes to life.

In Wardrobe, the costumes begin to move. The kirtle and the peplos, the chiton and the farthingale. The colours of the past – madder for red, woad for blue or walnut for brown. Crinolines and corsets, feathers. First French empire, boots and neckties, plus fours and Fair Isles, all the ages of woman and of man, held on wooden hangers ready for the next time they are required.

They carry within them the imprint of every actor, each actress, who has pushed their arms into the sleeves, who has been stitched or pressed or ironed or sculpted into the cloth. No human ear can hear the music, but now they are moving, the costumes of every production that has graced these boards, coming back to waltz and to polka and to molly dance across the stage. They know each other well. For season after season, they have found themselves dyed and taken in and let out, cut and refitted to suit the players who are passing through.

They outlive us all, the wool and the silk and the cotton. Within their seams, they know how Desdemona died or Brutus betrayed, they know the outline of Mrs Malaprop as well as they know an Elyot Chase. They do not stay in one place, any more than do the actors.

Now the stage is alive again. With dancing, with movement, with speech and thought. The shadows, the ghosts, of all the women and men who have stepped into the spotlight and spoken words of love and of regret, of hate and humour, every sentiment and sentence remembered is now played out again upon these boards.

Around and around they coil and weave and twine, remembering their friendships and love affairs, gentle about the people who have inhabited the costume, knowing that each one has left an imprint. The band plays on, one minute brassy and coarse, the next falling into gentle and sinuous melodies. Major to minor, the beat changing with each tap of the conductor’s baton on the stand.

It is six in the morning and the watchman is stirring. He jerks awake, stretches, sees the novel on the floor and realises he dozed off as usual.