The Mistletoe Bride & Other Haunting Tales

  The sensation of sound and shade and limitless space and as the roaring in the room grew louder, the candlestick was sent rolling across the floor, the goblet clattered into the wainscot. And now every piece of broken wood and trampled thread seemed part of the symphony. A drumming, notes between music, percussion and melody, calling whoever might be left to hear to this one corner of the west wing of the house.

  Sophia kept breathing life into the room, out and in and out, like the song of the tide upon the shore, until at last she heard voices. From the corridor, a pool of light, getting stronger, and an old woman’s voice calling out a name.

  Perdita. My lady, Perdita.

  Sophia turned cold, remembering the inscription written above the door in the chapel: lost but not forgotten.

  Now the woman, bent low and in the plain clothes of a servant, was standing on the threshold, a candle held in a trembling hand.

  Instantly, the room was still. The air fell silent.

  She’s here, quick.

  The woman cried out at the sight of the coloured threads tangled and twisted on the floor, at the broken furniture, and the flame shook. Sophia called out again, even though she could not be heard, willing the old woman to turn and find the door and release the catch. But she didn’t move. She merely stood in the middle of the room, her old eyes clouded with confusion.

  My lady, Perdita.

  Sophia knew her part in the story was nearly at an end. The outline of the room was fainter than before, less distinct. Minster Lovell Hall was returning to its current state, leaving the past behind. Condemning the bride to her living tomb.

  She’s here, here.

  Then Sophia watched the expression on the old woman’s face change. Willing her to turn, to keep looking, to not give up. The woman shuffled across the room and bent down to pick something up.

  Her yellow scarf, lying precisely where Sophia knew the hidden door to be. She didn’t understand how the woman could see it. It was caught on something, a nail or a splinter. She pulled again and, this time, the yellow square of material came free. At the same time, Sophia heard a click.

  The door sprang open. A cry from within, then tears of delight and relief and gratitude. The old woman’s arms around the younger girl, helping her out into the room. Weeping, comforting, reassuring Perdita that no one was hurt, no one had been killed. The old nurse explaining that her husband had gone with the soldiers in exchange for his household being spared.

  For the past hour, the servants had been searching the house and grounds. No one knew if she might also have been taken by the soldiers, or that she might have fled and fallen into the river in the dark, slipping through the ice. Then older servants remembered rumours of a hidden room within the house, known only to Lord Lovell.

  Perdita inclined her head. Her husband had told her of the room, fearing the anger of the king, and sent her there. Had wanted to keep his new bride safe.

  Sophia saw a shadow cross Perdita’s face and knew she was thinking of her husband, sacrificing himself to save his family. To save her. As she watched the old woman and her charge, their heads bent low, she realised their voices were becoming more faint. Little by little, their features were fading, their outlines almost transparent now.

  She knew her time was done. The story had been rewritten and she had no further part to play. Sophia felt something shift inside her, a sense of the past drifting out of reach and her own time calling her back.

  Then, at the very last moment before the connection was broken, Perdita lifted her head and looked straight to where Sophia was standing. And she smiled.

  Sophia looked down at the yellow scarf in her hand, then slowly walked back down the stairs of the tower and out into the gardens that lay stretched out once more beneath the blue October sky. Minster Lovell Hall was in its ruined state again, no walls or doors or windows to be seen. The trees along the banks of the River Windrush were touched by the copper and burgundy hues of autumn. Soon, though not quite yet, they would start to lose their leaves.

  Sophia heard the chimes of the church bell striking midday. On the cobbled path ahead, she saw her companions walking back up towards the coach. She waved and called out that she’d join them in a couple of minutes. Not to go without her.

  There was one task remaining.

  She walked quickly back along the avenue of trees to the chapel and went inside. It felt different this time, as if she belonged there. She walked up the nave to the altar and looked at the face of the girl – her ancestor – carved in bas-relief. Was she imagining it, but was her expression different now? Sophia lingered there for a few moments more, then turned. Her guidebook was still lying on the pew at the back of the chapel where she had left it earlier.

  Sophia opened the book and saw there was more about the Lovell family than she had realised.

  Lady Perdita Lovell had been married at Minster Lovell Hall on Christmas Eve 1485. Her husband’s life spared by Henry VII, though his lands were forfeit, they had a long and happy marriage and been blessed with many children and grandchildren. Descendants of the Lovell family were still to be found in Oxfordshire, Suffolk and Sussex today.

  Sophia closed the book.

  As she left the chapel for the last time, she looked up. Now beneath the inscription were the names of Lovell and his bride and their dates. Both had lived long into old age. The scratched letters – LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN – were no longer there.

  Sophia smiled. Then, tying her yellow scarf around her neck, she stepped out into the autumn sunshine.

  Author’s Note

  This is the second story inspired by the folktale. Following in the footsteps of Samuel Rogers, other authors took up the challenge of writing versions of ‘The Mistletoe Bride’. Charles Somerset produced a play of the same name in 1835, Henry James wrote ‘The Romance of Certain Old Clothes’ in 1868, transposed to eighteenth-century Massachusetts but clearly inspired by the story, and Susan E. Wallace published a short story – ‘Ginevra or The Old Oak Chest: A Christmas Story’ – in 1887. The tragic tale, a favourite of the protagonist, Brandon Shaw, is recounted in Hitchcock’s 1948 film, Rope. Jeanette Winterson wrote a haunting Christmas version of the story in 2002.

  The song, too, has become part of our literary heritage, appearing, amongst other places, in Thomas Hardy’s 1881 novel, A Laodicean. In 1859, it was described as ‘a national occurrence at Christmas’ and, a few years later in 1862, hailed as ‘one of the most popular . . . ever written.’ In the 1970s, I had a copy in an old music hall songbook. With its tripping six-eight beat in A major, and its simple and rousing refrain, it was easy to learn and easy to play. Only now can I see how hopelessly at odds were its catchy lyrics and rhythm and its tragic subject.

  There is now an excellent guidebook to Minster Lovell Hall published by English Heritage, but this version was inspired by the moment in the 1970s when I first came upon the legend. Those who’ve visited the real Minster Lovell Hall will know there was a private family chapel within the north building not in the park. I have made several other changes to the topography for the sake of the story.

  SYRINX

  A southern market town in Hampshire

  The Present Day

  Author’s Note

  Syrinx was commissioned by Sandi Toksvig as part of a series to show theatre – live – on television. It was an ambitious and ground-breaking project, enthusiastically embraced by Sky Arts – two production crews, one theatre team and one television team – with a very specific brief: the plays could have no more than four characters, they had to be set in the present day and had to last twenty-seven minutes!

  I had not written a play before, though had long wanted to, and I loved the process of rehearsals, watching the actors inhabit their characters and bring them to life, then going home every night to do rewrites. I was lucky to have a generous and supportive cast and the expert support of both Sandi herself and the director, Patrick Sandford. Robin Don’s beautiful design – a ring of school chairs
suspended from the rig and a brilliant way of having water on stage – brought the rather drab setting of a headteacher’s office in a school to life.

  Watching the first performance was both one of the most exhilarating experiences of my professional life and the most terrifying. When the music started – a fragment from Debussy’s haunting piece of flute music, ‘Syrinx’, from which the piece gets its title – my legs started to shake and carried on shaking for the entire twenty-seven minutes. As a novelist, although you see people reading your book – on a train, on a plane, in a café – you can’t really tell what they are thinking. Their emotions, reactions, are hidden from you and, besides, it’s often a long time after you finished writing, so you’re no longer quite so raw. With a play, especially at its first performance, the writer is aware of everyone in the audience and how they are reacting, for good or bad. Since its premiere, the play has had many amateur performances, the first being from the Lapworth Players in May 2011.

  The first performance was given on 15th July 2009 as part of Sky Arts Theatre Live! at the Sky Television Studios, London.

  Syrinx

  27-minute one-act play by Kate Mosse

  commissioned by Sky Arts

  TIME

  The present. Summer. Late afternoon/early evening.

  LOCATION

  The headteacher’s office of a large comprehensive school in a small southern market town. Downstage right is a desk, tidy, neat piles of paper and a photograph in a frame. On the corner of the desk, drinks are laid out – two bottles of red wine, four bottles of white wine, a couple of cartons of value orange juice, two bottles of own brand water and eight glasses. The ‘door’ into the office from the corridor is downstage left.

  CAST (in order of appearance)

  MARION KNOWLES – Headteacher

  Has been Head of the 1500-student mixed comprehensive school – her old school – for fifteen years. This is her last year in charge, having opted for early retirement.

  SUSAN WINSTON – Counsellor

  A contemporary of Marion’s – an old schoolfriend – she too returned to her old home town about ten years ago. She now works as a counsellor at the local Citizens Advice Bureau (CAB) office. Divorced, she has two daughters – one (Phoebe) is just going into her final year of university, the other (Emily) has just taken her A levels and is being presented with a prize this evening.

  SARAH PETERS – Dead Girl

  Sarah Peters died in a road accident at the age of 18, in the autumn term of her upper sixth year at school. She cannot be seen or heard by the other characters on stage. She was a promising flautist and had auditioned for the Guildhall School of Music. She was best friend to Susan’s eldest daughter, Phoebe.

  JULIE PETERS – Parent Governor

  Mother of Sarah, also a contemporary and schoolfriend of Marion and Susan. Once Susan’s closest friend, Julie works part time and is a regular churchgoer. Julie has two other children, two sons.

  SCENE 1

  Headteacher’s Office 6.30 p.m.

  The scene opens with a spotlight on Marion, sitting at her desk with her back to the audience. The rest of the set is dark. She is looking at a photograph on her desk. She puts it down, then turns in her chair to face the audience.

  MARION:

  There are moments – in the middle of a busy day or at the dusty tail-end of an autumn afternoon – when, just for an instant, everything stops. Time loses its step and falters. Then the past rushes in. Just in that moment, you see it all clearly, painted in vivid colours, the angles sharp. (Pauses) All the things one meant to do and did not, the decisions taken. (Pause) Memory has a trick of flattening the complexities of life into a single story until they make sense. Most of it, one can live with, the good and the bad and the indifferent. The account balances out in the end.

  But there’s always something. One thing. The one mistake that, however hard we try, we cannot let go. That we brood about in the solitary small hours. ‘If only I had done this.’ ‘If only I had not done that.’

  If only . . .

  Marion looks around. As she does so, lights come up to reveal the whole office. When she speaks, it’s with her official voice. (Picks up a piece of paper from the desk, the speech she’s going to give at tonight’s prize-giving)

  Ladies and gentlemen, blah, blah, blah. Welcome to this evening’s annual prize-giving. As many of you know, I was appointed Head here – my old school, as it happens – twelve years ago. (Smiles wryly) About the same time that a certain Tony Blair and his family were given the keys to their new home. My shortcomings, I think I might say, are rather less significant than his. Ha, ha, ha. (Resumes in speech voice) However, I am delighted to say that, since 1997 . . .

  (Returns to reflection) Whatever else, I can truthfully say I am leaving the school in a better state than I found it. It’s all here, of course. (Taps speech) Yes, it’s all here. The facts and figures proving how everything is better now. When all the parents really want to know is: ‘Is my child happy? Is she safe? Is she . . .’

  A knock jolts Marion out of her reverie. She puts down the paper, stands up and straightens her skirt, takes a final glance around.

  SCENE 2

  MARION:

  Come in.

  Susan enters.

  SUSAN:

  Oh God, am I the first?

  MARION:

  (Warmly) Susan, hello. Come in.

  SUSAN:

  I’m not too early?

  MARION:

  No, no, not at all. I was just going over my speech.

  Marion submits to being air-kissed by Susan.

  SUSAN:

  Making sure you go out on a high?

  MARION:

  Something of the kind. (She moves to the drinks table) What can I get you? White wine? Red? Orange juice?

  Susan hesitates, then replies with a touch of defiance.

  SUSAN:

  White, please. Just a small one.

  Marion pours Susan a glass, and water for herself.

  SUSAN:

  So, what’s the timetable for tonight?

  MARION:

  The usual, but with bells and whistles, since it’s my last one. We’ve got a girl, a flautist, going off to the Royal Academy in September who’s going to play Debussy’s ‘Syrinx’ (Looks to Susan for a reaction – there is none).

  SUSAN:

  It sounds lovely. You’re not having one?

  MARION:

  Maybe later. And then the choir has prepared something special.

  SUSAN:

  God, the choir! We were the tallest, so we were always made to stand at the back in concerts. (Grins)

  MARION:

  You kept sticking your tongue out at someone in the orchestra.

  SUSAN:

  Just livening things up a bit!

  MARION:

  You were a terror! You could have been a prefect, top of the class, if you’d put your mind to it. If you hadn’t been so determined to be different. I was always surprised you and Julie were such good friends. (Susan’s face clouds over. Marion ploughs on). You couldn’t have been less like each other. She was always so anxious and polite, always in the library working hard, church on Sundays.

  SUSAN:

  Maybe it was because we were so different that we got on so well. There was no pressure, if you know what I mean, no competition between us.

  MARION:

  (Quietly) I’m not sure that’s how Julie felt.

  SUSAN:

  Well, it’s all in the past now.

  MARION:

  And so she married Paul, stayed married.

  SUSAN:

  Whereas I . . .

  MARION:

  (Finishing the thought) . . . vanished to Morocco with a gorgeous but rather unreliable artist. We were all so jealous! What was he called?

  SUSAN:

  Konrad. Tall blond German junkie! (Laughs) My God, if either of my girls tried to pull a stunt like that.

  MARION:

  E
mily and Phoebe are both too level-headed for that!

  SUSAN:

  Unlike their mother, you mean. It’s odd, you know, but I feel quite at home here.

  MARION:

  Well you did spend rather a lot of time in this office!

  SUSAN:

  (Laughs) When I left, I vowed never to set foot inside this establishment ever again. I hated it! Now look at me. Both the girls have gone through the school – and loved it – and here we are, after all these years, to give you a great send-off.

  You think you’re going to miss it? Any regrets?

  MARION:

  Of course I’ll miss it. Some of it. But, off the record, on balance I’ll be glad to go. I’ve done my time. We don’t teach properly any more, it’s all tests and more tests. We don’t equip them to think for themselves. (Pauses) And the parents. God, the parents! Half of them couldn’t give a damn, the other half living their children’s lives for them.

  Marion pulls herself up short, realising she’s going on.

  SUSAN:

  But you’ve made such a success of it, Marion. I’m so proud of you.

  MARION:

  (Marion goes to desk to pick up photo. Tone lightens)

  I found it when I was clearing things out.

  SUSAN:

  My God, we look so young. I remember that day.

  The three of us setting out on a ‘proper’ walk, as you put it.