Mementos

Mementos is a new page which offers an opportunity for members of Sutton Writers to demonstrate their work on our website. Each Memento will only remain on the website for a limited period. We hope you enjoy reading the articles and that these previews will boost your interest and enthusiasm to come and join us and start writing!

Last year, our member Tina Gillam had her story The Midnight Choir accepted for inclusion in the 2025 Crowvus Ghost Story Anthology. She has generously allowed us to reprint an updated version of the story in Mementos.

THE RED SCARF

The smell of paraffin hung thick in the air. Footsteps of the townsfolk crunched on the frosty ground as they huddled together for warmth. A restless wind stirred the trees, lifting a folded programme high before releasing it onto the wooden steps. It landed face up.

The Friends of St Nicholas Church warmly welcome you to the Annual Christmas Carol Concert. The bandstand, Manor Park, Sutton. Sunday, 24th December 1922.

Malcolm, the conductor, cursed under his breath as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. It was pure cashmere and the brightest of red. An early present from his wife, which would help him stand out to the musicians. The lanterns swung gently, their golden light reflecting on the polished brass as they waited patiently for the crowd to settle. He glanced at his watch at the same moment a single bell tolled from the tower of St Nicholas, its deep note rolling across the park. It was time.

Though the first notes of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ were a little shaky, the band quickly found its footing with a steady rhythm. Malcolm waved his baton with gusto, his eccentricity unmistakable in every sweeping arc. This was his stage, and he wore it like a crown, every gesture a declaration. Voices rose as families were swept up with enthusiasm and joy.

Next, Malcolm indicated towards the children’s choir, who were now assembled in front of the bandstand, that it was their time to shine. A young boy with hair the colour of sunrise picked his nose and gazed around nervously, which made a few people laugh. But when he began to sing, the gathering fell silent; even the wind held its breath. As he sang about a manger and a sleeping child, the other children joined him softly, not refined but pure and unwavering.

Malcolm’s personal favourite to round off the evening was ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. As the final notes were played, suddenly without warning all the lanterns flickered and died. Gasps rippled through the crowd as an eerie darkness fell. Then one by one they crackled back to life, casting a pale glow through the gathering mist – but Malcolm was gone.

A year later the bandstand was pulled down as a mark of respect. Malcolm was never seen again.

***

Helen was busy rummaging through the donations for the upcoming jumble sale. As one of the volunteers, she always had first refusal on anything that caught her eye. It would soon be her son’s birthday, and with Christmas not long after, this time of year was always expensive. Gary was in his twenties now but still lived at home. It was just the two of them since his father had walked out when he was still a baby, so money had always been tight.

The Red Cross Hall on Carshalton Road was like a time capsule, unchanged in decades with chipped paint and squeaky floorboards. Beneath the hum of fluorescent lights, draughts curled around the legs of chairs stacked against the far wall, and a dented tea urn hissed gently in the corner. A simple poster hung crookedly on a notice board.

Jumble Sale. Saturday, 9th December 1972. All proceeds go to Queen Mary’s Hospital for Children.

Helen rubbed her hands together and wished someone would fix the damn boiler. She reached into a box labelled ‘scarves’ and felt around. An assortment of scratchy wool and faded acrylic brushed her fingers, but then something else: something softer. She emptied it onto the table, and there, at the bottom, was a neatly folded red scarf. It looked brand new. She held it up to the light – no stains, no snags, and in the corner a small label: ‘Pure cashmere. Made in Scotland.’ Her heart skipped as she put it in her bag. Perfect for Gary’s birthday.

Gary moved through life guided by quiet routine. Each Sunday evening was a quiet retreat from the noise of the world, and the park with its ancient trees and ornate fountain was his sanctuary.

Helen and Gary had been invited over to a neighbour’s for pre-Christmas drinks, which he declined, preferring instead the solitude of his weekly stroll. His coat and scarf hung in the hall like a silent ghost waiting to be remembered. The clock on the mantle chimed eight as he gently closed the door behind him and headed out into the night. It was Christmas Eve.

It was a damp evening, so he pulled the red scarf up around his ears to keep out the chill. The park really was quite beautiful under the warm amber streetlights, and Gary’s footsteps slowed as he gazed around, taking in the atmosphere. That is when he saw it. A circle of dead grass lay like a forgotten footprint, as if something heavy had lingered there.

Gary moved closer, drawn by a whisper of curiosity. He stepped into the circle, and the present slipped. The shadows lengthened, a restless wind stirred the trees, and the stale smell of paraffin danced in the air. In front of him, a brass band waited expectantly for their cue. He raised his hands, the baton already in motion, and the music started as time bent further. Then, without warning, the park was plunged into darkness, as brief as a heartbeat but as deep as a memory. Gary was gone.

***

Mark hated this time of year. It was cold, damp and depressing. As he walked up the high street after work one afternoon, a young lad was handing out flyers. He took one and glanced at it briefly.

Christmas Eve at The Nightingale Pub. Saturday, 24th December 2022. Live Music. Festive drinks & good company. 7.30pm onwards.

He liked that idea. A lot of places now charged entry on Christmas Eve, and with the price of beer, he thought they had a cheek. This would suit him and his friends perfectly. He popped into Morrisons to get something for his dinner, and on his way out, something in the charity shop window caught his eye. Around the mannequin’s neck was a red scarf. It looked new and, more importantly, warm.

He wasn’t frugal, but he was always on the lookout for a bargain. There was no price tag on it, and with the shop about to close, the cashier offered it to him for a fiver. He paid and left before she had a chance to change her mind. Once outside, he took a closer look. A small label in the corner read: ‘Pure Cashmere. Made in Scotland.’

Mark was due to meet his friends at 8pm at the pub. There was a chill in the air as he walked the short journey, and he was glad of the warmth of his new scarf. As it brushed his cheek, he caught the faint scent of something oily and old. Funny, he had never noticed it before. The route took him past Manor Park, shrouded in mist. From deep within, a faint echo drifted…

‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. The words beckoned and he followed.

The Nightingale waited, but Mark never arrived. In the mist, the red scarf lay waiting for another fifty years.