Past lives: Kirsty Mann on why Edinburgh is a perfect place to stage a ghost story
Edinburgh’s haunted history left theatre-maker Kirsty Mann in little doubt that the Fringe was the perfect place to stage her own spooky story. Then she realised the city in August is home to another type of ghost
Edinburgh is the perfect place to tell a ghost story. Partly because the city is famously haunted. From Bluidy Mackenzie to the Lone Piper, every kirkyard, vault and castle comes with at least one resident spectre.
Even the Fringe venues have ghosts. Last year, I was lucky enough to get a private ghost tour from the CEO of Summerhall Arts, Sam Gough. “Summerhall has seven ghosts that we know of,” he announced gleefully as I followed him into the dark and dripping boiler rooms beneath the building. Summerhall was once the Royal (Dick) Veterinary College, so it makes sense that several of those ghosts are animals. We stood in what used to be the dead animal storage room (mercifully now empty), where Sam told me that bad smells appear and disappear without reason. Locked doors mysteriously unlock. A racehorse can be heard cantering through… I got out of there pretty quickly.
Next up is the old Demonstration Room, where lurks – if you believe paranormal investigators – a malevolent presence in a long lab coat who frightens the security guards so much that they won’t enter the room.
And let’s not forget Mary’s Stairs. Professor William Dick founded the veterinary school in 1823. His sister Mary was, by all accounts, the capable one. But as a woman, she was not only denied an education but was also forbidden to use the main staircase of the college. Instead, she was forced to use a hidden staircase at the back of the building. Today, people frequently report being pushed on the stairs. Those people are always men.
It’s all delightfully spine tingling. That is why I have chosen Edinburgh to tell my own ghost story.
Until recently, I didn’t believe in ghosts. But then something very strange happened. My husband and I bought a house. Sure, it was derelict and in a dodgy area and someone had just died in it. But as a result, it was just about affordable, and we jumped at the opportunity to become homeowners. Once inside, peculiar things started happening. The taps turned themselves on and off. A handprint appeared on the ceiling. One day, I came home to find that the washing machine had moved across the kitchen. And then…
Well I won’t spoil it. If you want the full story, the show is called Corpse and plays at (you guessed it) Summerhall.
But that’s not actually what this article is about. Because I’ve realised that Edinburgh is also home to another kind of ghost altogether.
I first came to the Edinburgh Fringe in 2002. I played a moorhen in a production of HONK! And whilst my performance was surely dreadful, I truly had the best time of my life. I’ve returned almost every August since, performing or not. So after many fringes, I can’t walk anywhere without bumping into previous versions of myself. The teenager with one line in Guys & Dolls. The nervous new comedian dying on her backside in the back room of a bar. The woman planning her wedding over coffee on Nicholson Street.
I don’t think it’s just me. Ask anyone who's been coming to the Fringe for years and they'll do the same thing. They'll point to a pub and say, “That's where I celebrated my first ever sell out” Or a street corner: “That's where I decided to quit comedy.” Or a café: “That's where I met my partner.”
Edinburgh stops being a city and becomes a map of previous lives.
This year, after rehearsals, I wandered through the old town with my director, Joe. Every ten seconds I’d interrupt myself. “This is where my student theatre company learned we’d got five stars in the Independent. Oooh this is where we celebrated with a vindaloo. OOOOH this is where we found out it wasn’t The Independent, it was an independent reviewer, and it was the director’s mum.”
Poor Joe.
Eventually we stopped outside McEwan Hall. “This," he said “is where I broke up with my wife.” I froze. His wife?! We’d been working together for three months. How self-involved had I been that I had missed the fact the poor man’s getting divorced? We crossed Bristo Square in troubled silence. Eventually, he spoke again. “And this…” he pointed wistfully at Teviot Row House, “is where we got back together a year later.”
Ah. Not his former wife. His former self.
I suppose that’s what Edinburgh really accumulates every August. Versions of all of us.
I’ll leave you with a ghostly sighting. In 2005, I came to the Fringe on a jolly. My friend and I stayed in a beautiful flat on Canongate that would now be laughably unaffordable. At 5am, we staggered home from a night out. Halfway down the Royal Mile, we spotted a little black Scottie dog waddling purposefully along on its own. It didn’t acknowledge us. We got closer, concerned. Where was its owner? Hang on… There was something fuzzy round the edges about it… We were just about to determine its mortality by petting it when we got distracted by a conversation with a statue. And when we turned back, the Scottie dog was gone. I’ve wondered about it ever since.
Kirsty Mann: Corpse, Summerhall, 3.15pm, until 30 August
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