Page 40 of Christmas at the Movies
Then, moments after entering the auditorium, a pigeon had pooped on his head.
‘That’s a good omen,’ Sarah had told him, laughing. ‘It means good luck.’
The pigeon poo had proved prophetic. In addition to plenty of mishaps, they had enjoyed some good luck too. When the ugly brown 1960s carpet had been ripped up, they had discovered a pristine black-and-white marble floor underneath. The gilded framing around the proscenium arch had gleamed as good as new once the layer of bird droppings had been removed. Best of all, hidden under the floor at the front of the theatre, had been a magnificent organ. The instrument was housed within a console, made up of curving geometrical panes of green glass. It was a work of art, evoking the bygone days of silent movies.
James had taken great pains to ensure that the cinema closely matched its former appearance. He and Sarah had spent hours in the Plumdale library, where Pam Cusack, the librarian, had found them old photographs of the cinema’s interior. From door handles to light switches, everychoice had been carefully considered. They had retained the original features wherever possible, while modernising the plumbing, electrics and ventilation systems.
Now, the curved chrome counter gleamed. Rather than just selling tickets and the usual cinema snacks, they had installed an Italian coffee machine and had delicious cakes supplied by a local baker. They had added tables and chairs, creating a café area. There was a well-stocked bookcase with books about cinema, and the walls had been hung with paintings by local artists. A noticeboard announced upcoming events at the cinema, a carol concert, an amateur dramatic society’s pantomime and a Christmas craft fair at the village hall. James’s vision was that the cinema would be a hub for the whole community.
‘I’m going to make a coffee,’ said Sarah. ‘I need all the practice I can get. That machine is more complicated to operate than the control deck of a spacecraft.’
James chuckled. ‘It’s worth it, though – it’s the best coffee in the Cotswolds.’
‘Let’s go do one final check,’ said Sean.
James and his father walked through the cinema. In the bathrooms, which they had decorated with black-and-white tiles, they checked the taps. James spotted a smudge on the chrome-framed mirror and polished it with his sleeve. He saw his father’s reflection next to him – the facial resemblance between the two men was unmistakeable, with their blue eyes, strong noses and prominent cheekbones. Over the past two years, Sean’s hair had turned white, the ageing process no doubt accelerated by the stress of the renovations.
‘Sorry your retirement hasn’t been very relaxing so far, Dad,’ said James.
‘I’ve enjoyed every second of it, son,’ replied Sean.
Going into the auditorium, they admired the fruits of their labour. James gazed up at the ceiling, with its elegant geometric patterns. The cream-coloured walls undulated gently with stucco waves, and they had managed to restore the original scallop-shell-shaped lights. The ornate proscenium arch gleamed and red curtains covered the screen.
‘Ah,’ said Sean, sitting down and reclining back. ‘These seats are so comfortable.’
The three hundred seats had been upholstered in plush red velvet. Some had small brass plaques on the armrests, bearing the name of a donor who had contributed to the fundraising campaign.
‘I wish Mum was here to see this,’ confessed James. His mum’s favourite films had been musicals; she had always hummed show tunes while doing chores around the house.
‘Oh, she’s looking down on us and smiling,’ said Sean. ‘In fact, I’m convinced she had a word with the big man upstairs when things were looking bad for us.’
After his mother had died, James and his dad had struggled to talk about their feelings. Mary had been a chatterbox, and, after her passing, a pall of silence had fallen over the flat in Ealing. Each lost in their grief, James and his father had numbly haunted the rooms, as if they’d been ghosts themselves.
Things had changed when they had started to go to the cinema together every weekend. It didn’t matter what was. For an hour or two, lost in the story showing on the screen, they could escape from their sadness together. Movies had given them something to talk about, to fill the silence. After watching a movie, they would discuss the film over a pub lunch. Cinema had been their comfort and salvation. Movies had helped them connect to each other during that dark time.
James’s hair flopped in front of his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘If Mum was here, she would tell me I need a haircut.’
Sean chuckled, which turned into a chesty cough. He braced himself on the armrests as he caught his breath.
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ said James, patting his dad’s back. ‘You should get that checked out.’
Sean waved away his son’s concerns. ‘No need. It’s probably just a cold – there’s always one going around at this time of year.’
The auditorium door opened and Roger came in. ‘Sarah sent me to fetch you. Coffee’s ready.’
Roger, a small, dapper man in his early fifties, was the cinema’s head projectionist. James sometimes wondered if Roger’s arrival had also been the result of his mum’s divine intervention. Roger had worked in cinemas for decades, progressing from ticket sales to projectionist. He knew everything there was to know about running a cinema.
They went back out to the lobby, where three coffees were waiting for them in the café. Sarah was sitting at one of the tables typing on her laptop. She had gone freelance after leaving the BBC and had had a steady stream of work editing scripts. Her freelance income was a blessing, as the cinema had run so far over budget. Once the cinema was up and running, the plan was that she would be able to devote more time to her own writing.
James took a sip of his coffee – Sarah had made his with extra milk, just the way he liked it. ‘What are you working on?’ he inquired.
‘An episode ofThe Vicarage Mysteries.’
‘Ooh, what’s it about?’ asked Roger, nursing his espresso. He and his partner, Omar, were both fans of the long-running programme.
‘Someone donates a Fabergé egg to the parish jumble sale,’ said Sarah. ‘But it gets stolen.’
Roger chuckled. ‘Of course it does. There’s never a dull moment at St Julian’s.’
