Last Reels - 5. Last Days

1980

Cat

The summer holidays arrived. Free from college, Cat took on some extra overtime each week.

‘Good job the summer’s here,’ Mr Watkins said. ‘Those boilers won’t make it through another winter. I’m expecting a call from head office any time to tell us our days are numbered. Just so long as I have the time to finish fitting out my boat first.’

It was a standing joke that whenever he was on duty, if he wasn’t in the office, then he’d be in the old scene dock at the back of the cinema where his boat was currently up on blocks, busily trimming carpet or varnishing wood.

‘What will you do, if it happens?’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘when’.

‘Take the redundancy, I expect. Then I can go back to the coast and spend a year sailing before I find something else.’

‘Won’t you miss the cinema business?’

‘Of course I will. But it’s not what it was. Even back when I started, fifteen years ago, it was very different. I remember queues around the block and the “House Full” signs out every night. We played “The Sound of Music” for ten weeks to packed houses. They made films people actually wanted to see back then. Now it’s all sex and violence, and not everyone wants to watch that kind of stuff.’

‘My dad says home video will kill off cinemas for good.’

‘Well, they said the same about television and we’re still around. Mind you, a lot of places closed back then. And a lot more will close over the next few years, because no-one’s spent any money on them and they’re falling to pieces. But I reckon cinema still has a future, as long as they show films that people want to see.’

And as long as the circle isn’t full of rats, the heating still works and the projectionist knows what he’s supposed to be doing, she added silently.

There was a great deal of excitement about The Empire Strikes Back. They hadn’t shown it on first release as Fairham was considered the preferred site, but now, at last, it was here.

This was how the ‘old days’ must have been, Cat thought, as she had a brief rest between houses. It was packed out; not an empty seat. Elsie and Laura were busy re-stocking the kiosk shelves, Geoff was outside making sure the queue of people made an orderly snake around the building rather than rambling into the road. Mr Watkins had just brought out more bags of change and was having an impromptu light-sabre duel with Phil, using old poster tubes.

Frances poked her head around the office door. ‘Mr Watkins. Can you come over? The area manager wants a word on the phone.’

‘Never a quiet moment to enjoy yourself,’ he grumbled, and walked across with his light-sabre over his shoulder. ‘Back shortly, folks.’

Cat went to check inside the auditorium. The audiences were generally well behaved, but they’d had a problem with kids who had bought tickets sneaking their friends in through the exit doors. As there were no spare seats, they were easy to spot sitting on the floor in the aisles. So far today, she had evicted fourteen of them, some more than once.

Having had a look around and found nothing amiss, she’d just sat down on the usherettes’ seat at the back when Geoff pushed open the entrance door and beckoned her over. ‘Best come out here,’ he said.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ As she reached the doors, she saw the little group of staff clustered around the island kiosk and Mr Watkins, bereft of his light-sabre standing to one side. He looked tired and sad.

‘Now that everyone’s here, I’ll give you the bad news. I’ve just been told we’re closing on October the sixteenth.’

Fewer than two months, she thought. That’s all the time we have left. She wished the news could have come when they were bored in an empty cinema rather than working their guts out and turning customers away.

‘They’ll be sending out redundancy notices in the next week or so.’

Laura sniffed. ‘It’ll be peanuts, Clive says.’

‘And for those who don’t fancy blowing their redundancy on a weekend in Clacton, I’ve been told there’ll be some jobs available up at Fairham.’

Cat thought about the options. She didn’t want to leave the cinema business right now. But maybe the shabby grandeur of the Gaumont, with all its quirks and characters couldn’t be replicated elsewhere. Maybe it was truly unique. Still, she’d need a job to pay board to her mum and cinema was still better than most other options, even if it wasn’t as much fun. After finishing college next year with some qualifications, she’d be able to look around for something else.

Once The Empire Strikes Back had ended its run, the cinema returned to its usual lacklustre performance. Many an evening was spent playing ‘ping the lights’ with unpopped kernels from the big popcorn bags and trying to fill the gaps in the display of sweets. It was surprising how quickly the more popular lines ran out. Miss Baines had said they weren’t allowed to order any more stock as they were due to close so soon.

‘Sorry, we don’t have any chocolate raisins,’ became the refrain each night.

‘What about sherbet lemons?’

‘None of those either.’

‘Fruit gums?’

‘Sorry, but if it’s not on display, we don’t have it in stock.’ Cat became fed up apologising for the lack of variety. ‘We’re shutting in a few weeks, you see.’

‘Really? But I’ve always come to this cinema.’

‘Yes, a lot of people say that.’ And if they’d all come here a bit more often, then maybe we’d be staying open.

Late one afternoon, she heard the sound of sawing from the stairs leading to the closed circle and went to investigate. It was Mr Watkins, taking a hacksaw to the banisters.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he said. ‘These are solid brass underneath. It’ll go towards my pension fund.’

The second week of September brought cooler evenings, and the inevitable happened when Steve went to fire up the boilers after the summer break; they wouldn’t work. Cat arrived at six one evening to find large notices advising patrons that the heating had broken down.

‘They won’t let us get it repaired,’ Mr Watkins said. ‘It’d be a waste of money as there’s only four weeks till doomsday.’

Each day, the auditorium became noticeably chillier. Elsie brought in a fan heater and sat behind the pay desk with her feet on it. People came in, saw the signs and asked if it was warmer inside the auditorium than in the foyer.

‘A little bit,’ Cat lied. ‘Actually, you’ll find it adds to the atmosphere of the film.’ They were showing The Shining that week, and there was no doubt that sitting in a cold auditorium really helped to make you believe you were trapped in the snowbound Overlook Hotel. However, most people decided to get back in their warm cars and drive the five miles up to Fairham instead.

Suddenly it was the last week; the last few shifts before the Gaumont became history. Signs outside advertised a double bill for the final late show; The Last Picture Show followed by Monty Python’s And Now for Something Completely Different. A local reporter came in and wrote a story on the topic. Following the publication, there were even more phone calls from people who couldn’t believe the news. Some of them said they would write to Head Office and start a campaign to save their local cinema.

‘They can try,’ Mr Watkins said. ‘It won’t make the slightest difference.’

With just four days to go the tab cable snapped. Clive and Steve had to drag yards of heavy material open by hand.

‘There goes the dramatic last closing of the curtains,’ Steve said gloomily. ‘Let’s hope the projectors keep going or we’ll be in real trouble.’

Cat hated the sight of the stark, grey screen as she locked up each night in the freezing auditorium. Due to a mild spell, it now felt warmer outside the building than inside. It was as if the cinema already knew of its fate and had decided to die slowly, piece by piece.

The last day came. Only a few hardy souls turned up for the regular evening performance.

‘What’s showing next week?’ someone asked.

Mr Watkins smiled wryly. ‘Rubble and redundancy.’

‘I’ve not heard of that one. Is it any good?’

‘I doubt it.’

The remaining staff clustered around the small island of warmth surrounding the kiosk. The last three hot dogs stewed in the steamer. They had been in and out of the fridge all week due to the lack of patrons and were in a sorry state. There was no point in taking them back up to the ice room, as they would never have another chance to be eaten.

Elsie dared Geoff to eat one, but he refused. ‘I want to survive a bit longer than this place, thanks.’

Up in the circle lounge, the traditional closing party had commenced. Managers and projectionists from other sites were the principal guests, along with former members of staff, family and friends. As the evening progressed, the sounds of revelry became increasingly louder.

Even those who were still on duty, like Cat, were invited up for a drink, all normal rules of conduct having been suspended. There seemed to be a touch of desperation in the way people were drinking. For some, it was simple determination to get through as much of the company’s free booze as possible. Others were out to celebrate their own fortune in having escaped closure so far.

‘Got to make hay while the sun shines,’ a man said. ‘It might be us next.’

One of the projectionists had brought tools, and was dismantling an Art Deco light fitting, packing the pieces carefully into a holdall.

Cat almost fell over an expensive SLR camera at the top of the stairs. ‘Whose is this?’ she asked several people, but no one was sure.

‘It might belong to the chap from the paper. He went off with a bottle of gin about an hour ago and hasn’t been seen since.’

She put it to one side, in a corner where it was less likely to get trodden on and went back downstairs. People were starting to arrive for the late night double bill. Many of them had clearly been to the pub next door first and were in a similar state to the party guests.

‘This lot’s going to be trouble,’ Geoff said grimly.

The Automaticket machine chimed merrily as it disgorged the last ever roll of tickets. The sight of so many people in the foyer brought back memories of better times. Cat and Geoff tore tickets as fast as they could. Some of the drunks looked ready to fall asleep or throw up.

Inside the auditorium, someone began shouting. Cat went inside to see what was going on. A fire extinguisher lay in the side aisle, fizzing and foaming as it rolled around under its own steam. A loud banging noise was coming from the Gents.

‘They’re running amok already,’ she told Geoff. ‘Letting off fire extinguishers. And it sounds as if they’re vandalising the toilets too.’

He shrugged. ‘Do we care? Do we hell. It’ll be a bit less work for the demolition men.’

It didn’t feel right to Cat. She’d grown to care about the place, even in its decline. But what could she do?

‘They’ll quieten down once the film starts,’ he said reassuringly.

But they didn’t. The Last Picture Show was the poignant story of the demise of a small town cinema in nineteen-fifties Texas. It was quiet, understated, and filmed in black and white. The crowd had mostly come to see Monty Python and to carry on drinking after hours somewhere a bit more comfortable than in the local park. It wasn’t to their taste at all. The noise from inside the auditorium began to rival that from the party upstairs.

Phil went to use the loo and reported back. ‘They’ve pulled the condom machine off the wall and broken into it.’ He sounded impressed. ‘That takes a bit of doing. Those things are built like Fort Knox.’

‘Maybe we should tell Mr Watkins?’ Cat suggested. She headed for the stairs. Just as she reached the foot of them, Mr Watkins himself ran down, taking two steps at a time.

‘Excuse me…’ she began, but he fled past her unheeding. Three other managers and Miss Baines almost knocked her down as they followed in hot pursuit. They caught him as he struggled to unlock his office door and dragged him back over to the kiosk. Two of them held him while Miss Baines pulled his trousers down, and then took a photo of him sprawled among the popcorn in just his underpants. Shrieking with laughter, they went back upstairs, leaving him to try and regain some kind of dignity.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Apparently it’s become some sort of tradition. What were you going to say?’

‘Just that the patrons are vandalising the place.’

‘I’ve heard that’s traditional too. Best leave ‘em to get on with it. Enjoy yourself. Come and have another drink.’

She followed him up the stairs. Now the circle lounge looked like a scene from The Fall of the Roman Empire. People in various degrees of undress and unconsciousness slumped over the trestle tables. Food had been trampled into the threadbare carpet. The smell of spilled alcohol overpowered the usual damp. She poured a glass of wine and went through the open doors into the circle. Others had taken refuge there, too. She supposed that if you had drunk as much as some of them, you wouldn’t feel the cold too badly.

The wine was overly sweet for her taste. She sipped it and stared across the empty seats, illuminated by the changing scenes of the film. Cinemas such as this – super cinemas of the nineteen-thirties - had been described as ‘an acre of seats in a garden of dreams’ in a book she’d borrowed from the library. How grand it must have been on opening night. Even now, in its final days there was still something awe inspiring about the place.

A cue dot caught her eye. She waited for the changeover. Steve was running the show and it was perfectly timed. Several anorak-clad enthusiasts had made their way up to the box earlier, and were recording every moment of this last picture show at the Gaumont.

A man stumbled toward her, nearly falling over a seat. He clutched at the arm rest for support and it came off in his hand. ‘Excuse me,’ he slurred, ‘I seem to have lost my camera somewhere. Have you seen it?’

She recognised him as the press photographer. ‘Actually, I did. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.’

She had to help him to the exit doors. He was a big man and she worried that if he fell she might get squashed beneath him. But they made it, and she handed him the camera, which luckily was still where she had stashed it.

‘Be careful with that. It’s a nice piece of kit.’

He smiled. ‘Are you into photography, then?’

‘It’s part of my course at college.’

‘Do you want a drink.’

‘No, I’ve had enough. I’m still on duty, officially.’

‘I was going to have another, but I’ve mislaid… my bottle.’

That might be a good thing, she thought.

‘Suppose I should be getting home anyway. Have to work tomorrow.’

‘I’ll give you a hand down the rest of the stairs.’

Once he was safely in the foyer he waved goodbye and carried on weaving his way toward the exit. He pushed the inner doors far too hard and hurtled through, crashing into the outer set. Cat winced. Fortunately, the glass didn’t break. He stood, poised at the top of the three shallow steps onto the street and in a move Charlie Chaplin would have been proud of, tripped over his own feet then miraculously regained his balance as he reached the pavement. The last she saw of him, he was leaning against a parked car, being sick all over the driver’s door.

It was one-thirty in the morning. The audience had quietened down, having passed out, fallen asleep or exhausted themselves from the earlier mayhem. An occasional ripple of laughter from the auditorium indicated that the Monty Python film had started. A couple of elderly men made their way down the stairs. From their sober appearance, their anoraks and the large bags bulging with two thousand foot spools, they had obviously spent the evening in the projection room. They nodded goodnight to Cat.

As had always been the way, the final hour was the longest, waiting for the film to end with nothing left to do. Tonight, there wasn’t even any point in clearing up or wiping down the kiosk shelves. She turned off the steamer. The hot dogs had vanished. Surely no-one could have eaten them?

Cars slid past soundlessly out in the orange-lit street. The sign above the Chinese take-away went out abruptly as they shut up shop for the night. Leaves and polystyrene cups blew along the pavement like modern day tumbleweed. There was something desolate about the bright and empty foyer at this hour of the night. It reminded her of an Edward Hopper painting.

The auditorium door opened at last and a few of the staff emerged. ‘That’s all, folks,’ Geoff said. ‘Credits are rolling for the last time.’ They lined up at the top of the stairs and watched the patrons file out. Once they had left, Cat went inside to see the last few names disappear at the top of the screen and the houselights being raised. No swish of closing curtains, of course, because they were broken.

‘This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper,’ she said softly, to the acres of shabby seats and the auditorium that would never dream again.

They locked the doors as usual and checked the vandalised toilets. A few more people came down from projection, carrying souvenirs and saying what a good show it had been. Steve had already got a job in another cinema. Clive was leaving the business to run a mobile disco.

Mr Watkins rounded up the last of the partygoers and told them it was time to leave. The booze had run out anyway, so there was nothing left for them here. Last to go was the union representative. ‘There are three more closing tonight,’ he told them. ‘And another two next week. It’s a bad time for the industry.’

The lights went out in the foyer. Mr Watkins switched on his torch and led the way down the centre aisle and up onto the stage, illuminated by two fly-spotted lights far above their heads.

‘I’ve always wanted to know what that does,’ Cat said, pointing to the large lever at the side of the stage. Above it was a red-lettered sign – DO NOT TOUCH.

‘It’s the self-destruct switch,’ Mr Watkins joked. ‘Want to try it?’

‘It’s just the safety curtain,’ Steve said. ‘But it’s not been dropped in years. We were worried that if it was let down, it might never go up again.’

Now that it had been mentioned the temptation was there.

‘Shall we?’

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Mr Watkins should have the honour.’

‘Yeah. Go on.’

He grinned. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the area manager, but I’m leaving anyway, so why should I care?’ He reached up to the lever, brushing away cobwebs. ‘Stand clear, everyone.’

He pulled it firmly. For a second or two, nothing happened.

‘It’s broken, just like everything else,’ Geoff said.

But then, far above, there was a creaking sound, followed by the panicked flurry of pigeon wings as their roost was disturbed. The safety curtain began to move, slowly at first, gathering momentum as it slid inexorably downward, sealing off the darkened auditorium like an ancient tomb.

‘Ooh, er…’ said Elsie.

‘Awesome,’ Phil muttered.

Dust and droppings fell with it, swirling in the pools of light. A heavy, grinding noise accompanied the descent. When it finally touched down the stage floor shook and even the walls shuddered. A few feathers floated down.

‘Must have been the vandals,’ Mr Watkins said. ‘Impressive, eh?’

He pushed the panic bolt to open the exit door. They stepped out into the warm October night. Steve reached back inside and turned off the last few lights. It was over.