Page 3 of Christmas at the Movies

Present Day

The lobby of the Plumdale Picture Palace was overrun with babies – babies in slings, babies in car seats and babies on their exhausted-looking mothers’ hips.

Some of the mums were sipping coffees and chatting to each other among the vintage cinema posters.

These days, there were a fair number of dads too, armed with well stocked nappy bags and bottles of milk.

The cinema’s weekly Wednesday morning ‘Baby and Me’ screenings were always well-attended, even if the film was inevitably accompanied by a soundtrack of crying infants.

A baby girl with a shock of brown hair, huge blue eyes and deliciously chubby thighs gave Sarah O’Hara a gummy smile.

‘What a little cutie,’ said Sarah, making a silly face at the baby as she sold a ticket to her mother.

The baby giggled and kicked her legs in delight.

She reminded Sarah of her daughter, Holly, when she was a baby.

She was nearly sixteen now and those days were a distant memory, as were the smiles – at least, Holly rarely bestowed them on her mother these days.

Somehow, over the past year or so, Sarah had gone from being her daughter’s favourite person to Public Enemy Number One.

‘It’s just a stage,’ her best friend, Pari, Holly’s godmother, had reassured her. ‘I was horrible to my mother when I was a teenager and I bet you were too. She’ll come back to you.’

But when, Sarah couldn’t help wondering.

She gazed round at the young parents cuddling their adorable infants and felt a pang of envy.

It was so much easier when they were that age, despite the broken nights, sore boobs and smelly nappies.

When she could make her children laugh by pulling a silly face and make everything better with a kiss.

Even the terrible twos were a breeze compared with the teenaged years …

Sarah finished selling drinks and refreshments, then scuttled around to the other side of the counter to open the door to the auditorium and let the parents inside.

The plush red velvet seats, ornate proscenium arch and gold fan-shaped light fittings on the stucco walls never failed to take her breath away.

Nearly two decades ago, she and James had lovingly restored the Picture Palace to its former art deco glory.

It had been a ruin when they’d bought it, disused since the early 70s, but eventually they had made it worthy of its name.

As the feature presentation began, she noticed that the auditorium was a bit too hot so she turned the thermostat down a touch.

Then she slipped out to do some work in the office.

Checking her to-do list, Sarah rubbed her temples wearily.

She’d slept badly – again – and was already exhausted.

The ancient sofa in the office looked very inviting, but there was no time for a nap.

She needed to make a staff rota for the month ahead, order sweets and drinks for the concession stand, and schedule the programme for December.

She’d once naively assumed owning a cinema would mean watching movies all day long. Ha!

The desk was cluttered with posters for upcoming attractions and catalogues from suppliers.

She picked up a brochure and flicked through it.

Last week, one of the speakers in the auditorium had blown during a screening.

Fortunately, James had managed to rewire the system to a different speaker before the next showing.

It was fortunate her husband could turn his hand to most repairs, because things were constantly breaking down in the cinema, from troublesome taps to temperamental ticket printers.

Seeing the price of a new sound system, she winced and closed the brochure.

Maybe Santa will bring us a new one, thought Sarah.

That was yet another thing she needed to sort out – Christmas. She hadn’t even begun to think about shopping yet, not to mention planning the festive film festival that the cinema ran every December.

Sarah’s phone rang and her stomach clenched when she saw that it was from Severn Valley secondary school. What was it this time? Had Holly bunked off school again? Or got yet another detention?

‘Hello, Mrs O’Hara? This is Stephen Wu, Nick’s form tutor.’

Instantly, Sarah was on red alert. ‘Is Nick ill?’ she asked, her hand scrabbling in her bag to find her car keys so she could race to the school and collect him.

‘No, don’t worry, Nick’s perfectly well. I just wanted to have a chat about how he’s settling in to secondary school.’

Ahhh …

‘Nick’s a very bright boy,’ said Mr Wu, ‘but he seems quite anxious and hasn’t made friends yet.’

Sarah’s heart clenched with worry as she thought of her twelve-year-old son, looking lost in his too-big school blazer (they’d bought it large so he could grow into it).

Moving from the security of the tiny village primary school to the regional secondary school had been a difficult transition for him, unlike his outgoing older sister.

Nick begged his parents not to make him go to school most mornings.

Sarah’s heart broke when she sent him off to catch the bus, even though she knew it was the right thing to do.

‘You’re only ever as happy as your unhappiest child,’ her older sister, Meg, who had three kids of her own, had once told Sarah. Truer words had never been spoken.

‘Nick is highly sensitive,’ explained Sarah. ‘He finds it hard to cope in an overly stimulating environment, especially if it’s new. Noisy situations, crowded spaces, strong smells, bright lights – they can all trigger him.’

‘I see,’ murmured Mr Wu. ‘I wasn’t aware that Nick was on the special educational needs register.’

‘He’s not,’ said Sarah. ‘But his primary school made accommodations for him.’

She’d had to fight tooth and nail to get the school to do that, as Nick didn’t have a medical condition. Luckily, Mr Wu seemed much more cooperative.

‘What would help Nick?’ asked the teacher.

‘Is there somewhere quiet he could go if he’s feeling overwhelmed and needs a break?’

‘The library is usually quiet,’ suggested Mr Wu. ‘I’ll have a word with Nick and his other teachers, and see what we can arrange.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sarah.

No sooner had she ended the call, she received another one.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Sarah answered, trying – but failing – to keep the worry out of her voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Geraldine with a mother’s sixth sense.

‘It’s Nick,’ replied Sarah. ‘The school just called. They’re concerned because he’s having trouble settling in.’

‘Children are so mollycoddled these days.’ Geraldine tutted. ‘Benign neglect is good for children. You and your sister turned out just fine.’

‘These days, it’s frowned upon to let your kids raise themselves,’ said Sarah tartly.

Sarah and Meg were textbook 1980s latchkey kids, as their ambitious parents were busy furthering their academic careers.

Ironically, for someone with such a hands-off approach to parenting, Geraldine’s main field of research had been community and families.

When she’d had children of her own, Sarah had made a conscious decision to put them first, always.

But her mum had disapproved of the fact that Sarah had given up her television career.

‘When I was still working, I would sometimes get the parents of university students phoning to query their child’s mark, or asking me to grant them an extension on an essay.

Ridiculous!’ Her mum sighed deeply down the phone.

‘But I miss it so much. Teaching, being around interesting young people, being relevant.’

Geraldine had recently retired from Bristol University and moved into a community for seniors on the outskirts of Plumdale.

Sarah’s mother had always been fiercely independent, but after developing health complications due to long Covid, it just wasn’t possible for her to live on her own.

Moving in with Sarah wasn’t an option – there was barely enough space in the cottage for the four of them.

And Meg, who’d lived in Edinburgh since university, had her hands full with her own family and thriving dental clinic.

So Sarah had found Valley Vistas, a gorgeous complex with modern flats and beautiful gardens, within walking distance of the village centre.

Geraldine had strenuously resisted moving there, even when they’d tried to persuade her that she’d see loads more of them.

In the end, she’d had a fall and that was what had sealed the deal – she needed to live somewhere with a lift.

It was so unlike Geraldine – who had marched for women’s rights and reclaimed her life after a bitter divorce – to sound defeated. ‘Of course you’re still relevant,’ Sarah reassured her.

‘I’m just so lonely,’ said Geraldine, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘I don’t know what to do with myself all day.’

‘Why don’t you get to know some of the other residents at Valley Vistas?

’ suggested Sarah. ‘There are lots of activities you can get involved with.’ It wasn’t the first time she’d made the suggestions, and she could predict what her mother was going to say next.

They’d had a similar conversation nearly every day since her mother had moved in.

‘I don’t want to hang around with boring old people,’ moaned Geraldine. ‘All they do is talk about their medical conditions.’

Sarah stifled a frustrated sigh. ‘Well, how about you come over to dinner tomorrow night?’

‘That would be lovely.’ The speed with which she accepted the invitation and rang off made Sarah suspect it had been her mother’s main reason for phoning.

I should have Mum over more often, she thought guiltily, even though her mother joined them for dinner at least twice a week.