Page 8 of Christmas at the Movies

Present Day

‘Help yourself to tea and biscuits in the café,’ said James, holding the cinema door open for the pensioners slowly making their way out of the auditorium.

The cinema’s discounted Thursday afternoon Golden Oldies screenings were always well attended.

This week’s film had been the Fellini masterpiece, La Dolce Vita.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Sarah had asked him when he’d told her what he was showing. ‘It’s a pretty racy film – we don’t want anyone having a heart attack.’

James had chuckled. ‘This lot lived through the swinging sixties; I think they can handle it. Besides, we have a defibrillator in the lobby.’

When everyone was out of the auditorium, James fetched his toolbox and made his way to the café. After the Golden Oldies screenings, he ran a weekly repair shop. People could bring along anything they needed mending, and James did his best to fix it.

Three elderly woman made a beeline for the free biscuits that James had set out.

A woman with a grey bob rubbed her hands together in delight. ‘Ooh, goodie, there are chocolate digestives this week.’ Olwyn Powell was a former primary school teacher from the neighbouring village.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t,’ said Pam Cusack, a short, plump woman with white hair.

She was pushing a walker and wearing a sweatshirt that said I’d Rather Be Reading.

Now retired, she had been Plumdale’s librarian for decades.

‘The doctor says I need to get my blood sugar down.’ She watched as her friend helped herself to a biscuit. ‘But maybe just one won’t hurt …’

Olwyn munched her chocolate biscuit. ‘Your paintings look great, Vi.’

Vivian Georgitis – Vi for short – was a petite woman with a hot-pink pixie cut.

From a distance, in her skinny jeans and trainers, she looked like a teenager.

Only her deeply lined face, from summers sunbathing in her husband’s native Greece, made it evident that she was well into her eighties.

Vi’s boldly coloured abstract paintings were currently on display in the café this month.

‘Thanks. I hope I sell a few. That will pay for the grandkids’ Christmas presents,’ said Vi.

A spry little man in his seventies came over to James.

He had a tonsure of white hair and a moustache that called to mind an emperor tamarin.

His shoes were perfectly polished and he wore a waistcoat and bow tie.

The only incongruous aspect of his dapper appearance was the tape wrapped around the arm of his spectacles.

‘Shall I mend your glasses for you, Roger?’ James offered.

‘Oh, that would be splendid, dear boy,’ said Roger, handing them over. ‘I’d do it myself, except I’m blind as a bat without them.’

James put on his own reading glasses first, then got to work replacing the tiny screw. ‘Did you enjoy the film?’

‘Oh, yes. I remember the first time I saw it,’ replied Roger. ‘I was so smitten with Marcello Mastroianni that I booked a holiday to Rome in hopes that I’d meet him – or at least someone who looked like him.’

Pam giggled. ‘And did you?’

‘No, but I hung around Cinecittà Studios and had a fling with a rather gorgeous gaffer named Antonio,’ said Roger, winking at his friends. ‘I didn’t speak a word of Italian and he didn’t speak any English, but after a bottle or two of Chianti we understood each other perfectly.’

Vi gave a throaty laugh. ‘Wine – the international language of love!’

Tittering, the three ladies went to sit down at a table.

‘Now, James, I thought you should know that the picture was ever so slightly off-kilter,’ Roger confided.

‘Oh, dear, I’ll have to adjust the aspect ratio on the projector,’ said James. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

Roger had been the cinema’s first employee.

He had been the head projectionist at a cinema in London’s Leicester Square, but had followed his partner to the Cotswolds when Omar had taken a job teaching maths at the local secondary school.

Roger had taught James how to operate the projector, which they’d nicknamed Groucho Marx, when the cinema had first opened.

James understood the science behind movies, but the way the projector transformed a series of still images into moving pictures had always seemed to him a type of magic.

Roger had taught him how to change reels of film smoothly, so the optical illusion wasn’t spoiled mid-film.

Roger had retired when the cinema had switched to a digital projection system.

Now theatre management software programmed everything to run automatically – from when the projector lamp turned on to when the trailers played. But Roger still came to the Picture Palace regularly, to make sure that his high standards were being maintained.

‘I didn’t see you here last week,’ said James. ‘I showed Citizen Kane.’

‘I was visiting my nephew in Oxford. We went to see the new Wes Anderson film at the local multiplex.’ Roger shook his head disparagingly. ‘It made my blood boil – ￡12.50 for a ticket and they can’t even be bothered to mask the screen.’

James winced. It was a pet peeve they shared, a sign that a cinema didn’t care at all about the audience’s viewing experience.

‘Must have been nice to see Jonny, though,’ said James.

Roger nodded. ‘Yes, it was. I get lonely, you know.’ His eyes filled with tears and he dabbed at them with a paisley-printed handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat.

Omar had passed away two years ago and Roger was still grieving the loss of his soulmate. James didn’t know how he’d cope if he lost Sarah. He’d known she was The One from the very first time they met. They had always been a team, throughout their long and happy marriage.

Or at least, he thought it was a happy marriage.

Their disagreement from the day before popped into his head as he cleaned the lenses of Roger’s glasses.

Every couple argues sometimes, he told himself. It’s normal.

And yet, he couldn’t help feeling worried. Sarah had seemed so angry and he wasn’t sure why.

James handed Roger back his glasses, now repaired. ‘You know you’re always welcome here, Roger,’ he said. ‘Pop in for a cup of tea any time.’

Roger wandered off to get a biscuit.

‘James, dear,’ said one of the cinema’s patrons. ‘Would you mind taking a look at one of my wheels – it’s a bit sticky.’

‘No problem,’ replied James amiably. ‘Probably just needs a bit of WD40.’ He got satisfaction from fixing things and the people he helped were always very grateful.

He got the walker running smoothly, changed the batteries in someone’s hearing aid, then showed Pam how to use her new smartphone.

‘Oh, how wonderful,’ enthused Pam, as he explained how to use the camera and video functions.

‘You can also set alarms to remind you when to take medicines,’ said James, talking Pam through the clock features.

‘You youngsters are so good with technology,’ said Olwyn admiringly.

James chuckled. He certainly didn’t feel like a youngster.

He had turned fifty on his last birthday.

He was now the age his mother had been when she’d passed away suddenly from a stroke.

His father had died quite young as well.

James had been all too aware of his own mortality after his milestone birthday.

He’d stopped eating biscuits and started taking long bike rides to get his heart pumping.

Every morning, his legs pedalled as fast as they could down country lanes, feeling like he was racing against Death.

He could practically feel the Grim Reaper, in a yellow jersey, spandex cycling shorts and helmet, breathing down his neck.

When he had finished all his repairs, James went to put his toolbox away. The weekly repair shop was just one of the ways in which the Picture Palace was so much more than just a place to watch films. It was a community space, for everyone from little kids to their elderly grandparents.

Owning his own cinema had always been James’s dream.

But it was getting tougher and tougher to keep that dream alive.

People had stopped going to the cinema during the Covid lockdowns, and ticket sales still hadn’t returned to pre-pandemic levels.

Perhaps they never would. Streaming services meant that people didn’t need to leave their living rooms to watch the latest releases.

With sky-rocketing energy prices and cost of living at an all time high, it had never been a more challenging time to own a cinema.

Even the nationwide cinema chains were closing branches and going out of business.

So what hope did a tiny independent with only one screen have?

But Plumdale needed a cinema. It was the beating heart of the village. No matter how hard it was, James knew he couldn’t let his community down. People like Pam and Roger were counting on him. So he was determined to keep the cinema going, even though these days it felt like a Herculean task.

When he came back out to the lobby, he found Sarah and her mum.

‘Sorry I missed the Golden Oldies,’ said Sarah. ‘But I’ve brought my own.’

‘Hilarious,’ said her mother, rolling her eyes.

James’s mother-in-law had long, snow-white hair. Tall and slim like her daughter, she was wearing a woven tunic and a beaded necklace. Her sharp eyes peered at James through glasses with bright red frames.

‘Did you know that some Native American tribes practised senicide?’ Geraldine asked him, in lieu of a greeting.

‘Senicide?’ asked James, indulging her. His mother-in-law was never happier than when she was giving a lecture.

‘Killing the elderly when resources were scarce,’ explained Geraldine.

‘Things aren’t so bad that we need to feed you to the wolves, Geraldine,’ replied James. ‘Sarah’s bought lamb chops for dinner.’

‘Now, in Ecuador, the Huaorani people believe that elderly people are shamans with magical powers,’ continued Geraldine, ignoring his teasing.

‘In that case, maybe you can magic us up a new sound system,’ joked James. ‘Ours is on the blink.’