Writing for Fun
April 2021
The Cinema- Pete Norman
It had stood in the centre of the town for almost a hundred years – a true icon of a bygone era. Countless thousands had parted with a few coins at the kiosk and taken the small cardboard ticket along the dark passageway to the lady with the lamp – the Florence Nightingale of the silver screen – who, with a professional wave of her torch, would guide them to their seat.
In his early years Edward had done his courting in the seclusion of its back rows, usually oblivious to the film that was entertaining the rest of the house.
There had been three cinemas in the town in those days, the State, the Ritz and the Regal. The Regal was a fleapit, a tired, run down place down by the riverside. Edward had tried the Regal but he had never really liked it. It was cheap and because it was cheap it was always full of rowdy kids soaking up films which were as worn and tired as the cinema itself, rustling sweet wrappers and using ice cream cartons as projectiles and ignoring – or maybe even creating – the faintly unpleasant musty odour which assaulted the senses.
At the other end of the scale the State had all the luxury of a London theatre and it had a cinema organ which rose dramatically from the pit in front of the screen just before the main feature showed, a Liberace wannabe pounding the keys with almost religious fervour.
However, despite its early popularity, with the advent of television and Multi-Screens, cinema audiences had, slowly but surely, deserted the three ageing pleasure palaces and one by one they closed down.
The Regal, quite rightly, was demolished to make way for an ugly block of flats.
The State might well have been the most prestigious of the three but it was much too large to be of economic use and soon it too surrendered to the wrecking ball.
The Ritz, however, had the ‘Goldilocks effect’ – being neither too tatty nor too large, it alone survived the axe. For a number of years it had suffered a descent into the mediocrity of the Bingo hall but, after the eventual decline of this low budget gambling habit, it had stood empty for some considerable time until its latest incarnation, a night shelter for the homeless. However, more amenable premises had appeared nearby and even the poor and vulnerable had now deserted it and so, there it stood, empty and decaying.
Edward crossed the road and unrolled the large gaudy poster topped in huge letters with, 'We don’t NEED another Supermarket. We don’t WANT another Supermarket'. Beneath that dramatic headline were pictures displaying the cinema in its full glory. However, the building which stood before him now was a pale shadow of that former elegance. Gone were the bright film-title boards which had hung over the entrance doors, advertising the delights of the cinematic world within. Gone were the huge letters of its name which had once filled the brick space above those boards. Gone were the stunningly ornate Art Deco windows which had once flanked the doors. In their place, tied to the door handle was a plastic encapsulated A4 sheet on which the Council were giving notice of a planning application to demolish the cinema and replace it with yet another supermarket.
Edward sighed. This whole thing was so depressing. He felt ridiculous just standing here, drawing attention to himself and he hoped that no-one he knew came by. He could empathise with Colin’s passion about the cinema – indeed, he had fond memories of the place himself – but he could not understand why Colin had picked him to save the Ritz. After all, Colin was a Council Planning Officer himself. It was his own department which was dealing with the matter. Why could they not simply reject the application themselves?
However, Colin was adamant and had given Edward a look that is normally reserved for recalcitrant children. ‘Because,’ he had snorted, ‘because the Council have to be seen to be fair, impartial and transparent – they are accountable for every decision they make. In this instance Tesco have made a perfectly valid application and they would have every chance of winning the appeal, which is why we need a concerned member of the community – and you are simply perfect for that, dear boy – to do the David and Goliath bit and make a stand against the huge, powerful, dispassionate conglomerate. All you have to do is to give us the bullets and then leave us to fire the gun.’
As Edward was checking that the poster was securely taped down, a tap on his shoulder spun him around. The ageing occupant of a wheelchair (which happened to be propelled by a rather attractive young lady) was gesturing towards the poster. ‘Now that brings back some fond memories, young man. Used to come here a lot when I was in me prime.’ There was a glint in her eye as she added, ‘Are you doing a petition?’
Edward had to rummage in his bag for the clipboard on which, somewhat optimistically, he had attached a rather thin wad of Xeroxed forms. After Mrs Wilkins had scrawled her details on the top sheet her daughter, Emma, leaned forward and asked, ‘Have you set up an on-line petition as well? You’d get a lot more names that way.’
Edward shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t know where to start, I’m afraid.’
‘Would you like me to set one up for you, then? It would keep mum happy.’ She smiled and shook his hand in a quite formal manner, ‘I’m Emma, by the way and if you don’t mind I’ll get my sister to drop by as well, she would be extremely interested in what you’re doing.’
He stared after them in amazement – the very first two people on the list – but then two more people stopped – and then another – and another. They came thick and fast and before long Edward was wondering why he had not copied more sheets.
At midday he was tugging a sandwich from his bag lunch when a familiar young face appeared before him. ‘Hello, Emma,’ he said, his face brightening.
‘Oh, no. I’m not Emma, I’m Tracy – Emma’s my sister. We’re twins.’
‘Identical twins,’ he said. ‘I suppose you want to sign the petition?’
Tracy picked up the pen but then hesitated. ‘What exactly do you propose to do with the place if you manage to stop all this?’
Edward was lost for words; so far no one had asked him that question before. He had actually pushed that very point with Colin but without success, he had somehow evaded all pressure to nail this down, only saying, ‘I’m sure something will turn up.’
He was embarrassed; Tracy was waiting for an answer that was difficult for him to give. In desperation he resorted to, ‘We might try and put it back as a cinema again.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ she said, signing the form with a flourish. ‘There are four amateur dramatic groups in town. Would there be room for them to use it for their performances? You see, the other venues here are so expensive.’
He was by now totally out of his depth. ‘I imagine so.’
Tracy beamed. ‘That would be wonderful. Now, have you spoken to the Echo? No? Well, if you ask for Graham – he’s my husband – he’ll do an article for you and . . . and he does have some rather useful contacts in Fleet Street. You never know.’
Edward watched as she walked away. He was thinking deception, subterfuge . . . surely all of this this was more than a coincidence. He was being used – manipulated. What was it Marley had said to Scrooge? As the bell tolls one o'clock you will be visited by the first of three spirits. He checked his watch and smiled, it was half past twelve. He had been visited by the first two – who was going to be the third?
He did not have long to wait for an answer. A grey haired man in a sharp suit and with military bearing stopped and signed the form and then he subjected Edward to the most intense gaze. ‘Who have you got representing you?’
When Edward looked blank he added, ‘Do you have a solicitor to carry out the legal procedures?’
Edward shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t afford a solicitor.’ It suddenly struck him that this man might be a spy from Tesco's, trying to gain an advantage but the man pulled a business card from his pocket. ‘Maybe, then, you might be able to afford a barrister who would offer his services for nothing?’
The card simply stated Charles Fortnum QC and an email address.
‘But why would you . . .’
Fortnum glanced at the poster. ‘I had many happy times in the Ritz. Never saw much of the films, mind you.’ He smiled. ‘We will be celebrating our Ruby next year. Now, you will be needing a persuasive Council Planning Objection Letter, which I would be delighted to assist you with. I might start with a little research into Tesco’s planning history, you never know, some of their previous rejections might well be of value to us.’
Edward’s eyes followed the 3rd spirit as he walked away – the word ‘us’ had not been wasted on him. This was now getting out of hand but he realised that he was actually rather enjoying this bizarre situation. Ever since he had lost Rufus, his ‘man’s best friend’, he had been left with an awful lot of time on his hands and this simple human contact, especially with the ones who dropped by for a chat on their way back as well, was a pleasurable break away from his solitary existence and . . . he glanced up at the glossy black and white pictures, which almost appeared to be smiling down at him – who knows what might happen as this situation unfolds further.
The next few weeks went by in a blur: Graham, at the Echo, gave him a beautifully worded half page spread vilifying the powerful and dispassionate corporation . . . and he recommended a contact in Essex Radio – which was a new and rather traumatic experience for him – and who also promised to speak to Breakfast TV . . . the trauma of the cameras and the lights and the searching questions made the radio interview pale into insignificance.
He was barely hanging on by his fingertips. He was in too far to stop but not far enough yet to swim.
All the media interest had galvanised the townsfolk into action – his printer was close to melting point – and to his amazement the Online Petition was growing exponentially. He knew that without the assistance of an ever growing team of volunteers he would have gone under long ago.
However, he did not feel quite so ridiculous now – in fact he was genuinely enjoying himself – so much so that when the phone call came he was absolutely delighted. Spirit number 3, their very own barrister, had all but lost his formal edge when he broke the news. ‘We’ve done it, Edward! The cinema’s ours – and the Council have agreed to let us have it for a peppercorn rent for the first year or so until we become established.’ He graciously added, ‘You have done a marvellous job.’
Edward put down the phone and dropped his head into his hands. This was it – this was the moment he had been fighting so hard for all this time . . . this was the moment he had been dreading. The big wheel had started to roll. However, he could not wallow in self pity, there were a lot of people he had to contact.
A week later, out of the blue, he received a call from the National Film Archive, who offered him access to the more obscure and cult material from their intensive collection. The big wheel was gathering momentum – it was turning into an unstoppable juggernaut.
The grand opening was unbelievable. Dressed in his best dinner suit he welcomed the Mayor and then Tracy directed His Worship and his entourage to their priority seating in the very centre of the front row.
He could recognise many of the faces which followed behind from his petition days and a constant stream of congratulations and handshakes made him feel a bit like royalty.
An elderly gentleman, wearing his best tuxedo, shook his hand firmly and introduced the elegantly dressed lady beside him. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Edward, you are to be commended for your achievement. You have accomplished something that very few people have ever managed to do – you have made the Chief Planning Officer and his good lady extremely happy.’
Edward summoned Tracy – and her Florence Nightingale lamp – to lead them down to the VIP seats in the front row but the offer was politely declined. With a broad grin on his face the Chief Planning Officer gestured towards the seclusion of the back row. ‘No, young lady, these seats were always our favourite.’