Heavens, Holmes, how did you discern that?’
‘There was ash in the crown of his trilby.’
In forties cinema-going, there were more scenes of a sexual nature enacted in the audience than on the screen. B-movie scenes that were played in shadow or darkness were the most conducive to back-row action and I have sometimes wondered whether that might account for the prevalence of ‘film noir’ during that decade.
It was an era when the local picture-house was about the only place that offered affectionately disposed couples both warmth and darkness, particularly the back row, known among the GIs as Hormone Alley. None of the theatres I worked in had installed the special banquette-style ‘Couples Seats’, a purpose-built facility that was often a feature of North of England cinemas, but every usher and usherette on the Hyams Brothers circuit was instructed to exercise discretion when shining their torch along that area.
Among the more venturesome males of the period, a body of back-row folk-wisdom had gradually developed, some of its tips more helpful than others. Of the only two I remember, one was the initiatory manoeuvre that could be described as ‘slide of hand’, while the other strongly recommended beginning the proceedings by kissing the nape of her neck. Not only was it believed to promote arousal, it also allowed you to watch the picture at the same time.
When I arrived at the Trocadero, the General Manager was Bill Fowler, a large, easy-going man with huge hands and amused eyes. He was unfailingly forbearing with me, allowing me completely free rein except on one point. At five o’clock every evening he would go up to his office, lock the door and I had to make sure no one on any account disturbed him. At half past five I had to go round to the side-door of the adjoining Rockingham pub and collect ‘Bill Fowler’s usual’, a quarter bottle of Scotch. Concealing this under my jacket, I would return to the cinema and knock softly on his office door. It would open just wide enough for his hand to take the bottle from me.
At a quarter past six, he would reappear, in evening dress, freshly shaven, good-humoured and ready to take his place in the foyer to welcome incoming patrons. ‘I was born three double Scotches under par,’ was the only confidence I had from him about our nightly procedure. ‘If anything happens to the Rockingham, stay clear of me.’
As things worked out, I had been transferred to the Gaumont, Watford, by the time the Blitz started in earnest, the Rockingham got hit and the wartime whisky shortage began to bite. I can only report that Bill Fowler continued to turn up at all the managers’ weekly meetings, as good-humouredly imperturbable as ever and still surveying the world with an expression of private amusement.
It was an afternoon in June 1940 and a two-thirds full house at the Trocadero, Elephant & Castle, was under my sole command, Bill Fowler having decided to take a day off. So when the telephone call came from Head Office I had to deal with it on my own.
The voice at the other end was both grim and urgent. ‘The news has just come through that France has surrendered. That means England is on its own, so you’d better let the audience know straightaway.’ I quickly alerted the projection room to stand by and hurried into the auditorium.
Making my way down the side of the stalls to the door leading into the back-stage area, I reached the organ pit and, from there, phoned projection to stop the film and bring up the houselights. Then, eighteen years old and dimly aware this was some kind of historic moment, I pressed the organ’s Up button and ascended with it to stage level.
A spotlight hit me as soon as I came into view. With a preliminary cough to make sure the mike was working, I said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have to inform you that France has fallen and Britain is now fighting the War alone.’
I paused, uncertain how to continue. There was a moment of complete silence, then from somewhere at the back came a solitary shout that was immediately taken up by the rest of the audience. ‘Put the bleeding picture back on.’ As the shouting increased, I signalled the projection box, the houselights went down and the picture was resumed.
When, many years later, I described this incident to Dilys Powell, soon after she joined My Word!, her immediate response was totally characteristic. ‘What was the picture?’
Fortunately, its title was difficult to forget. ‘It was Old Mother Riley in Society.’
She nodded understandingly. ‘Well, there you are,’ she said. ‘Arthur Lucan. He really was very good.’
In the years before the Clean Air Act, fog could be a cinema-going hazard. On the Hyams Brothers’ circuit, whenever there was a particularly dense one, a commissionaire would go up and down the outside queue shouting, ‘Owing to the fog penetrating the hall, the clearness of the picture cannot be guaranteed.’
This was not a universally followed procedure. Indeed, a cinema in Norwood, known locally as ‘Ikey’s Bug Hole’, would put out a placard proclaiming, ‘It’s clearer inside.’
After one of his appearances on Looks Familiar, Larry Adler told me that his earliest London date had been in Cine Variety at the Troxy, Commercial Road, another of the Hyams Brothers’ cinemas. Nobody had warned him that it was a custom at the Troxy to allow the first row of the stalls to be occupied by nursing mothers, their prams in front of them. Even more disconcertingly, when they were feeding their babies, they would turn themselves sideways on to the stage and continue watching from that position. It presented performers with a spectacle Larry had never encountered before or since.
At the Trocadero, we had a ‘Barred List’, a not very extensive assortment of minor miscreants whose descriptions and (rarely) photographs were pinned on the inside of the cashier’s window for easy reference.
Among the more persistent offenders was ‘Tossoff Kate’, a mild-mannered, middle-aged lady with a greasy black fringe. If she managed to evade the cashier’s scrutiny, she was still fairly easy to spot as her line of work necessitated constantly changing her seat. Moving from row to row, she would, I discovered, adjust her fees to match the seat prices she found herself in. While offering the same service all over the cinema, she charged more for it in the one-and-nines than she did in the sixpennies.
I found this graduated tariff rather admirable and would have liked to put some questions to her about her specialised trade. Had she found, for instance, that one type of movie was better for business than others? Did the contents of the newsreel affect customer demand? Did takings tend to peak during the trailers?
During my time as a Cinema Manager, none of the illicit practices I had to contend with proved more intractable than what became known as the ‘Untorn Tickets Fiddle’, ‘fiddle’ being the forties word for ‘scam’.
When you bought a ticket at the cinema box office in those days, the cashier receiving your money would push a button on the Automaticket machine in front of her and up through a little metal trapdoor would pop a numbered ticket, differently coloured for the various prices.
You took this ticket to the door of the stalls or circle, where a uniformed member of the front of house staff would tear it in two, handing you one half and, using a bodkin, thread the half he retained on to a length of string.
At the end of each day, the ticket strings would be collected, placed in a sack and dispatched to a place in Crediton, Devon, where Entertainment Tax officials would, I presumed, count them and check their numbers against those shown on the Automaticket machine. (How anybody had the patience, let alone the eyesight,