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projector fan, and then, peering through the porthole at the arriving audience, spotted a few regulars: the pretty redhead who reminded him of his sister Beryl, the limping, respectable-looking elderly man who, sure enough, was joined a couple of minutes later in their usual seats by an equally respectable-looking elderly woman and, judging by what the pair of them got up to when they thought no-one could see, she was not his wife. This, supported by the fact that none of the usherettes had ever seen them arrive or leave together, had been the foundation for one of Mabel’s favourite fictions: according to her, the woman had been a missionary in Africa who succumbed to the brutish blandishments of a tribal chief before being returned to England in disgrace, and the man had a wooden foot and a possessive wife. Joe made an automatic mental note to report their presence to her, then remembered. It’s going to keep happening, he thought, dully. Things Mabel did, things she said, things she liked to hear about . . . He stared down at the auditorium, and wished he’d told her about his one and only sexual encounter in a cinema, three days after his fifteenth birthday, when he’d gone, alone, to watch Garbo in Anna Christie , and a stranger had touched him. Hot with shame and hard as a rock, wanting it to stop but desperate for it to continue, he’d been horrified and thrilled at the same time. That had been his first time, and for days afterwards, he’d thought of nothing else. Even when, later on, he’d met other men that he knew - without knowing how he knew - were the same as him, he’d never discussed it. Normal people, of course, would consider it repulsive, but not Mabel. She would have understood. Why hadn’t he confided in her?

    ‘Good house, Mr Vincent?’

    Wilson’s question cut across his train of thought. ‘Not really. About the same as last week.’

    ‘Mr Jackson says it’s the same everywhere,’ said Wilson. Mr Jackson, seedy grandeur and sly fumbles (usherettes only, thank God), was the manager. ‘He says it’s the war.’

    ‘Must be. We’d better get going.’ As the auditorium lights went down, Joe walked round to the back of the first projector and started the motor, which spluttered, then whined into life. This week’s offering was a British picture, Contraband , with Conrad Veidt and Valerie Hobson. Normally, Joe would have been eager to see it, but today he was indifferent. ‘Tabs, please.’

    The music was silenced, the curtains parted, and the programme began. Joe remained behind the projector for a moment, staring into space, only recalled to himself when Wilson asked for the second - or possibly even third - time, judging by his tone, ‘You all right, Mr Vincent?’

    All right? Of course he wasn’t bloody all right. How could he be? But neither Wilson, nor anyone else at the Tivoli, knew anything about Mabel. Cinema enthusiasts to a man - and woman - they’d have been fascinated to learn that he’d shared his home with a star from the silent era, but he’d never told them. His sister Beryl knew about her, of course - they had got on well - and she’d have to be told. Yesterday, he couldn’t face it, which meant he’d have to telephone her at work. They wouldn’t like that - Beryl was a dressmaker for a snooty Bond Street designer - but it couldn’t be helped.

    ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

    Wilson looked unconvinced. ‘You look as if you could do with some air,’ he said. ‘I can do the changeovers.’ He patted the second projector. ‘She’s all threaded up.’

    Joe remembered that he hadn’t thought to check. Best, he thought, to leave the change-over to Wilson, who in any case was perfectly competent. In Joe’s current frame of mind the unforgivable might happen and the audience be left staring at a white screen. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right outside.’

     
    Back on the fire escape, Joe contemplated another cigarette, but with only four left to