VOLUNTARY POSITION

Anders Ross

Even your vocation is the work of a miserabilist, a volunteer historian (think ‘custodian’, whatever that means) at the Roxy. It’s the last theatre of its kind. Perhaps with good reason, you think often, looking upon the dust-mantled walls and faded paintwork of the once glorious art-deco picture palace. Someone, years ago, chipped away the heads of the seraphim of the friezes—ratbag kids from the local comprehensive probably. They were never replaced. You were swift to ask for a complete restoration, going so far as to pledge your own money, drawn from your late wife’s estate.

You were naïve then, calling the production office at Pinewood. Films today (all gratuitous sex and violence) do not attract nor demand any sort of secondary attraction at the theatre. So long as there is some triumphal American theme, comic book ambiance, and the chance to buy an outsized, overpriced soft drink, then you’d say the movie is a winner. The kids don’t want to see The Egyptian with Edmund Purdom anymore. No. They want something that gives them a wisecracking star.

Yet there was one day, in weather and form quite ordinary, that changed your mind about all of this. The misery had even dissipated. Yet, you know that what happened and what continues to happen surely means the men in white coats are not far away.

The morning was beautiful, although in your waking melancholia as some bone-idle Frenchman would shrug, you did not see it. The sheer ocean-blue sky could be seen through your bedroom window, the burning golden sun with angelic corona behind it. The blackbirds heralding a new day, one perching upon the empty planter box sitting on your windowsill. You did not notice anything.

However, what happened on this bright and beautiful day gave you the chance to forget your misery. At least until the hallucinations (yes, that’s what they must assuredly be) wore off—the choir of voices you hear more and more each day, starting in the morning, and the friendly faces that greet you later on.

For starters, at breakfast when you made your bowl of porridge—cold and lumpen as you like it, it’s a vanity to eat it warm after all—you found a bag of raisins in the pantry that you swore was not there before. ‘Sun-blessed sweetness,’ you found yourself hushing as you might have done to your adoptive son in his infancy, the dried fruit ringing off the sides of the bowl.

Then there was the walk to the Roxy. Your feet did not hurt for once, which was wonderful. For some unknown reason, you could not help but step into a little stroll—the hum of music in your ears, your eyes gazing upwards to the heavens. What a sight! Long fingers of clouds, white like driven snow before a pool of turquoise sky and golden sun. It was almost enough to set you on a path straight for the outdoor baths at the leisure centre, but you remembered you had a job to go to.

As you neared the dilapidated theatre, still prepossessing under the right light of course, you began to hear cheering voices: ‘Hurray!’ said a well-dressed man in a crimson double-breasted suit to a welcoming throng of people outside the foyer. ‘Masterly, masterly,’ agreed a rangy woman standing beside him. The well-dressed man’s wife perhaps? It was as you drew closer to the central awning—Egyptian in style (via Birmingham) with inlaid gold, long since faded or stolen, and now badly painted over—that your memory sought to spoil the raillery.

There was of course no meeting of the theatre trust scheduled for today. There were no fancy-dress parties or private screenings being held either. Who are these people? Intrigued, you patted down your rumpled coat and dusted away any dandruff from your shoulders, pulled your lapels together under your chin and into the crowd you went.

‘Good grief! Harold?’ It was not long before someone thought they recognized you. ‘It is you! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me now,’ the rangy woman from moments earlier stepped closer, the aroma of violets teasing your nose. ‘My, my, you’re looking well,’ the woman looked you up and down. You felt your cheeks redden. You hoped you were not wearing your stained shirt. As the beautiful woman playfully moved her head from side to side, her bright eyes widened as she spoke, introducing you to her husband, ‘You’ve met Beric, haven’t you?’

You absentmindedly brushed at your sleeve. ‘You’re cut from some fine cloth there, Harold,’ the couple remarked in a cut-glass chorus, watching you grope at the plaid fabric.

‘But I feel awfully underdressed,’ you bowed your head.

The woman made a face of mock surprise. ‘You are such a card when you mash like that, Har. Go and look at yourself, in the mirror over there.’ At that you followed to where she was pointing, finding the tall looking glass beside the box office.

You had seen it before in pictures. It was black and white—an installation for cinemagoers to inspect their finery after screenings of The Lady from Shanghai. The hall of mirrors scene, you knew, was famous. Most men back then believed they were Orson Welles, and the women Rita Hayworth, but that was 1947. The mirrors, like much of the Roxy, were lost to time. You turned to look at your new friends, thick in the milling crowd. ‘Go on!’ they gestured for you to turn around.

And then it happened. Your hair, thin and white, was restored to its original thick, youthful, chestnut. Your face, pock-marked and severe, relaxed into its former plump canvas of hope.

And your clothes? The egg-stained off-white shirt, olive slacks and ill-fitting raincoat had transmogrified, as you did, into the uniform of a confident man. Hardy Amies wouldn’t know himself to look at you now, able-bodied in a wide plaid check suit, brilliant scarlet shirt and patent leather shoes. You scarcely saved yourself from adjusting your part line in your shoe’s reflection against the rich, vibrant red neon of ROXY spelled above you.

‘Come on,’ you felt the familiar embrace of your late wife envelop you from behind. ‘I didn’t notice you, so smartly-dressed as you are, Harold,’ she said. ‘You gave me such a shock.’

Taking her hand, soft and warm, you decided to stay here, in whatever dream this was.