LIFE AS AN USHERETTE -THE TRUE PICTURE!

‘At the pictures’. The tribulations of the usherette and commissionaire could be many.
‘At the pictures’. The tribulations of the usherette and commissionaire could be many.

A 100 years ago, the Lumière brothers thrilled audiences with the first moving pictures. My stint as an usherette wasn’t quite that long ago but, compared to today’s multiscreen complexes, it seems medieval.

The pay, too, was slave wages – £2.10s for five evenings and a Saturday matinee, with 8/- deducted for tax and NI. But I was saving up for a Vespa scooter and, besides, it was a chance to see all the latest movies. Wrong!

My first job was by the entrance curtain to the stalls, armed with a long darning needle to thread the tickets as the customers passed through. That needle came in useful to fend off the occasional drunk who forgot why he’d come in.

For a popular film, there would be a queue right up the street by the time the second showing was due. Earlier punters who had caught the ‘wee picture’ – a ‘B’ movie western or comedy – then Pathe News, cartoons, adverts, trailers and the big picture, sometimes elected to sit through some or all of it again for the second house.

Families often settled down with sandwiches and bottles of ‘ginger’ to see them through this marathon. Continuous performance meant conti-nous movement as people muttered “this is the bit we came in at…” and squeezed along the row to leave. They always did that with their eyes on the screen, and walked backwards to the exit, still watching,

With no booked seats and the option of sitting through twice, queuers were often turned away, especially if they’d come for the stalls and didn’t have the price of the balcony.

When I was promoted to wielding a torch, I thought I’d see more of the show. But no sooner did I guide one group down the sloping floor and into a row, then more were waiting to stumble to their seats. And I had to note where there were spaces and occasionally get people to move along. It was all go.

Saturday matinees were a chance for children to ride the backs of the seats along with the Cisco Kid, or loudly jeer a love story, or yodel in opposition to Howard Keel or Gordon MacRae. The house lights were often put on while we restored order.

My first go as an ice-cream girl was at a matinee, and the experience put me off ice-lollies for life. I’d watched the other usherettes in turn gliding gracefully down the far aisle to stand in the spotlight dispensing their wares. I felt my neck would break as I careered like a pecking chicken towards the screen.

Sales were once during the ‘wee picture’, in darkness except for the spot and a strip-light in the tray, then back to the freezer to reload for the interval. Adult queues waited patiently, eyes on the screen or chatting among themselves.

Serving the whirling dervishes was a white-knuckle ride. They changed their minds about tubs, choc ices, drinks on a stick, sweets; they offered Irish half-crowns; they dropped their money on the floor or into the tray: they fought each other for places in the queue. Give me a gang of Teddy Boys any night!

After the National Anthem sent the customers home, we raced round tipping up the seats for the cleaners in the morning. Left- behind scarves, brollies and bags –
once a beef joint plus all the veg – were put in lost property. Then it was off with the heavy serge uniform coat and the last tram home to dream about the brief glimpses we’d had of our screen heroes.

There has been a revival in cinema-going but it all seems so antiseptic nowadays. Sweets and drinks on sale outside, a small auditorium, only one film. We got our money’s worth forty, years ago.

For 9d to 2s 6d, we could spend up to six hours in the dark, lost in make-believe. We were a more intelligent audience, too. After all, we could follow plots without explicit sex, violence and swearing. We weren’t naive. We knew that car drivers or cowboys often sat on studio dummies while filmed scenery moved behind them. We spotted that sinking ships were models in a stormy basin….

But we were enjoying a good night out. Reality we could get at home or on any street corner.

Today when I tell young relatives about the queuing, the reels that broke down, the scuffle for seats, the crowds ‘at the pictures’, they say: “Why didn’t you just get a video?”

That’s when I realise that I am indeed part of history!

Margaret Gamble

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LIFE AS AN USHERETTE -THE TRUE PICTURE!

‘At the pictures’. The tribulations of the usherette and commissionaire could be many.
‘At the pictures’. The tribulations of the usherette and commissionaire could be many.

A 100 years ago, the Lumière brothers thrilled audiences with the first moving pictures. My stint as an usherette wasn’t quite that long ago but, compared to today’s multiscreen complexes, it seems medieval.

The pay, too, was slave wages – £2.10s for five evenings and a Saturday matinee, with 8/- deducted for tax and NI. But I was saving up for a Vespa scooter and, besides, it was a chance to see all the latest movies. Wrong!

My first job was by the entrance curtain to the stalls, armed with a long darning needle to thread the tickets as the customers passed through. That needle came in useful to fend off the occasional drunk who forgot why he’d come in.

For a popular film, there would be a queue right up the street by the time the second showing was due. Earlier punters who had caught the ‘wee picture’ – a ‘B’ movie western or comedy – then Pathe News, cartoons, adverts, trailers and the big picture, sometimes elected to sit through some or all of it again for the second house.

Families often settled down with sandwiches and bottles of ‘ginger’ to see them through this marathon. Continuous performance meant conti-nous movement as people muttered “this is the bit we came in at…” and squeezed along the row to leave. They always did that with their eyes on the screen, and walked backwards to the exit, still watching,

With no booked seats and the option of sitting through twice, queuers were often turned away, especially if they’d come for the stalls and didn’t have the price of the balcony.

When I was promoted to wielding a torch, I thought I’d see more of the show. But no sooner did I guide one group down the sloping floor and into a row, then more were waiting to stumble to their seats. And I had to note where there were spaces and occasionally get people to move along. It was all go.

Saturday matinees were a chance for children to ride the backs of the seats along with the Cisco Kid, or loudly jeer a love story, or yodel in opposition to Howard Keel or Gordon MacRae. The house lights were often put on while we restored order.

My first go as an ice-cream girl was at a matinee, and the experience put me off ice-lollies for life. I’d watched the other usherettes in turn gliding gracefully down the far aisle to stand in the spotlight dispensing their wares. I felt my neck would break as I careered like a pecking chicken towards the screen.

Sales were once during the ‘wee picture’, in darkness except for the spot and a strip-light in the tray, then back to the freezer to reload for the interval. Adult queues waited patiently, eyes on the screen or chatting among themselves.

Serving the whirling dervishes was a white-knuckle ride. They changed their minds about tubs, choc ices, drinks on a stick, sweets; they offered Irish half-crowns; they dropped their money on the floor or into the tray: they fought each other for places in the queue. Give me a gang of Teddy Boys any night!

After the National Anthem sent the customers home, we raced round tipping up the seats for the cleaners in the morning. Left- behind scarves, brollies and bags –
once a beef joint plus all the veg – were put in lost property. Then it was off with the heavy serge uniform coat and the last tram home to dream about the brief glimpses we’d had of our screen heroes.

There has been a revival in cinema-going but it all seems so antiseptic nowadays. Sweets and drinks on sale outside, a small auditorium, only one film. We got our money’s worth forty, years ago.

For 9d to 2s 6d, we could spend up to six hours in the dark, lost in make-believe. We were a more intelligent audience, too. After all, we could follow plots without explicit sex, violence and swearing. We weren’t naive. We knew that car drivers or cowboys often sat on studio dummies while filmed scenery moved behind them. We spotted that sinking ships were models in a stormy basin….

But we were enjoying a good night out. Reality we could get at home or on any street corner.

Today when I tell young relatives about the queuing, the reels that broke down, the scuffle for seats, the crowds ‘at the pictures’, they say: “Why didn’t you just get a video?”

That’s when I realise that I am indeed part of history!

Margaret Gamble

More Stories

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