The Old Cinema Organ – Part 1: The Pedals

"I can see you," said Callum.

"I'm not here," said Dev, from behind a row of velvet seats.

"You're very visible. You're wearing a yellow tie."

A pause. A head rose cautiously from the stalls. It belonged to Dev, thirty-six, the manager of the old picture house, in a rumpled suit and a mustard tie, with dark hair, round spectacles and a faintly embarrassed grin. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd stop if you knew."

"I'm trying to fix an organ. I don't mind an audience."

"It's a lovely sound."

"It's a terrible sound. Half the pipes are dead."

Callum, thirty-three, sat at the huge, gilded console of the cinema organ, a great white and gold beast with three rows of keys, a forest of stops and a gleaming set of pedals. He was an organ restorer, lean and pale, with untidy ginger hair, a leather tool roll and a fondness for talking to machines. The theatre was dim and vast, faded red and gold, dusty with a century of film. Light fell through broken skylights in long, hazy bars.

"I'll play something," he said.

"I would love that."

He pressed a key. A single wheezing note groaned out of the dark. He winced. "That's the swell. It needs oil." He pressed another. A rich, deep, trembling chord rolled out and filled the whole theatre. Dev's mouth fell open.

"Oh my days."

"It's not good."

"It's astonishing."

Over the following weeks, Callum worked in the chamber behind the stage, up to his elbows in pipes and leather and felt. Dev brought him tea, biscuits, a heater. He came to sit in the dark stalls every afternoon, hands in lap, listening to the test notes. Gradually, the organ came back to life. Dead pipes sang. Stops opened. The theatre filled with warm, shimmering sound.

"Can I ask you something?" said Dev, one evening.

"Yes."

"Why organs?"

"Because they breathe," said Callum.

"Green?" said Dev, a stop, a pipe.

"Green," said Callum, going pink. "Very green. Sit down. I'll play you something properly."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Silent Film Night.