say it was the site of a medieval tannery. The door you’re looking for is this way.’
Vince led him out of the boiler room, down another flight of stairs to another door. Beside it an old fire-axe hung on rusted hooks, above a positively ancient-looking fire extinguisher. He found the correct key. They felt the intense cold from the darkened room creep up the steep stone steps to greet them.
Caldwell paused at the top of the steps, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. ‘Is there a light?’ he asked.
‘No, Mr Caldwell. Electricity doesn’t come this far down.’
‘So nobody ever comes down here?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no need. I’ve been in recently to store some old films I found in the loft, but before that the last time was when someone came in about seven years ago to bolt a metal grating over the well because it was deemed dangerous.’
Caldwell took out a box of matches and stuck one. ‘Let me see,’ he said, treading carefully as he descended the uneven stone steps.
The walls were constructed of large pieces of stone, mossy-green in places with the damp. ‘Are those the films?’ asked Caldwell nodding towards a pile of rusting old cans in the corner.
‘’Yes, Mr Caldwell .’ Vince went over to them. There were about twenty in number. ‘I found them stashed away in the loft, like I said. When I looked there were a load of shorts by Laurel and Hardy, the Keystone Cops, Buster Keaton, and a few Charlie Chaplin films dated around 1915 – In the Park and Work , that kind of thing.’
He struck another match. ‘I don’t care what they’re about, what are they doing here?’
‘They’re film history, Mr Caldwell, classics. There won’t be many copies left of some of them. And they’re on nitrate film.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s not as stable as modern film. It’s flammable, can self-combust if it gets hot. That’s why I put them down here, to keep them cool.’
‘What the fuck are you doing keeping piles of worthless old junk that nobody wants and might even catch fire? Get rid of it.’
‘But Mr Caldwell, you can’t throw things like this away.’
‘Do as I say, Vince,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Don’t argue. So, this is the well, huh?’
At the far end of the square room was a rusting iron grid about three-feet-square and flat to the floor. It had been bolted down with four bolts, one at each corner. Caldwell went over to it, tossed away his spent match and lit another. He bent to his haunches, holding the flickering flame over the grating. He peered down into the black hole it covered.
‘How deep does this go, Vince?’
‘Dunno, but it goes down a long way, I guess.’ Vince picked up a small stone and dropped it down through the iron grating. They listened in silence for what seemed quite a while before hearing a faint splash echoing up the circular well. The match fizzed out, plunging them into almost total darkness except for the light spilling in from the open door at the top of the stairs.
‘What are you looking for?’ Vince asked.
Caldwell rose to his feet and made for the stairs. ‘Hazardous thing to have,’ he said. ‘Before any work could begin down here they’d have to check the water table and fill the well in.’
He seemed satisfied with his discovery. At the top of the stairs, as Vince re-locked the door, Caldwell asked for the key to be taken off the ring. He pocketed it.
‘Is that all, Mr Caldwell?’ Vince said. ‘You’ve nothing else you have to tell me?’
‘No, that’s fine, thank you, Vince.’ He frowned at the young man. ‘Everything OK?’
Vince said everything was just fine, but he felt disconcerted with what Monica had told him. There were precious few jobs in Langbridge, and even fewer that he wanted to do. He loved being a projectionist. He’d be lost without the Empire. It must have shown on his face because he was stopped by young Edith. She was carrying a mop and bucket and he hadn’t expected her to be
Vince led him out of the boiler room, down another flight of stairs to another door. Beside it an old fire-axe hung on rusted hooks, above a positively ancient-looking fire extinguisher. He found the correct key. They felt the intense cold from the darkened room creep up the steep stone steps to greet them.
Caldwell paused at the top of the steps, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. ‘Is there a light?’ he asked.
‘No, Mr Caldwell. Electricity doesn’t come this far down.’
‘So nobody ever comes down here?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no need. I’ve been in recently to store some old films I found in the loft, but before that the last time was when someone came in about seven years ago to bolt a metal grating over the well because it was deemed dangerous.’
Caldwell took out a box of matches and stuck one. ‘Let me see,’ he said, treading carefully as he descended the uneven stone steps.
The walls were constructed of large pieces of stone, mossy-green in places with the damp. ‘Are those the films?’ asked Caldwell nodding towards a pile of rusting old cans in the corner.
‘’Yes, Mr Caldwell .’ Vince went over to them. There were about twenty in number. ‘I found them stashed away in the loft, like I said. When I looked there were a load of shorts by Laurel and Hardy, the Keystone Cops, Buster Keaton, and a few Charlie Chaplin films dated around 1915 – In the Park and Work , that kind of thing.’
He struck another match. ‘I don’t care what they’re about, what are they doing here?’
‘They’re film history, Mr Caldwell, classics. There won’t be many copies left of some of them. And they’re on nitrate film.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s not as stable as modern film. It’s flammable, can self-combust if it gets hot. That’s why I put them down here, to keep them cool.’
‘What the fuck are you doing keeping piles of worthless old junk that nobody wants and might even catch fire? Get rid of it.’
‘But Mr Caldwell, you can’t throw things like this away.’
‘Do as I say, Vince,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Don’t argue. So, this is the well, huh?’
At the far end of the square room was a rusting iron grid about three-feet-square and flat to the floor. It had been bolted down with four bolts, one at each corner. Caldwell went over to it, tossed away his spent match and lit another. He bent to his haunches, holding the flickering flame over the grating. He peered down into the black hole it covered.
‘How deep does this go, Vince?’
‘Dunno, but it goes down a long way, I guess.’ Vince picked up a small stone and dropped it down through the iron grating. They listened in silence for what seemed quite a while before hearing a faint splash echoing up the circular well. The match fizzed out, plunging them into almost total darkness except for the light spilling in from the open door at the top of the stairs.
‘What are you looking for?’ Vince asked.
Caldwell rose to his feet and made for the stairs. ‘Hazardous thing to have,’ he said. ‘Before any work could begin down here they’d have to check the water table and fill the well in.’
He seemed satisfied with his discovery. At the top of the stairs, as Vince re-locked the door, Caldwell asked for the key to be taken off the ring. He pocketed it.
‘Is that all, Mr Caldwell?’ Vince said. ‘You’ve nothing else you have to tell me?’
‘No, that’s fine, thank you, Vince.’ He frowned at the young man. ‘Everything OK?’
Vince said everything was just fine, but he felt disconcerted with what Monica had told him. There were precious few jobs in Langbridge, and even fewer that he wanted to do. He loved being a projectionist. He’d be lost without the Empire. It must have shown on his face because he was stopped by young Edith. She was carrying a mop and bucket and he hadn’t expected her to be
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