Back
in 2000, a Gazette mention of the cinemas of Dacorum brought back vivid
memories for one of our readers, Bill Groom, and we have reproduced them
below as a wonderful account of what the cinema meant to people in the
first half of the last century.
 Your
picture of the old Princess (RIGHT) brought back many memories. I first
went before the First World War, it was then a big asset to this small
market town and for many years after.
There was no electricity supply in the town, so they had to generate their
own. They had a detached building at the rear where there were two engines
to generate the power.
The owners were George Allanston and Walter Greey, who had a furniture
shop in the High Street and was also an auctioneer.
They had two shows every weekday with an added matinee on Saturday.
In the early 1920s I had a mate George Chatten and we both lived within
100 yards of the cinema.
The films were black and white, silent with captions for those who could
read. The prices were - wooden seats in the front five pence, cushion
seats below the gangway eight pence,
above the gangway, one shilling then one shilling and three pence, and
two private boxes at five shillings each. Half price for children.
The programme was Pathé Gazette with the latest news. Then a short
comedy, with Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, Laurel &
Hardy and many more, next a serial to be continued next week, this with
Pearl White and Warner Oland.
The man who operated the cinema was Wally Pratt, a big ex-policeman.
George and myself used to wait for Wally to arrive, he was always first.
He used to come from Cotterells over the river and across that old meadow
to the engine house.
He would put on a boiler suit, and start one of the engines for charging
up and when things were going smoothly, he would go into a cubbyhole,
and come out with his commissionaire’s uniform on - peak cap, his
jacket covered in gold braid, with
gold epaulettes, trousers, with red ribbons up the seams and very shiny
boots, he was now ready for work. He would go to the forecourt and parade,
and keep the youngsters in order until the doors were opened.
The rest of the staff were Miss Floe Allaston in the paybox.
She was a most imposing sight, her bottle blonde hair was piled on her
head, she was past the first flush of youth but she did her best. She
was heavily powdered and painted, long drop earrings down to her shoulders,
sleeveless blouse revealed much cleavage, all very attractive.
Next we had the three Tavener brothers, Albert, the eldest, he did a lot
of dashing about and was the boss. Then Percy, who stood at the entrance
and tore the tickets in half, then Sid who went round with the chocolate
tray; but in my opinion the most important was George Motherwell, the
pianist.
He was an artiste - George was a big man but light on his feet, a typical
musician, very long hair, trilby hat with a very wide brim, a big Ulster
overcoat with big patch pockets, he lodged in Herbert Street.
Each evening, as regular as clockwork, he would make his way to work,
he called at the Sebright Arms to get his bottles of beer, and then to
the cinema. His piano was in the orchestra pit. He eased the top off his
bottles and put a couple on the top of the piano. He had to start playing
10 minutes before the show started and he had a few minutes in the middle
of the first house.
George had a limited repertoire, but he kept pace with the films. There
was a projectionist and a lad George Miller, who later was manager. I
do not think a lot of money was made, although Friday and Saturday always
seemed to be busy. I once went to a Wednesday afternoon show, there were
four of us paying customers. They gave us tickets for the evening show
and then closed the place up.
l Our cinema photographs were both taken by Alan Willmott whose Marlowes
pictures have featured over the last three weeks.
Above is The Princess in its last week and the picture shows the projectionist’s
room with fire escape - Alan was a projectionist there for a time.
The picture, left, shows the Luxor, which was also in Marlowes, on its
last day in 1959 - note the new Timothy Whites.
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