From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (7 page)

‘And once, Dr Beverley told me his name meant beaver stream,’ said Ren.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said Ren.

(It was the surprise, she thought later. Dr Beverley didn’t chat when you went to see him at the Medical Centre. He was very
businesslike, talking only about symptoms and prescriptions. But this had been one afternoon at Ted’s Fruit and Veg cart. Dr Beverley had been buying broad beans.

‘It’s the pint-sized Kettle,’ said Ted, as Ren approached the cart.

That was when Dr Beverley had told Ren his name meant beaver stream.)

Since the discovery of the zine, Barney and Ren had spent much time assessing everyone in the Street in terms of possible zine authorship. It was rather enjoyable. The mystery was little more than a week old but it had given a new flavour, a new
alertness
, to the last days of their holiday. Now everyone they passed on the Street appeared just a fraction more fascinating.

And now, too, the Street itself was full of new potential. They scanned it for further packages, for a flash of white, the triangular edge of an envelope: under a chair leg; wedged in a gutter crack; on top of a shop awning; slyly inserted in a window display or brazenly on a shop counter.

Barney and Ren did this because they were confident there would be another envelope. It was just a matter of time and vigilance. They were quite certain about a second envelope for one very good reason. Beneath the words
Orange Boy Lives
on the title page of the zine was the Roman numeral I. The true title of the zine was
Orange Boy Lives I
. A
I
implied a
II
to come. Maybe even a
III
and a
IV
. Who knew how many?

But there would be a second zine, for sure.

Ren replaced
Orange Boy Lives
in the envelope, tucked in the flap and put the envelope back under her pillow.

Her bright-blue bedside alarm clock read 2.58 p.m. She waited.

At precisely 3 p.m. Barney exploded through her bedroom door. He had synchronised Dad’s mobile with Ren’s alarm clock. Three p.m. was their agreed time for an emergency Kettle Productions
meeting in Ren’s room (Barney’s room was too chaotic; Ren couldn’t think properly amid the mess).

The emergency meeting was the result of their first day of filming
The Untold Story
. (Ren had thought of the title. She was very pleased with it.) The first day had begun with elation and quickly skidded out of control.

‘Ready?’ said Barney.

‘Ready.’ Ren took
Hark! A Vagrant
and turned to the ‘Anne of Sleeves’ strip. Secretly, she thought Kate Beaton’s drawing of Anne of Green Gables looked quite a lot like her, Ren of Busby’s Emporium. Anne’s hair was in plaits, as Ren’s sometimes was, and there was a fetching sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Secretly, Ren found her own freckles rather enchanting.

Barney threw himself into the battered beanbag, which Ren only allowed in her room to prevent Barney sprawling on her bed. She hated her bed mussed up. The beanbag was low on beans so Barney could sprawl satisfactorily. He sprawled now and opened a favoured Tintin book,
Flight 714
. They both read determinedly in silence.

Emergency meetings always began with silent reading because Barney maintained this was the best way of thinking about filming problems. The key, he said, was to
not
think, but for him to read
Tintin
and for Ren to read – whatever. Then somehow – thethrillingalchemy at work, Barney believed – somehow, while one part of their minds was following Tintin and Snowy – or whatever – a back room in their brains was busily working out filming problems large and small. It was surprising how often this did solve problems, though Ren couldn’t see the logic of it.

Barney read very slowly and carefully and chewed the side of his bottom lip as he read. Ren turned pages quickly and tried not to laugh out loud (distracting, said Barney) though this was hard today because the strips were hilarious. And certainly not
for Mum’s eyes. Ren was reading ‘Matricide’ when Barney shut
Flight 714
with a bang, flung it aside, and stretched his long body, flattening the beanbag until he was practically horizontal. He folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes. His hair sprang above him like an eccentric hat.

‘Are you going to tell me your dreams?’ said Ren.

‘Funny,’ said Barney, without humour.

Ren waited once more. She had become experienced at patience. It was all part of being Barney’s sister and Arch-Slasher. Filming, Albert Anderson had once said, was the art of patience. Since Barney had zero aptitude for this Ren figured she was the one who would have to perfect it.

‘The thing is,’ said Barney, his eyes still closed, his voice slowed as if he were working something out as he spoke, ‘there
are
always problems. Making a film means problem
solving
.’

‘Thank you, Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas,’ said Ren, derisively. Despite his break up with Felix and Hal, Barney still quoted them a good deal.

‘And our problem is people getting
off task
,’ said Barney.

Ren sniggered.
Off task
was a term favoured by Ms Temple, often applied to Barney.

‘So,’ said Barney, ‘it’s very simple. We have to keep people
on task
.’ He turned his head and opened his eyes on Ren.

‘Thank you, Albert Einstein,’ said Ren. Like she hadn’t already figured
that
out.

Yesterday they had filmed Dick and Marie Scully in the public bar of His Lordship’s. It had not gone at all well.

The planning and set-up of
The Untold Story
had been very straightforward. Over the last week they had gone door-to-door around the High Street, canvassing all the residents. Pretty much everyone had been enthusiastic. Their reactions ranged from cautious endorsement to thoroughly excited.

‘Not such a silly idea,’ said Dick Scully, who often expressed himself in negatives.

‘An excellent project,’ said Suit. ‘Please tell me if I can help in any way.’

‘I am
tickled
,’ said Sylvie. ‘
Tickled
that you’d like to hear stories from me.
And
film me dancing. I shall practise even harder.’ She had raised her leg to the barre and arched her body. She looked like a rare kind of punctuation mark.

Even Marcel was ready to take part. Mia had unexpectedly offered him.

‘He has no problem talking to camera,’ said Mia. ‘It’s people he finds a challenge.’ Marcel, Mia told them, had acted in a number of student films at the Poly Broadcasting School.

You never
did
know about people.

The only person who had declined to take part was Izzy’s boyfriend, The Unpublished Poet. His time was precious, he said, he needed every spare moment for writing. Ren was unsurprised. The Unpublished Poet was a prickly person. You could never predict his reactions. It was a shame he wouldn’t be in the film. He was very handsome. And his clothes were dashing: he wore striped braces and purple suede shoes and sometimes, in summer, a straw boater.

Having secured most people’s agreement, Barney and Ren had plunged into a frenzy of pre-production. Ren had drawn up a timetable. Their original plan to proceed up and down the Street in an orderly way had been abandoned to accommodate everyone’s work and domestic demands. But they would begin with His Lordship’s and end with the Post Office. In the absence of any actual Post Office staff or customers, they planned to tell the building’s history themselves.

Ren had compiled talent release forms, as dictated by Barney. Willy Edwards had cast his eye over them. Barney had checked his bank balance and found it equalled exactly $3.25. Nowhere near enough for a tripod.

‘Beware the enterprise that requires new clothes,’ said Dad, when Barney asked for a loan of $35.75, to be paid off by sweated labour in the Emporium. ‘Henry David Thoreau said that. He knew a thing or two.’

‘I’m not going to
wear
it,’ said Barney. ‘It’s a tool. An essential one.’

‘You always say that,’ said Dad.

Barney did always say that. But it was mostly true, Ren reflected, and this time it was wholly true. The interviews would be long and there would be a lot of them. Barney’s arm would get sore and tired. If he didn’t have a tripod, he would get grumpy.

Dad had eventually agreed to advance $35.75 but only after he’d checked online and argued for the tripod that cost a mere $19.

‘Pay more for better quality,’ said Barney. ‘Lasts longer. Why do you always have to haggle?’

‘I’m a rag-and-bone man,’ said Dad. ‘Buying and selling are my stock in trade. Haggling’s in my blood. And you, my fine friend, have expensive tastes.’

A rag-and-bone man sold scrap from a cart, which Dad did not. Nor was haggling in Dad’s blood.
His
dad had been a schoolteacher and had never sold a thing. Dad liked to exaggerate.

Barney liked to exaggerate, too. Ren had witnessed it countless times. But he couldn’t help it.
That
was what was in the blood.

‘This documentary is going to be
awesome
,’ pronounced Barney, on the first day of filming.

They walked to His Lordship’s, hefting the camera bag, the brand-new Weifeng WT330A Compact Tripod in its customised bag, and a third bag on top of that. This carried Ren’s bulldog-clipboard and pencil case; Barney’s fold-up canvas stool; two water bottles; a packet of Huntley and Palmers Cream Crackers; another of Sultana Pasties (their preferred on-set snack) and a bag of the dwarf apples from the heritage tree in their grandparents’
orchard. It was early – 6.49 a.m. They had four hours to film before opening time at 11 a.m. and a long list of questions for Dick and Marie.

‘It is going to be
awesome
, Slash. And also ground-breaking,’ said Barney.

Ren watched Barney out of the corner of her eye. His shoulders were back. He was walking and talking faster than normal. He seemed taller. His hair seemed even bigger. He would have that airy feeling in his head he had often told her about. Barney was always like this on the first day of filming: convinced of the unrivalled genius and splendour of the film about to be born. It was infectious.

‘We are so prepared and so organised,’ said Ren. ‘This is the most prepared and organised we’ve ever been. I feel unusually calm.’

‘It’s because there’s no cast,’ said Barney. ‘They are always the looming cloud. They are the thing that bursts the bubble of awesomeness.’

‘Hello, Barney. Hello, Ren.’

The voice came from nowhere and they both jumped.

It was Suit, coming down his side path on the dot of 6.50 a.m., off to work.

‘Hey, Suit,’ said Ren, pausing. Suit was wearing his Monday, Wednesday, Friday suit. It was sharkskin grey; his tie was pale blue with angled black stripes.

‘The first day of filming, if I am not mistaken,’ said Suit. ‘I do hope it goes well.’

‘We are
very
organised,’ said Ren. ‘And optimistic.’

Suit did not stop. He gave his vague little wave, turned smoothly from the path into the Street and headed north.

‘The thing is,’ said Barney, as if there had been no interruption, ‘there’s no actual
acting
needed, which is a good thing. The best thing. And Dick and Marie are adults. They always behave well. We can absolutely count on them to not be a problem.’

It turned out that adults could be a problem in a quite unexpected way. The Scullys did not overact or argue with Barney, or walk off the set. Of course not. They were full of cheer and enthusiasm. They were hospitable, offering soda water and bags of bar crisps. They were immensely cooperative in every way, except for the small matter of not really answering any of Barney and Ren’s questions. Or rather, answering only the first question and for a
preposterously
long time.

Barney had positioned Dick and Marie on high stools in front of the bar, so the photos, memorabilia and postcards behind would be in shot. Kiwi Keith stood at Dick’s side, panting eagerly. Of course, he would dribble all the way through the interview, Ren knew, which would be semi-revolting, but
The Untold Story
was to be a warts-and-all doco.

‘So,’ said Barney, pushing the On switch, grinning at Ren as the cassette engaged. ‘Like I said, it’s real casual. We’ll ask questions and you just be yourselves.’

‘We forgot what their real selves
are
,’ groaned Ren later.

‘Grrfauglrgy,’ (or somesuch) spat Barney. He had been so glum after the Scully interview that he had lain face down in the beanbag and refused to talk.

Dick Scully’s real self was a mixture. He was friendly and jocular and always ready to help, but he was also – it couldn’t be denied – a great big Know-All, and once he was launched on a story or a pet peeve it was extremely difficult to interrupt him. Marie’s real self was straightforward: she was practical and no-nonsense and always content to listen to Dick.

‘My name is Richard John Scully,’ said Dick, in answer to Ren’s first question. (
Tell us who you are, and what you do
.) His big chin jutted and he addressed the camera at much the same pitch Ms Quinn addressed the entire Kate Sheppard School during assembly in the long hall.

‘I am the second in a family of nine – five boys and four girls –
born and bred on the West Coast of this Island. My mother and father also ran a hotel. They were hard workers of Irish descent. I was named after the great Prime Minister, Richard John Seddon, an earlier in-hab-i-tant of Westland.’

Ren stopped congratulating herself on the excellence of her pre-production organisation and the even more excellent list of questions on her clipboard, and decided that Dick sounded most peculiar. He was talking at a dreary pace and seemed to have adopted a strange new accent.

‘Perhaps there is more to a name than people e-maj-in, ho, ho,’ said Dick.

Ren moved close to Barney who sat on his folding seat. She pinched his back, softly. Barney stayed resolutely face forward watching the LCD screen.