From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (19 page)

A little sliver of sultana had lodged between Ms Bloodworth’s front teeth. In order not to stare at it Barney took a third biscuit.

‘I have a proposal.’

Ms Bloodworth paused while her tongue became briefly busy with the sliver of sultana. She picked up the biscuit packet and studied it. She took another Sultana Pastie.

‘These are very good, aren’t they? I oscillate between Sultana Pasties and Chit Chats. Perhaps Chit Chats would have been more appropriate!’

Barney smiled helplessly.

Ms Bloodworth was a kind of benign sorceress. He was being
charmed by her voice, her silver hair and her very full skirt. And her sympathy. And her support of Sultana Pasties. It was like a perverted version of
Snow White
. The Sultana Pasties were the apple.

‘I’ve heard a little about your current film project,’ said the Good Witch. ‘The good news is it fits perfectly within our social studies module.’

Barney reached dreamily for another biscuit. He had never been this greedy in front of a stranger.

‘I propose,’ said Ms Bloodworth, ‘that this term you have two afternoons’ a week leave from class in order to work on your film. Perhaps even three. I’m open to negotiation.’

Barney was so startled he bit his tongue. The sting and the blood mixed with the sweetness of the Sultana Pastie. It all seemed at one with this most unusual conversation.

‘In return,’ said Ms Bloodworth.

Of course. Nothing was ever
that
simple.

‘Only fair don’t you think? You get something, I get something?’ Ms Bloodworth widened her eyes. They were very green.

‘Uh huh,’ said Barney, witlessly.

‘In return I would like you to do your maths with Nicholas Etherington. Three times a week. Beginning with integers.’

Sultana Pasties were really something, thought Barney. The pastry, flaky but crisp, the squished sultanas, the perfectly judged ripple coating of dark chocolate – it all added up to an unbeatable biscuit.

‘So. What do you think, Barney?’

A magic biscuit, a good witch, a wicked bargain.

What could you do?

‘Sounds good,’ croaked Barney. His throat was clogged with Sultana Pastie. He cleared it.

‘Sounds
good
.’

‘Any thoughts? Comments? Questions?’ said Ms Bloodworth.
She offered the packet to him for a final biscuit. Barney took one for the walk home.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do you somehow know Albert Anderson?’

It was much better to be in the entrance alcove. Barney blushed a little at his timidity, at the relief of Ren’s warm hand, back there in the alley. The alcove smelled of urine, too. Who were these pee-ers? Drunk people from Luna Square? Students who became uncivilised under the cover of night? Or was it the banished homeless people, their leftover aroma?

Cats perhaps.

Brown Betty was clearly familiar with the alcove. She mewed stridently and turned in a speedy circle. She raised herself on her hind legs and began scratching frantically at the back door.

Ren knelt to stroke her.

‘Ssshh, ssshh,’ she soothed, but the tabby carried right on with her racket.

‘Knock,’ hissed Barney. It was 00.30.

‘You knock,’ Ren hissed back. She tried to scoop up Brown Betty but received a scratching for her efforts.

They had not thought this part through. Suddenly here, now, front on with what they were about to do, it seemed ludicrous. Completely insane. What were they thinking?

Barney knew exactly what Ren was doing, trying to quiet the cat. She was distracting herself, probably from a turbulent stomach and a racing pulse. Barney’s own insides felt quite riotous. Nine biscuit sick. And his heart was whacking away again.

But, really, he
should
do the knocking. He was older, he was the big brother. He was a Writer/Director. And an apprentice megalomaniac. He straightened up, pushed back his shoulders, and took a calming breath.

But at the very moment Barney raised his fist to knock, a key
rattled in the Post Office back door. Barney’s arm fell back to his side. The door opened just far enough for Brown Betty to fall – plop – to her paws. She miaowed her thanks and squeezed inside.

The door opened a fraction further. A face and form became visible.

Barney and Ren regarded the door-opener. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, tied loosely at the waist with a sash, gaping a little and showing a hairless chest. His legs and feet were bare but he wore a bandana around his head. His face was thin, almost gaunt. He looked like a convalescent ninja, a cross one.

‘You took your time,’ he said.

There was a little gap between his bottom front teeth.

‘Welcome to Headquarters,’ bandana boy had said, as he ushered them from the moonlit alcove into real darkness. Barney stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Ren stood very close to him, their bare arms touching.

‘What is it headquarters for?’ she asked. Her voice sounded surprisingly normal.

‘You’ll see,’ said the boy abruptly, as if the question was impolite.

‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘And keep it quiet.’

The boy had a torch with a thin beam. He wielded it jerkily so that their surroundings showed only in snatches. The kitchen of the former Greek restaurant: sinks, ledges, aluminium counters. There was a mixture of smells: old rubbish bin, mould, toilets, damp, but something nice in there too, something that made Barney think of South Island Gran’s kitchen, of pinwheel scones. A door off to the side, a Toilets sign, a space once occupied by a large stove, a pot hanger with empty hooks on the wall above. Two steps up to a curtained doorway.

The boy held the curtain aside and gestured for them to go through. Ahead was a large room and a faint yellow glow.

Ren tripped on the steps and fell into the boy.

‘Watch the steps, Specs,’ he said, drolly. His voice was unexpectedly thin and twangy.

She righted herself and looked at him.

‘My name’s Ren.’

Barney watched the boy’s face for his reaction.

Deadpan.

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘But we call you Specs.’

‘Okay then, Orange Boy,’ said Ren, pertly.

Barney felt weak with admiration.

‘But that
is
my name,’ said Orange Boy.

‘Ha,’ snorted Ren and continued on into the room.

Orange Boy raised an eyebrow at Barney and Barney looked blankly back. But his head was talking loudly: it really is Orange Boy. He exists. He is here.

It was a moment, Barney felt. A creature of the imagination was made real. Like Tintin appearing in the flesh – in your classroom, or at the dinner table.

Only, the newly non-fiction Orange Boy was not quite the boy Barney had been thinking about these last weeks. He was no longer a boy, in fact. There was the faintest stubbly growth around his cheeks and chin. And he was rather brusque. Practically rude. He did not seem like a guy who had once nestled with white rats, who was pleased to be beaten at hopscotch by a new friend.

Plus, he was wearing a silk dressing gown and, apparently, very little else.

Barney followed Orange Boy and his billowing dressing gown into the front room of the Post Office.

It was spacious indeed, and there, spilling out from the northeast corner, was the tableau from the zine. The table, the chair, the stack of books, the carefully placed ornaments. Barney felt the same dislocation he sometimes experienced when they were looking at rushes, when they were hearing and seeing on film
something they knew so well in the real world. Only this was the reverse. Now they were seeing something real that had previously been only a picture.

The tableau was not precisely the same as the picture, now. There were additions. An old-fashioned coat stand with towels hanging. (How did they get that here?) Some shelving, made of old planks and beer cans, on which was an assortment of boxes, magazines and – Barney peered – yes, underpants, two piles, carefully folded. On the book stack beside the bed a flame burned in a glass container. Barney recognised a scented candle from Bambi’s and the source of the baking smell: cinnamon.

In the middle of the bed sat, cross-legged, the undoubted swiper of
Hark! A Vagrant
by Kate Beaton. She wore tight jeans and a fine white shirt that clung to her thin frame in soft folds. Her hair was black and cropped close to her head. It would have been easy to mistake her for a male, but she was Crimson Girl all right. Her wide mouth and her expressionless face were immediately recognisable.

‘The Dynamic Duo,’ said Crimson Girl. It was neither a friendly nor unfriendly statement. But she looked at Barney and Ren for an unnervingly long time. Barney looked away, at Ren who was staring back at Crimson Girl. Was she
smiling
? It was hard to tell in the dim light.

‘Your arm’s better,’ said Ren. She
was
smiling. She looked very pleased, like she had just opened a hoped-for birthday present.

‘Been better for three years,’ said Crimson Girl. She stretched the arm out and made a lazy circle with it, wriggling her long fingers. ‘See. Good working order.’ Her words were clipped, her voice flat and unmusical.

She unfolded her long legs, stretched her arms above her head and let out a satisfied breath.

‘You’re all quiet, Maestro Big Hair,’ she said to Barney.

It was not affirming being addressed as Maestro by Crimson
Girl. The word sounded next door to an insult, coming from her mouth. But how did she know about Albert Anderson’s affectionate title?

‘How do you know about Maestro?’ Ren asked.

Barney wondered if he would ever be able to bring himself to speak. He couldn’t seem to open his mouth.

‘We know everything,’ said Crimson Girl. ‘Don’t we Obi?’

Orange Boy was kneeling now at the wood-and-carton table. The light from two table candles lit his face. His hair was the colour of pale corn, and not wispy as in the zines, but kind of
tufty
. He had pale eyebrows and thick pale eyelashes. Even his eyes seemed pale, the lightest blue.

‘Pretty much,’ he said. He had the porcelain teapot in his hand. The
stolen
porcelain teapot, thought Barney.

‘Tea, vicar?’ he asked, in eerie echo of Albert Anderson.

It was the strangest tea party Barney and Ren had ever attended.

The tea was cold, for a start.

‘No power,’ said Crimson Girl.

They drank from china cups with matching saucers. The tea was strong and bitter, as if it had been sitting for days.

‘Sugar, Maestro?’ said Orange Boy. He offered Barney a paper tube of café sugar and held onto it for an extra second as Barney went to take it. The sugar was from Coralie’s. It had Coralie’s Café printed on it. Orange Boy raised an eyebrow again, daring Barney to say something.

Barney didn’t like to admit it but, so far, his feelings about Orange-Boy-in-the-flesh were definitely mixed.

‘These are like our Great-Gran’s cups,’ said Ren. She was no longer sneezing. She had made a miraculous recovery. Air flowed freely through her nasal passages. She was not in the least discomforted. She seemed completely at home.

‘From the Sallies,’ said Orange Boy. ‘It’s all old and ugly there.’
He drained his cup and inspected it from all sides, scowling. ‘Like your Great-Gran, probably.’

Crimson Girl held her cup in both hands and fixed her eyes on Barney across the table. Barney forbade himself to look away. She had a rather noticeable nose. It was sharp, like the rest of her face. Her eyes were very dark. And her appraisal very cool.

‘Say something!’ commanded Crimson Girl. ‘You never shut up, usually.’

‘How do you
know
?’ blurted Barney. The question just fell out of his mouth. It was the main thought in his head. It seemed to cover everything – the whole unnerving experience.

‘Game time!’ snapped Orange Boy, smacking the table. Barney and Ren jumped.

‘Twenty Questions,’ said Crimson Girl. It was like they had rehearsed.

‘Goody,’ said Ren. ‘We like games.’

Goody
? Was Ren four years old? Barney gave her his most withering look.

And she was the one who liked games. Barney could take them or leave them. Checkers and Ludo, fine. They were easy, races against the dice. Twenty Questions made him itchy. The Kettle version was Famous Screen Person. Barney refused to play otherwise. You could do anyone involved in film or TV, including animated characters. The famous person had to be guessed in twenty questions, with only yes/no answers. But Barney always grew contrary as the game progressed. At some point he always got bored with strategic questioning and began shouting out random guesses. Marilyn Monroe! Marge Simpson! Daffy Duck! Greta Garbo! Bellatrix Lestrange!

More than once this had caused Mum to say that he did not play well with others.

‘Hands on table,’ said Orange Boy, imperiously. He laid his hands down, palms open, on the table. Crimson Girl laid her
hands similarly. Like obedient toddlers, Barney and Ren followed suit. Barney could hardly believe it. How incredible that they did Orange Boy’s bidding, just like that! Who said he didn’t play well with others? He seemed to have surrendered his speech, his personality and his free will.

‘This shows you’re open to honesty,’ said Orange Boy. ‘You have to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’

‘Counselling,’ said Crimson Girl to Ren and Barney. She rolled her eyes.

‘You can ask whatever you like,’ said Orange Boy. He was all focus.

‘Yes/No answers?’ asked Barney. Blimey. He’d actually managed a second sentence.

‘Every second question,’ said Orange Boy. ‘Long answers in between.’

‘That’s clever,’ said Ren.

Orange Boy acknowledged this cleverness with a brief smirk.

‘Twenty questions
each
,’ said Crimson Girl. ‘To ask the other two.’

‘What’s your maths like, Maestro Big Hair?’ said Orange Boy. He scratched his head, rubbing the bandana up and down.

‘
Molto
crap,’ said Barney, without thinking. And they all laughed.

That, Barney and Ren agreed later, was when the feeling in the Post Office front room began to change. Crimson Girl and Orange Boy’s laughter was sudden and genuine. After that, their prickliness, their sideways suspicion, faded just a little. Slowly, slowly, they became friendlier.