From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (25 page)

It might be a pity to miss out.

She had a flash of Girl’s assessing stares, her dark unblinking eyes, the surprise and alarm of her bitter little laugh. It might be a pity. But also, secretly, a relief.

‘Yes,’ she said, quickly, covering up this traitorous thought. ‘But we’ll be having heaps of late nights with the rushes. If we have
no
sleep some nights, we’ll be –’ What would they be? Ren remembered her tired self. It was like being waterlogged, or wading through mud. She had greatly disliked the feeling of her light and portable body made hefty and slow. You couldn’t think properly. It made you –

‘We’ll be grumpy,’ she said. ‘It makes everything harder.’

‘You’re so
sensible
, Gran.’

It was true. She couldn’t help it. But someone had to be.

In Dale’s Copy Centre, Ren listened to the whirrs and slaps and clicks of Dale’s machines. They were all around her, spitting out and collating and stapling paper. Four big jobs, Dale had told her.
Deliveries before 5 p.m. Day from hell, he said. One man down, inexperienced assistant, and a bottleneck of jobs. Plus the T3500 was playing up. Perfect storm. And then a crazy customer, just when you didn’t need it.

‘And who names their kid Rosebud?’ said Dale. ‘Terrible risk. What if they grow up and look like an overblown peony?’ Dale’s children were called Farley and Chester, which Ren assumed were risk-free names.

Rosebud had been very trying; it was true. She had given long explanations of her requirements, all the while shuffling furiously through her papers and twice sending them scattering to the floor. She had argued with every one of Dale’s explanations or suggestions. Ren had found it almost interesting, listening to both of them. It was a sing-song little battle: Rosebud’s querulous high notes, Dale’s quietly determined undertone. She had admired Dale’s patience.

And just how did people grow up into annoying adults? Had they been annoying children, too? Probably. She thought of the two most annoying people in her class, Siobhan and Caoimhe. They were identical twins. They were whiny and argumentative and
snatchy
. Everything about them was difficult: even their names, which were not pronounced remotely like they were spelt. They could easily grow up to be like Rosebud.

Ren had forgiven Dale for ignoring her. Once he had got round to her he had been very helpful. And quite happy for her to do her own photocopying. It was to do with the documentary, she explained. They needed to keep it under wraps till the première.

‘Knock yourself out!’ said Dale. ‘Less work for me.’ He instructed Ren in the ways of his most basic machine and returned to the bottleneck of customer needs, darting between the huge printers, the spiral binding machine and the electric guillotine.

‘Where’s your other half?’ he called from the troublesome T3500. He hovered at its side like a parent with a fractious baby.
‘Out and about? Pinning an unsuspecting interviewee to the chair with his merciless lens?’

Not really out and about, thought Ren. And not really unsuspecting interviewees.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Right now Barney was in the Post Office.

Second interview.

Ren could not exactly say that theirs had been the week from hell, but it had been extremely demanding, all the same. In more ways than one. Five interviews. Rushes every night.

And such strange little storms of feeling.

The week had required seamless organisation. And much mollifying of Mum and Dad – Barney’s department; he had an impressive routine that moved between impassioned artistic justification and downright pleading.

Ren’s department was doing not just her own homework but Barney’s too: integers and one page on cyber bullying. Barney had dictated his thoughts as he cleaned his camera gear. It was so much more efficient that way.

Barney was beyond happy. He had moved right into Paradise, he told Ren. The first afternoon interviewing – during school time! – had given him a tantalising glimpse of life beyond the classroom. Beyond awesome, he said. Beyond words.

He had done a series of forward rolls down the hallway instead, finishing with a star jump.

‘The future is looking
outstanding
!’

The restructured timetable had decreed Monday, after school, would be Willy Edwards’s interview.

Monday was as good as any day, said Willy. On the one hand, it could be busy, due to his clients’ weekend activities. On the other hand, those clients might still be semi-comatose after said weekend
activities; it was entirely possible they would not get their act together till Tuesday or even Wednesday.

Willy’s clients were not wealthy property owners or corporate moguls.

‘My clients divide roughly into two categories,’ he told the camera. ‘People who make wills, house purchases or business contracts. And people who make bad decisions.’

The first category included elderly residents from the south of the city who liked Willy so much they were prepared to overlook his steep flight of stairs. Also Street residents – Mum and Dad, for instance – who had known Willy since university. Some clients were struggling artists who paid Willy with paintings or sculptures or the occasional poem. These were displayed on the walls and shelves of his office. A small subsection of clients were eco and animal-rights protesters; years ago, Mum had been one such client. She had been arrested for occupying a matai tree slated for felling.

The second category of Willy’s clients were offenders – drunk drivers, burglars, car thieves, shoplifters, people who punched other people, drug takers. This category of client did not please Dick Scully or Mia or Clifford one bit; they were not at all keen on the Street hosting such types. But Willy was robust in defence of his people.

‘Everyone needs representation,’ he said firmly. ‘No matter what they may have done. That’s a cornerstone of our democracy.’

Willy sat in front of his large walnut desk. They couldn’t film him behind his desk: the piles of paper on top of it would have obscured him entirely. It was a legitimate filing method, Willy argued, and with the unassailable advantage of proximity. It saved him leaving his seat and walking to his filing cabinet. He claimed to know exactly where any single paper could be found within the tilting heaps.

The office was perfumed by a sweet, heady mix of hair products, seeping upstairs from Hair Today. It was filled with the
late afternoon summer light which was very pretty – sunbeams and dancing dust motes – but also annoying for a filmmaker. The afternoon light was lower in the sky now and streamed into many of the upstairs apartments and shops on the Street. It had actually contributed to Ren and Barney’s compounding debt.

Their modest filming equipment did include a light diffuser, held in position by Ren when needed – but only in short bursts. Though briefer than other interviews, Willy Edwards’s was still too long for Ren’s arms to stay aloft. And they had no time to build the do-it-yourself light diffuser and stand demonstrated on YouTube. So it was back to bargaining with Dad in order to buy a stand with nifty clips to hold the diffuser in place.

‘One of us needs to get rich,’ said Ren. She was adjusting their Total Debt. She had a new, designated Debt notebook. The Debt was beginning to look alarming.

‘That would be you,’ said Barney. ‘You’ll have more time. I’ll be busy wrestling with thethrillingalchemy and all its demands.’ He was completely serious.

In bed that night, Ren had thought about some possible routes to wealth, as suggested by Dad: international crime and dentistry. Last year she had wondered about being an historian. Or a logician. That was an actual line of work. She’d counted two hundred and nine logicians listed on Wikipedia and one of them was Lewis Carroll. But it was unclear whether any of them were rich.

The new diffuser stand did its job very nicely. There was no unwelcome glare on Willy’s face. According to Mum, Willy’s was a pleasing face. His curly hair was pleasing too, she said. Also, his boyish smile.

Ren considered Willy’s pleasing aspects from the depths of Willy’s client chair. It was rich maroon leather, venerable and worn, and sitting in it made Ren feel as if she were one of the people in the Yesterday Room at the Living History Museum.

‘Bought by my maternal great-grandfather,’ Willy said. ‘At the establishment of Amodeo & Co.’ Barney trained the camera on the chair, on its turned wooden feet and carved, clawed arm rests.

Amodeo & Co! Ren opened her mouth to exclaim, but earned a warning look from Barney.

‘Indeed,’ said Willy, nodding. ‘My association with the High Street goes back exactly one hundred years.’

The story of Willy’s great-grandfather was unexpected and rather interesting. They saw the fountain pen Willy had inherited from him and the old volumes of legal history, and the silver salver Mr Amodeo had received from the Law Society for services rendered. His great-grandfather had been a different kind of lawyer, Willy said. From a different time. A family solicitor. A gentleman who lived a restrained and ordered life, a gentleman whose office could never have been over a hairdresser’s, a gentleman who would never have been visited by someone charged with burglary or for disturbing the peace.

‘But I like a bit of excitement,’ said Willy. ‘I like a working day where anything can happen. A bit of courtroom drama. A visit to the police station or the prison. A knotty little employment issue. Some honest-to-goodness civic disobedience. I’m up for anything. Christmas two years ago, for instance …’

Willy’s stories were very funny.
People
were very funny, said Willy. He looked forward to work every morning. Immensely. And when he was finished for the day he changed into his biking gear and rode 25 ks to the outskirts of the city where he had a house and some alpacas. During the day his bike rested in a small wheel stand at the far end of his long office, between two huge clay sculptures of fantastical birds in human clothing.

At the end of the interview Barney walked slowly around the perimeter of the office filming Willy’s collection of payment-in-kind art, and his bicycle, which was a blue Lapierre Zesty – and certainly a work of art, said its owner.

‘You making good progress?’ Willy asked Ren. ‘When’s the wrap?’

‘In fifteen days,’ said Ren, promptly. The timetable was now indelibly in her memory. She could recite it minute by minute.

‘Been busy in the Square, Rob tells me.’ Willy and Rob went off-road biking together.

‘Yes, and we’ll be out on the Street next Saturday.’

‘Brilliant idea, this whole thing,’ said Willy. ‘I’ve often thought there’s several lifetimes of story in this Street, this part of town. But you guys have actually done something about it. Good on you.’

How nice Willy was. As well as pleasant-faced.

‘Great place. Great dramas.’ Willy stretched out in his chair. He was settling in for a chat. There was no more filming today but they had hours of rushes: Willy, and yesterday’s interview at the Mediterranean which had been a big one, complete with cooking demo and six verses of ‘Santa Lucia’ sung in Italian by Battista, even though it was a Neapolitan song and he, Battista, was a proud Genovese.

Willy clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the old light fitting in the centre of the ceiling. It was vast and elaborately carved. Seventy years ago Willy’s office had been a grand display and fitting room for Athena Gowns.

‘Just realised I didn’t mention the Post Office hold-up,’ he said. ‘You won’t remember that.’

Ren’s heart gave a startled skip.

‘Of course you won’t remember, well before you were born. Must be – good God – nearly
thirty
years ago. Can I have been here that long?’

‘Hang on!’ Barney came in quick strides across the expanse of the office, carefully not looking at Ren.

‘How come no one’s said anything about a hold-up? This needs to be on film.’ His voice was squeaky with disbelief.

‘Dick never mentioned it? He was there!’

‘Dick only got up to 1986 in his interview,’ said Ren.

Willy laughed.

‘Fire it up, then,’ he said, sitting up, ready for the camera again.

What a story! Robbers with weapons. Terrified customers. A police cordon. A brave Post Office teller. And what if Willy hadn’t remembered it? Ren had even asked a question about memorable events.

But it was impossible to get everything.

It was nearly 7 p.m. by the time they began packing up. Dinner time. So much for a short interview.

‘Stopped being a PO not long after that,’ said Willy. He was behind a bookcase where he was changing into his biking gear. ‘Shame the subsequent businesses didn’t last. That Greek place was good. Lunchtime kebabs! I developed a puku. It’ll be apartments eventually. Just a matter of time. Dick’ll be able to relax.’

Willy emerged, transformed, in his turquoise costume and bike shoes.

It made Ren nervous continuing to talk about the Post Office, but she couldn’t help it.

‘Why does Dick care?’

‘Magnet for lowlifes,’ said Willy. ‘I’m quoting. Squatters. There were a few in the early days. Harmless enough. But Deadeye Dick likes our Street to be free of the
undesirable
element.’

Willy walked to his bike and unclipped his helmet from the handlebars.

‘Fat chance, though,’ he said. ‘Inner city. That’s home for the undesirables. Again, not my word. Old Dick. He gets on his jags.’ Willy clamped the helmet down on his head and secured the chinstrap. He looked quite different without his halo of curls, with a helmeted head. He looked like a turquoise blowfly.

Willy wheeled his bike over to them. Barney shouldered the camera and tripod bags. Ren swung the backpacks and took the light diffuser stand.

‘Funny thing is,’ said Willy, pulling on his gloves. He looked at them both, considering something. ‘Dick doesn’t know it, but I’m pretty sure there’s someone staying in the Post Office right now.’

It was true, Ren thought later. You could go cold all over. She did, right then.

‘How do you know?’ asked Barney, all squeak ironed from his voice.