From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (32 page)

Barney often re-lived while he was walking.

He was
molto
pleased with
The Untold Story
, he really was. Of course the editing would be nuts, but there was no doubt they had
awesome
footage. Really, the only dud was Dick Scully, and even Dick’s interview could potentially be awesome, if it was edited cleverly and you thought of it as comedy.

The whole business of funny and serious was interesting. Some interviews were very funny because their subjects were naturally funny people who told funny stories (Albert, say. Or Willy Edwards). Some were funny because unexpected things happened (Hair Today; the vox pops in the Square and Street). Some were hilarious though their subjects had not intended it that way (Claude; Clifford and Ellen; Sabrina – that crazy candy-striped dress! Mia and Marcel). Some were quite serious, or touching, or a little beautiful (Kazimierz, Mariko, the Map Shop).

And then there was the rogue element of The Post Office Interviews. Where would they sit among the great sprawl of
The
Untold Story
? At the end? (But wait, folks, there’s
more
… there’s something you didn’t know about …) Or, threaded throughout. A teasing riddle. A recurring enigma, spliced between other interviews? A MacGuffin!

And was
The Untold Story
a serious doco with comic elements, or a comic doco with serious parts? And did it matter? These were all questions great and famous directors had to consider when they sat down to edit.

A pleasing comparison occurred to Barney.
The Untold Story
was like Toast-Cake! Huge. Multi-textured. Savoury and sweet. And with cunning little surprises.

The biggest challenge would be the ending. Barney was very partial to Albert Anderson’s words: ‘This is one of the great neighbourhoods,’ he had said. ‘Every kind of person. It’s a
world
.’

But perhaps he would flash-cut different statements, one after the other, zipzipzip, then mix them up. Or play them at the
same time, so it became like a mad chorus. Thinking of choruses, they still hadn’t filmed the horse-chestnut tree; they needed the starlings in full song. He was thinking of that for the opening. To be followed by himself!
That
was in the can. Tick.

On Sunday morning they had got up at sunrise and Ren had filmed Barney in the middle of the empty Street, his arms spread, welcoming the audience – the retailers and residents, the wider city, the world! He’d worn his George Lucas T-shirt, freshly washed.

‘Do you have a favourite?’ Ren had asked him on Sunday night. They were in the leather sofa once again, the long day’s filming done. Another huge weekend.

‘A favourite what?’ Barney was replaying the interview with Suit and Mireille in his head. They had been very good. And surprising.

‘A favourite interview,’ said Ren.

‘Sooo many,’ said Barney, stretching luxuriously.

‘Me too. It changes all the time.’

‘As awesomeness is stacked on awesomeness!’

‘Maybe Mariko’s,’ said Ren.

‘Well, Albert, of course. But Hair Today was great. And Sally. And then there is the pure genius of Claude’s meltdown.’

They sat in satisfied silence.

‘Suit is sooo nice,’ said Ren, in a minute. Understated Teeny Weeny Sweetie, but still, eeew. ‘He and Mireille are so sweet together.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Barney. He would not endorse such slop.

They had finished the interview in the florist shop downstairs, where both Mireille
and
Suit had demonstrated the construction of a bouquet.

‘All hands to the plough,’ said Suit, when they looked surprised. ‘I help at nights sometimes when there’s a rush on.’

‘Two weddings and a funeral,’ explained Mireille. There was a
large eucalyptus wreath ready on the bench.

‘Very different to watch-repair, of course,’ said Suit, ‘but each requires precision. Like all crafts. And arts.’

‘And life!’ said Mireille. She looked pointedly at the alarm clock. It sat on the bench near the wreath. It had been almost like a third interviewee, its tick suddenly audible when Mireille or Suit stopped talking for a few seconds.

‘You are quite right, Em,’ said Suit. ‘As usual.’

‘What’s the alarm set for now?’ Ren asked.

‘Dinner, preparation and eating,’ said Suit. ‘Then for the post-dinner toil. Each to his or her desk for an hour or so. My grandmother would not have approved. Sunday was the day of rest.’

‘I go online,’ said Mireille. ‘Research flower stuff. Or do some stitchwork.’

They had filmed Mireille’s stitchwork upstairs: patchwork blankets, embroidered cloths of every kind. Mireille had brought them forth from a large suitcase where they lay in tissue and lavender, waiting for the right person. Mireille’s stitching was famous on the Street. Mum had received several embroidered pieces from Mireille – hand towels, tea towels, napkins and a beautiful tablecloth that Mum was saving for some future celebration.

‘Dee, of course, does not go online,’ said Mireille. Suit was equally famous for his dislike of the digital world. Especially watches. ‘He prefers to push a pen.’

‘As you know,’ said Suit, ‘I appreciate handcraft of all kinds. I am perfectly happy to toil away manually. Look!’ he said, holding out the finished bouquet.

‘White roses,’ explained Mireille, ‘and veronica. The tricilium for gentle contrast, and the spiral eucalyptus for structure and balance.’ Barney closed in on the bouquet – was it for the wedding or the funeral? It didn’t matter. He had finished the interview on that shot.

It was only in bed later that night, replaying everything in his
head as usual, that Barney realised he did not know what Suit’s after-dinner toil was. Perhaps it was the same thing he did at the Library on Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps Ren knew. She knew most things.

A little later, and nearly asleep, he had thought about Mireille being the only person who called Suit by his actual name. Funny that Suit had a girl’s name. Or was it that the Kate Sheppard School secretary, who was called Dee Andrews, had a boy’s name? Perhaps it was a surname. He’d never thought about it before.

Ren would probably know that too.

It was always the same, coming into the alcove. A sour smell, leaves and dead insects underfoot, and Brown Betty winding herself around your legs, miaowing harshly, mad to be let inside. But how was it she knew you were here, or on your way here? She seemed just to appear, coming quickly, in her cat way – a rather dignified sort of gallop – from the alley, or across the empty lot; or there she would be, trailing you, or alongside you somehow, as you crossed the Street or turned the corner into Duncan to take the longer way, always knowing, it seemed, where you were headed.

She was a very mysterious cat.

And now, bending to stroke her, Barney realised that Obi and Girl would almost certainly take Brown Betty. Sad! They would miss her. She had been here, on the Street, throughout their hidden adventure. (From time to time Barney and Ren had tried out titles for their secret envelope life: The Mystery of the White Envelopes. The Orange Boy Episodes. The Post Office Adventure.) Brown Betty had been an additional mystery, an entertainment, a clue, a persistent extra. She had been a recurring motif! (Hal and Felix had talked a lot about those. Barney had tried a recurring motif in
Red Riding Hoodie
– a jar of peanut butter; it had been only a qualified success.)

He knocked softly (but firmly).

The door opened almost instantly.

‘You’ve got about half an hour,’ said Obi.

They were all packed. That meant just two backpacks, not large, but so comprehensively stuffed their wearers would be in danger of toppling backwards.

The game boxes were bound together with strips of torn cloth.

Obi and Girl’s temporary home was quite denuded, mere skeleton remains – the table and teacups, the beer cans and wood planks, just as in the pictures. It was as uncanny, as always, to see the zine’s forecast become real.

‘Help yourself,’ said Obi, mock-jovial. ‘You could take stuff back to the shops, ha ha. We’re keeping the bell though.’ He removed the brass bell from his pocket and gave it a little shake.

‘It’s good fortune,’ said Barney. ‘In business.’

‘Good,’ said Girl. She gave a small, quick smile.

Barney felt almost shy again in the face of Girl’s smile. There was still the awkwardness with them when he first arrived. When he didn’t know quite what to say. He took the camera from its bag. It was always so good to have the camera, to busy yourself with it.

‘Okay for this?’ he asked them, holding up the camera.

Girl shrugged.

‘Not much left to say,’ said Obi. ‘But, if it makes you feel better.’

Barney looked through the viewfinder, disguising his surprise. Obi’s pale blue eyes looked back at him.

Did Obi know? Did he know about the camera? Did he know that holding it, fiddling with it, standing behind it, lifting it and looking down the viewfinder, filled Barney with a most wonderful confidence and optimism? It was like Superman and his Kryptonite. Or Asterix and his men drinking Getafix’s magic potion. When he had the camera, Barney felt buoyed and courageous; he felt that anything was possible.

He had explained this to Ren many times. He had explained it all over again just the other day when he had arrived home from The First Post Office Interview. Yes, he had been thrown at first when Obi refused to talk about his past or their ways and means on the Street. But then, almost instinctively, he had bent down and sought comfort through the viewfinder.

It was amazing! he told Ren. What happened. He had searched for new comparisons, wanting to impress her, wanting something grander than comic book heroes. It was like a shield, he said. The camera was. Or like a suit of armour. No, it was like
King Arthur
with Excalibur!

Here, Ren had supplied a vintage Ms Temple line.

‘Barney, I know you see your life as a cinematic drama of epic proportions. It is not.’

But Barney had ignored Ren, as he had always ignored Ms Temple. He had carried on, explaining how his camera
was
as necessary to him as Excalibur was to Arthur, as – but then he couldn’t think of anyone else noble enough.

The fact was, he told Ren, the camera always made things better. It somehow gave him resolve; it made him feel fearless. In the Post Office that day, on looking through the viewfinder, a great calm had come over him. He had felt quite untroubled by Girl’s silences, her inscrutable face. He had been quite untouched by Obi’s perversity.

And here, right now, on the last day of Obi and Girl, on the last day of the Post Office, on the last day of The Great Envelope Adventure (yes, he liked that), he felt just the same way. Protected. Innoculated. Fuelled by the camera. He felt gloriously in charge.

‘Tell me about the zines,’ said Barney.

He kept the frame tight. Obi and Girl stood close together, in front of their backpacks. In the background, out of focus, the beer can bookcase, and a boarded-up window. The window casement
decoration. For those in the know, the Post Office would be identifiable. But it didn’t matter. Barney felt quite sure about that now, too. He probably wouldn’t even bother with the pixelating when he came to the editing. It wouldn’t matter if anyone saw Obi and Girl’s faces. They would be long gone. In their next life. And the ones after. In Orange Boy’s lives, numbers VII, VIII, IX …

‘There’s nothing to
say
, Maestro.’

‘Why did you draw Orange Boy’s life?’ Barney came in on Girl’s face. ‘Why didn’t you draw your own?’

Interesting
. He hadn’t known he was wondering that. But it was a good question, he thought, now that he’d asked it.

‘Cos he told me about it,’ said Girl. ‘He told me everything. About his grandparents. And the foster homes.’

‘How did you know he looked like that?’

‘I’m
here
,’ said Obi. ‘Don’t talk about me like I’m not
here
.’

‘I just imagined him,’ said Girl. ‘Cute and skinny. Sad little face.’

‘That’s enough!’

Barney ignored Obi.

‘Is it all true? The different Orange Boy lives? Were there really Dalmatians and pet rats and those people who look like the Addams family, in that big house?’

‘It’s everything Obi said.’

‘Is it?’ Barney turned the camera slightly and tightened the shot, so that it was mostly Obi’s face.

‘It’s true enough,’ said Obi. ‘Why do you care?’

‘Why didn’t you do Girl’s life?’ Barney asked.

‘Can’t draw people,’ said Obi. ‘You know that. She does them all.’

He stopped, but he kept staring at the camera, as if he was staring Barney out. Barney held the shot, his eye and the viewfinder eye holding Obi’s eyes.

Obi turned away first.

‘And she wouldn’t tell me anything,’ he said.

Back to Girl.

‘Why not?’ said Barney.

‘Nothing to tell,’ said Girl. ‘Done and dusted. I don’t think about that. I’m in Orange Boy’s life now.’ She laughed. Barney thought it was a laugh.

Girl put her arm around Obi’s neck and leaned her head on his shoulder. Obi inclined his head to hers.

Barney’s heart seemed to squeeze. Their faces were quite different. It was lovely.

‘We finished?’ said Obi. He sounded almost drowsy.

‘Just a couple more,’ said Barney.

‘Maestro,’ said Obi, his head up again, ‘you’re a weird little tw–’

‘Why did you really deliver the envelopes?’ said Barney.

‘Told you,’ said Obi. ‘Where’s Specs? Why hasn’t she come back? She doesn’t like us, does she?’ Obi sounded genuinely regretful about this.

‘Tell me about the envelopes,’ said Barney, firmly. Firmly but softly, ha.

‘Weirdo,’ muttered Obi. You could hardly hear it, but Barney could see his lips form the word.

Oh, Obi, thought Barney, really quite fondly. Don’t you know everyone’s weird?

He felt quite marvellous. He felt sure of everything – coming back for one last time, asking these questions, holding the camera in tight on Obi and Girl. It was a form of thethrillingalchemy, the feeling of something exactly right breaking through, something important and
molto
good.