From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (2 page)

Barney moved back to the star, zooming in again until the star filled the frame. He gazed for a long time at the star’s glitter
face, its stiff, curved edges, and as he gazed he listened. And now, somehow, the Street sounds – the whoops, and chatter, and toots and tunes – were making an altogether new music in his ears, a big, glorious, swelling chorus.

Oh yes, thought Barney, letting out a satisfied breath. It was a fine, fine soundtrack.

(That was –
is
– my beginning for this story, Moo. Or perhaps, the end of my beginning: Barney surveying the High Street, and capturing the star. You could call it an establishing shot – in more ways than one. Now we know that Barney Kettle is a little temperamental, and rather demanding. But also that he has a good heart.

And there is something so very nice about that star.

But, Moo, there is always more than one possible beginning to any story, as we have often discussed. It depends so much on who is doing the telling.

For instance, if Albert Anderson were writing this story he might start in the kitchen at the High Street Retailers’ and Residents’ Christmas Party, three weeks later, when, in the early evening, he registered the six missing Christmas crackers and the unaccountable absence of his wasabi potato salad.

Dick Scully might begin on Boxing Day, after breakfast, when he noticed that the blue vinyl cushions had vanished from the outdoor benches and that the chest with the merino rugs for cool evenings was three rugs short.

Barney’s dad would perhaps begin at the New Year stocktake when he discovered gaps in the salt-and-pepper shaker collection: mere dust prints where the Teddy Bears, the Kissing Couple and the Dalmatian Dogs had once stood.

And what about Henrietta and Edward and all the other Street children? Where and when might they start? On the Sunday of Show Weekend? The final day of the
Feliz Navidad
shoot, when the tabby cat made its first appearance – in the Nativity perambulator?

Perhaps.

As for Barney, Ren is quite certain where he would begin this story. He would begin on the Street, she says, so the Street could be properly introduced. And he would begin on another hot, windless day, the day in January when he and Ren stood outside Coralie’s and remembered the Post Office; the day they found the first mysterious envelope.

Ren would start the story on the Street, too, she says, and on the same day, because this was also the day Barney shelved forever
So, You Want to be a Filmmaker?
– a definitive shove onto the highest shelf of the living room bookcase. This was the day Barney broke up with Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas and began to follow his nose. That, says Ren, is her true beginning.

This is why, Moo – though I admit it is unorthodox – I have written a second beginning. It is true that I am telling this story, but it is also true that most of it belongs to Barney and Ren.)

The very best place a filmmaker could possibly live, Barney often thought, was above an over-stuffed antique-slash-junk shop on the High Street of town. Sometimes, he could hardly believe his luck.

An antique-slash-junk shop provided never-ending possibilities for stories, for stage sets, for props and costumes. Occasionally it even supplied actors: Dad, who ran the shop, had so far played an army captain, a burglar, and a drunk in Barney’s films. Rosie, Dad’s assistant, who was also a jazz student, sometimes did voice-over narration and off-set noises, or provided an atmospheric soundtrack on the old piano in Busby’s sheet music section. Once, a lady looking for vintage teacups had kindly agreed to be Woman-in-Red-Coat-At-Bus-Stop for twenty minutes.

Barney’s family had lived for nearly twelve years in the
apartment above Busby’s Emporium. They had come when Barney was a year old. Ren had been born three months later – on a Turkish carpet downstairs in the Emporium. She couldn’t hang on for the hospital; Ren had begun life brisk and determined and looked like keeping it up. Her first view of the world had been a row of headless dressmaker’s dummies. This, said Mum, possibly explained Ren’s appetite for the ghoulish.

Sometimes, walking down the Street, Barney imagined he was a tour guide with a group in tow. Australians perhaps, or people from Finland, Botswana or Japan, or just people from the remote edges of the city.

‘A charming block of Victorian and Edwardian buildings,’ Barney would say. (He had heard Dad say this.)

He imagined a camera turned on him. He would gesture expansively to the left and to the right, at the shops and apartments on either side of the Street.

‘Businesses have come and gone here for nearly a century and a half,’ he would say (more Dad). ‘And before that – hundreds of years ago – it was a thoroughfare. People came through on their way to the riverbanks. To gather food.’

The High Street was actually four blocks long, but Barney thought of
The
Street – his Street – as the southern-most part between Duncan and England, just at the edge of the city centre.

‘At one end we have Garrett’s Ballet Academy (est. 1969),’ he might say. In his mind’s eye, Sylvie would, conveniently, be standing in the doorway in her circular skirt and footless tights. ‘And opposite Garrett’s, Little Wiltshire Park.’

Little Wilt, as they all called it, was really just a large raised triangle of grass planted by the City Council during the Street’s upgrade years ago. Everyone from round about – the High Street residents, the shoppers and retailers, the office workers, the priests from the Basilica, the Polytech students from two blocks down – all came here at lunchtimes and after work, to eat and drink and
soak up the sun, to people-watch, to play cards and Hacky, to lie down and close their eyes for a few minutes and listen to the crazy starlings in the old horse-chestnut tree (planted 1869).

‘At the
other
end of the Street,’ said Barney, in this small film gathering momentum now at the back of his brain, ‘is His Lordship’s Hotel (est. 1896) and the Mediterranean Warehouse (est. 1986), where the gelato is made by genuine Italians.’ This was nearly true. The gelato was actually made by Frank who wasn’t at all Italian, but it was often served by Battista, who came from Genoa and was descended from Marco Polo.

‘In between there are dozens of different shops, restaurants, offices and apartments, everything from music supplies to massage, from legal advice to the best comic shop in the country!’ Barney gave a great imaginary flourish of his arms.

‘Why is your mouth half-open?’ said Ren. ‘You look mental.’

The colourful little High Street promotion, filmed and presented by Barney Kettle, came to an abrupt halt in the presenter’s head. Barney returned with regret to the real world.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. It was so
hot
. Mum and Dad had gone for a swim. Most of their friends were still away on holiday, but Barney and Ren had other fish to fry. They were going to Coralie’s Café for Kettle Productions’ first meeting of the year. The year was only two weeks old and most people were at the beach or the river or the pool, but Ren had called a meeting. Barney, she reminded him, usually began planning his next project as soon as the last one had premièred.

Feliz Navidad
had premièred at the High Street Retailers’ and Residents’ Christmas Party a month ago. It had been extremely well received – as they said in film magazines – especially the part where the new Street baby had been actually laid-in-a-manger-slash-perambulator. That had been a stroke of genius. Barney liked to think about that shot from time to time.

‘I was just thinking how perfect it is that we live on this Street,’ said Barney.

‘Oh,
that
,’ said Ren, as if it were nothing. She was setting an invigorating pace; Barney was practically trotting to keep up.

Ren beamed over her shoulder. ‘I agree. Our Street is
molto delizioso
.’ Ren liked to drop an Italian phrase when she could. She had a little crush on Battista.

‘It’s not something you
eat
,’ said Barney.

‘It’s
molto
something,’ said Ren.

‘
Molto
great!’ said Barney.

After all, not many people had a video store and a little cinema on their street, or a traditional sweets shop, or a shop that sold every kind of nut imaginable, including roasted chestnuts in autumn. Not many people lived just four doors away from the most famous comic shop in the southern hemisphere (a shop with a first edition of
Amazing Fantasy #15 (1962)
– Spiderman’s first appearance).

Not many kids lived on a street with several
dozen
stores. And a museum.

If you turned down Cedar Lane, which ran between the Nut House (est. 1993) and Ping’s – quality used clothing (est. 2005) – you found yourself in Luna Square, which was almost hidden from the High Street. Here were more shops, cafés and bars and, tucked into the southeast corner, the Living History Museum, a source of great pride to everyone in this part of town. It was a community museum, the only kind in the city, just eight years old and run with the help of volunteers.

Barney returned to his interior film. It felt unfinished.

‘I love every inch of this Street and Square,’ he said, solemnly, straight down the camera lens. ‘Every building has interesting inhabitants. Every building is bulging with history and curious tales. It’s a kid’s paradise!’

His imaginary eye gave an imaginary wink at the imaginary camera.

‘And a filmmaker’s too.’

Cut.

‘Wake up, Kettle,’ said Ren. She occasionally addressed him this way when they were in business mode. ‘We’re here.’

Barney gave himself a mental shake and followed Ren through the swing doors of Coralie’s. He needed to concentrate. Imagining scenes for a Street promo that would never actually be made was a waste of time. He needed to focus on the next Short. He needed to be alert for inspiration.

Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas believed that inspiration came only to the prepared mind. A great film director prepared his mind by being highly alert to visual detail and story possibility. A great filmmaker was constantly scanning, they said, constantly listening; a great filmmaker was like a periscope with ears, rotating this way and that, sucking up information.

To make matters simple for the beginner great filmmaker, Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas advised adapting other well-known stories as often as possible. Barney had been extremely pleased to read this. His very first Short two years ago had been kind of shapeless. Plus, utterly chaotic.

‘You need a good beginner’s manual,’ said Albert Anderson after he had previewed
Over the Top
and assessed it more or less devoid of any
story. Over the Top
had been set in a First World War trench and consisted almost entirely of characters climbing out of the trench and getting shot. By the end everyone was dead except the soldier who was really a girl in disguise. Barney had meant to have more in there about the disguised girl but he’d got distracted by the body count.

The chaos had come about with the shooting. Everyone wanted to die loudly and dramatically and at great length, especially Benjamin who had practised a drawn-out spasming, jolting, spiralling descent to the ground in No-Man’s-Land (a narrow,
muddied-up thoroughfare behind Busby’s). And once horizontal Benjamin still wasn’t ready to be dead; he gave protracted moans and suffered violent paroxysms while others got shot and fell on top of him. The rising heap of bodies had been another kind of trouble altogether.

‘Exciting on set, maybe,’ said Albert, ‘but the finished product lacks drama.’ Also, it was rather repetitive, he said. And actually, pretty boring. He said it in the nicest possible way, but Barney was stung.

Albert Anderson suggested the library, in which he placed great faith, but Barney was more an Internet kind of guy. Also, his library card came up
Delinquent
when he checked it online. It said he owed the library $63 which was something he didn’t like to think about if he could possibly avoid it.

Online, Barney had found
[email protected]
, Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas’s website. It showed dozens of photos of both men on sets, their arms slouched about each other’s shoulders. The film sets varied but the two men always wore caps and moustaches. They had big white teeth. They looked cheerful-yet-serious, a combination Barney himself was hoping to cultivate.

The website helpfully directed you to Felix and Hal’s publications which were many, but Barney chose
So, You Want to be a Filmmaker?
He liked the challenge in the title. It was $55 plus $25 shipping. Since $80 was riches beyond Barney’s dreams, he began negotiations with Dad.

Mum and Dad didn’t have much spare money – you did not get rich on teaching and antiques-slash-junk, apparently – but they sometimes agreed to supply funds in exchange for Barney and Ren’s labour. This usually meant doing housework or tidying the Emporium, both of which Barney found dull beyond belief. But he was prepared to do anything when he needed filming materials, and Dad knew it. Dad had a nose for a bargain.

‘
Wake up
, Kettle!’ said Ren.

Blimey, he’d done it again. He’d walked into Coralie’s, ordered an (Organic) Iced Rodent, sat down and taken a bite almost without noticing. Barney looked at the biscuit on his plate. It was a weasel with bright yellow icing (made with turmeric). The weasel’s long tail was half gone. Barney bit off the other half.

(Organic) Iced Rodents were a famous High Street specialty. They were large ginger biscuits shaped as rats, mice, weasels, porcupines, squirrels and beavers. Coralie had invented them herself. She had moulded the biscuit cutters with the help of Albert Anderson who could turn his hand to almost anything, including metalwork. Kids came from all over town to try an Iced Rodent. ((
Organic
) Iced Rodent, insisted Coralie. They mustn’t forget the (Organic), she said. Or the (Brackets).)

‘Amazing how you can’t really taste the turmeric,’ said Barney, just for something to say. ‘Only the ginger.’ Nor could you taste the spinach juice in the porcupines’ green icing.

The café was in its afternoon lull, just a sprinkling of customers, mostly familiar: two businessmen from the north end of the Street, their laptops and mobiles at hand; Oriana, from the Medical Centre, and her friend, their heads bent in earnest discussion; Willy Edwards, the lawyer, whose office was above Hair Today (est. 2006): he had most of his meetings at Coralie’s. Coralie herself was away at her bach with JohnLeo. Laurel, the barista, was in charge.

Two tables away from Ren and Barney sat Suit who every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday came to Coralie’s at 3 p.m. for a cup of Earl Grey tea and a Black Doris friand while he read the newspaper. Suit was a creature of habit.

‘And his habit is a suit!’ Albert Anderson liked to say.

Suit’s life, including his eating, was very carefully organised. He was happy to tell you about his timetable. He rose at 6.15 a.m. and ate muesli at 6.25 a.m. At 6.50 a.m. he left the apartment to
walk to work. At 10 a.m. he had an apple or a pear. At midday he ate his two cheese sandwiches in Little Wilt. He was a watchmaker and worked at the north end of High Street where people generally ate lunch beside the fountain, but Suit was loyal to Little Wilt. After his sandwiches he walked about the south of the city for thirty minutes. On Saturdays he walked to the vegetable market with his string bag. On Sunday mornings he walked to the Basilica and sang in the choir at High Mass. On Sunday afternoons he went to Montgomery’s (est. 1984) to buy his weekly book.

Everyone on the Street knew Suit’s routines. He had been keeping them faithfully ever since he had come to live with Mireille, years ago, above her florist shop, Forget-me-Knot (est. 1995).

The most curious thing about Suit was his alarm clock, which went everywhere with him inside his leather satchel. It was an old-fashioned alarm with bells on top. You seldom saw the clock but everyone had heard the bells go off at one time or another, a muffled clanging that alerted Suit to something on his timetable. You could often hear the clock’s sturdy tick. Barney could hear it now.

Ren heard it too – her magnified fish eyes swivelled sideways to Suit and swiftly back again to Barney. They smiled at each other. Barney and Ren liked Suit. He was gentlemanly and kind and a little shy. Barney liked that Suit always helped with the dishes when he and Mireille came over for dinner. Ren admired Suit’s planning and organisation. She had asked for – and received – an alarm clock for her fifth birthday. Hers stayed on the bedside table.

‘Right!’ said Ren.

She placed the new Production Book on the table (it was a school exercise book, a Warwick 1AF, unruled). She removed an HB 5 pencil from her pencil case and considered its sharp point with a satisfied smile. It was a fresh one with an unused eraser. Ren liked new stationery for each production.