Free From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle by Kate de Goldi

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