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

lain face down in the beanbag and refused to talk.
    Dick Scully’s real self was a mixture. He was friendly and jocular and always ready to help, but he was also – it couldn’t be denied – a great big Know-All, and once he was launched on a story or a pet peeve it was extremely difficult to interrupt him. Marie’s real self was straightforward: she was practical and no-nonsense and always content to listen to Dick.
    ‘My name is Richard John Scully,’ said Dick, in answer to Ren’s first question. ( Tell us who you are, and what you do .) His big chin jutted and he addressed the camera at much the same pitch Ms Quinn addressed the entire Kate Sheppard School during assembly in the long hall.
    ‘I am the second in a family of nine – five boys and four girls –born and bred on the West Coast of this Island. My mother and father also ran a hotel. They were hard workers of Irish descent. I was named after the great Prime Minister, Richard John Seddon, an earlier in-hab-i-tant of Westland.’
    Ren stopped congratulating herself on the excellence of her pre-production organisation and the even more excellent list of questions on her clipboard, and decided that Dick sounded most peculiar. He was talking at a dreary pace and seemed to have adopted a strange new accent.
    ‘Perhaps there is more to a name than people e-maj-in, ho, ho,’ said Dick.
    Ren moved close to Barney who sat on his folding seat. She pinched his back, softly. Barney stayed resolutely face forward watching the LCD screen.
    ‘– because like Richard John Seddon I am a pub-lee-can, or as some people say, a ho-tel-i-er, or as many others say now, in these modern times … a bar man . With my wife, Marie, I have been running His Lordship’s Hotel in this High Street for twenty-three years and four months –’
    Here, Dick briefly drew breath, winked at Marie – who, staring earnestly at the camera, sat very still and tight on her barstool – and gave an approving pat to Kiwi Keith – who, sure enough, now sported a long spool of springy dribble.
    ‘Those twenty-three years and four months have seen many and varied happenings here on the High Street, we can tell you,’ intoned Dick. ‘In the very first year of our stewardship, for example, two cure-ree-ous incidents occurred which have gone down in the annals of the Street. It has often been said by Street residents that I am the keeper of these annals – the Comm-une-ity Mem-or-ry, you might say – and it is my priv-ill-ege to relate them all to you now. The first incident came out of the blue on a frosty July morning …’
    On and on and on droned Dick. The facts and events andcharacters he related might have been interesting but Dick’s ponderous declaiming and his strange posture made it all interminable, deadly dull, and, at the same time, horribly comical. Somehow, it was impossible to interrupt him, despite Ren pinching Barney’s back several more times and sidling round in front of him to deliver a spectacular display of Fish-Eye.
    At 8.45 a.m. Barney stood abruptly and held up his hand.
    ‘Sorry folks, sorry , I think something’s gone wrong with the tape.’ He flicked the camera button with a flourish. ‘We’ll have to take a break. Overheating, happens sometimes …’
    Marie slumped on her stool. ‘Lordy, I’ve got cricks.’ She swung her arms and rolled her neck so that Barney and Ren heard the clicks and cracks.
    ‘Good stuff!’ said Dick, whacking his knee in appreciation of himself. ‘I’m enjoying this. Nearly at the Great Fire of 1985.’
    The Great Fire was actually a very small fire with practically no flames. Barney and Ren knew the story. Dick and Marie’s grandsons, who all seemed to have been semi-delinquent, had climbed onto the roof of His Lordship’s to let off their stash of illegal firecrackers. They had taken up a bag of pinecones too, and made a small bonfire to cook sausages. Someone on the Street had seen the smoke and called the fire brigade.