Rupert. You said that gypsies were unreliable. You can’t say things like that these days, you know. It’s insulting.”
He stared at her venomously. “What do you know about gypsies, Barbara? Nothing, that’s what!”
“So you’re the big expert on gypsies, Rupert? Like so many other things.”
He looked away. “I’m going to get even with you, Barbara, I promise you. And just you remember: I, unlike some I could name, keep my promises.” He paused. “There’s something you should perhaps know, Barbara. You interested? Well, since you started this, I might tell you. My father knew more about your father than you do. Yes, it’s true. And you know what? He told me that your grandfather was a gypsy. He never told
you
that, did he? Well, he told Pop, and Pop told me. So you should go away and think about that little bit of information, Barbara!”
21. On Who We Really Are
B ARBARA R AGG MANAGED to meet the publisher for coffee at ten-thirty as planned, but only just. She had thought all along that her conversation with Rupert would not be easy, but she had not imagined that it would be quite as uncomfortable as this, and she had certainly not anticipated that Rupert would make a disclosure as to the identity of her grandfather. She left his office reeling. Outside in the corridor, she turned first one way, then the other. She looked up. There was the office accountant, staring at her anxiously.
The accountant, a thin woman with a permanently worried expression, reached out to touch Barbara’s arm. “Is everything all right, Barbara? You look a bit upset.”
“I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve exchanged a few words with Rupert, and …”
“Oh, I know what it’s like talking to him. Impossible.” Her hand shot to her mouth. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that.”
Barbara reassured her, but her manner was distracted. “No, don’t apologise. Rupert is … Well, we all have our ways.”
The accountant gave a weak smile. “We need to gang together,” she whispered. “We women need to stand up to him. It’s the only way with bullies.”
Barbara nodded. “Do you think it felt like this during the Battle of Britain?”
“Of course it did,” said the accountant. “It must have been like this every minute of the day. And they stood up to the bullies, didn’t they? Those young men—half of them barely out of short trousers; they stood up against the bullies.”
The accountant patted Barbara’s arm and went on her way. Barbara, still dazed, returned to her room and sat down heavily in her chair. I have gypsy blood, she thought. Rom. Traveller. Whatever it’s called these days—that’s me.
That’s me
.
There was no doubt in her mind that what Rupert had said was correct. Her grandfather on her father’s side had died some years before her birth, as had his wife, her grandmother. It was not until she was about eight that she had started to ask her father about his parents—questions brought on by the conversation of coevals at school who saw their grandparents regularly.
“What happened to your parents?” she asked directly. “They’re my grandparents, aren’t they?”
Gregory Ragg had looked away. “They died, darling. Terribly sad, but there we are. Went to heaven.”
He did not seem to wish to continue the conversation, but she persisted. “Where did they live?”
He had sounded a bit vague. “Here and there. They moved about a bit.”
Now, remembering this exchange all these years later, her father’swords came back to her.
They moved about a bit
. Of course they did: that’s what travellers did—they travelled.
“So what did Granddad do for a living? Was he a literary agent, like you?”
“Not quite, darling. My dad was keener on the outdoor life. He liked fresh air.”
“So what did he do? Was he a farmer?”
“Not really. He had business dealings with farmers, though. He loved horses, your granddad. He was a very good judge of horseflesh. He took a lot of
He stared at her venomously. “What do you know about gypsies, Barbara? Nothing, that’s what!”
“So you’re the big expert on gypsies, Rupert? Like so many other things.”
He looked away. “I’m going to get even with you, Barbara, I promise you. And just you remember: I, unlike some I could name, keep my promises.” He paused. “There’s something you should perhaps know, Barbara. You interested? Well, since you started this, I might tell you. My father knew more about your father than you do. Yes, it’s true. And you know what? He told me that your grandfather was a gypsy. He never told
you
that, did he? Well, he told Pop, and Pop told me. So you should go away and think about that little bit of information, Barbara!”
21. On Who We Really Are
B ARBARA R AGG MANAGED to meet the publisher for coffee at ten-thirty as planned, but only just. She had thought all along that her conversation with Rupert would not be easy, but she had not imagined that it would be quite as uncomfortable as this, and she had certainly not anticipated that Rupert would make a disclosure as to the identity of her grandfather. She left his office reeling. Outside in the corridor, she turned first one way, then the other. She looked up. There was the office accountant, staring at her anxiously.
The accountant, a thin woman with a permanently worried expression, reached out to touch Barbara’s arm. “Is everything all right, Barbara? You look a bit upset.”
“I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve exchanged a few words with Rupert, and …”
“Oh, I know what it’s like talking to him. Impossible.” Her hand shot to her mouth. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that.”
Barbara reassured her, but her manner was distracted. “No, don’t apologise. Rupert is … Well, we all have our ways.”
The accountant gave a weak smile. “We need to gang together,” she whispered. “We women need to stand up to him. It’s the only way with bullies.”
Barbara nodded. “Do you think it felt like this during the Battle of Britain?”
“Of course it did,” said the accountant. “It must have been like this every minute of the day. And they stood up to the bullies, didn’t they? Those young men—half of them barely out of short trousers; they stood up against the bullies.”
The accountant patted Barbara’s arm and went on her way. Barbara, still dazed, returned to her room and sat down heavily in her chair. I have gypsy blood, she thought. Rom. Traveller. Whatever it’s called these days—that’s me.
That’s me
.
There was no doubt in her mind that what Rupert had said was correct. Her grandfather on her father’s side had died some years before her birth, as had his wife, her grandmother. It was not until she was about eight that she had started to ask her father about his parents—questions brought on by the conversation of coevals at school who saw their grandparents regularly.
“What happened to your parents?” she asked directly. “They’re my grandparents, aren’t they?”
Gregory Ragg had looked away. “They died, darling. Terribly sad, but there we are. Went to heaven.”
He did not seem to wish to continue the conversation, but she persisted. “Where did they live?”
He had sounded a bit vague. “Here and there. They moved about a bit.”
Now, remembering this exchange all these years later, her father’swords came back to her.
They moved about a bit
. Of course they did: that’s what travellers did—they travelled.
“So what did Granddad do for a living? Was he a literary agent, like you?”
“Not quite, darling. My dad was keener on the outdoor life. He liked fresh air.”
“So what did he do? Was he a farmer?”
“Not really. He had business dealings with farmers, though. He loved horses, your granddad. He was a very good judge of horseflesh. He took a lot of
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