as offensive, but then that was before the … the revelation; for that is how she thought of it—a profound and overwhelming revelation.
I am now something special
, she thought.
I am Rom … I come from somewhere else, from outside all this
. This answered the question as to what difference the revelation represented: in a curious way it freed her.
The publisher whom she was due to meet was already in the coffee bar when she arrived, seated at one of the small tables near the window. As she entered, he looked pointedly at his watch.
“I was about to give up on you,” he said.
Barbara glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Sorry, George. It’s only ten minutes. I had a meeting.”
George looked at his watch again. “I have to be away in twenty minutes, I’m afraid.”
She ordered coffee for both of them and returned to the table.
“You’re Australian, aren’t you, George?”
He looked at her with surprise. “Of course I am. You know that. We did the Melbourne book with that author of yours. Remember—we took him out to lunch, and we discovered that he and I had been at the same school.”
She remembered. She had paid the bill on that occasion too, and now she felt like saying:
I
took him out to lunch actually.
“You always knew you were Australian, of course.”
He looked at her sideways. “Always knew I was Australian? Of course I did. How could I think otherwise …?” He paused, and frowned. “Oh, I see what you’re driving at. Cultural identity—that sort of thing. Yes, well, I suppose in my case I grew up just after Whitlam and Australia was beginning to ask itself that sort of question. But I never thought of myself as British, as my parents did. They were both born there and yet they thought of themselves as British, at least for the first part of their lives. Then suddenly all that stopped and we thought of ourselves as Australian and nothing else. We grew up. End of the cultural cringe and all that. Finito.”
She listened. “And now?”
He smiled at her. “What is this? The cricket-support test? Whom do I cheer when I watch England versus Australia?”
“No, not that. It’s just … well, I’ve had a bit of a shock this morning. I’ve discovered something about myself.”
The proprietor brought their coffee to the table. George lifted his spoon and dipped it into the top layer of foamed milk. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “We publishers have a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.” He grinned.
“Nothing to do with that.”
He lifted his cup to his lips. “So you’ve discovered you’re Australian? Is that it?”
She hesitated. It was the first time she was mentioning her new knowledge to anybody, and she might have chosen somebody other than George—Hugh, ideally—but George was in this place at this time and she had to speak about it.
“What do you think about gypsies?” she asked.
He lowered his cup. “Have you been drinking, Barbara?”
“What?”
“It’s just that you’ve made very little sense since you came in here. Asking me whether I always knew I was Australian. Then you mention a personal discovery of some sort. Then suddenly you ask me my view of gypsies, of all people.”
Barbara had to admit that it sounded strange. But it all made sense, she explained, because … “Well, you see, I’ve just discovered that I’m at least one quarter gypsy. Just this morning. An hour or so ago.”
George shrugged. “So are lots of people, I imagine.”
“But it’s important …”
He shrugged again. “Not really. Gypsies look pretty much like anybody else to me. Two arms, two legs, a nose.” He paused, looking at her in a way which made it seem as if he were assessing her. “Of course, people are pretty hung up on these things in this country, aren’t they? In Australia it makes not the slightest bit of difference. Half the population can trace their roots back to some poor cattle thief, and so we don’t put
I am now something special
, she thought.
I am Rom … I come from somewhere else, from outside all this
. This answered the question as to what difference the revelation represented: in a curious way it freed her.
The publisher whom she was due to meet was already in the coffee bar when she arrived, seated at one of the small tables near the window. As she entered, he looked pointedly at his watch.
“I was about to give up on you,” he said.
Barbara glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Sorry, George. It’s only ten minutes. I had a meeting.”
George looked at his watch again. “I have to be away in twenty minutes, I’m afraid.”
She ordered coffee for both of them and returned to the table.
“You’re Australian, aren’t you, George?”
He looked at her with surprise. “Of course I am. You know that. We did the Melbourne book with that author of yours. Remember—we took him out to lunch, and we discovered that he and I had been at the same school.”
She remembered. She had paid the bill on that occasion too, and now she felt like saying:
I
took him out to lunch actually.
“You always knew you were Australian, of course.”
He looked at her sideways. “Always knew I was Australian? Of course I did. How could I think otherwise …?” He paused, and frowned. “Oh, I see what you’re driving at. Cultural identity—that sort of thing. Yes, well, I suppose in my case I grew up just after Whitlam and Australia was beginning to ask itself that sort of question. But I never thought of myself as British, as my parents did. They were both born there and yet they thought of themselves as British, at least for the first part of their lives. Then suddenly all that stopped and we thought of ourselves as Australian and nothing else. We grew up. End of the cultural cringe and all that. Finito.”
She listened. “And now?”
He smiled at her. “What is this? The cricket-support test? Whom do I cheer when I watch England versus Australia?”
“No, not that. It’s just … well, I’ve had a bit of a shock this morning. I’ve discovered something about myself.”
The proprietor brought their coffee to the table. George lifted his spoon and dipped it into the top layer of foamed milk. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “We publishers have a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.” He grinned.
“Nothing to do with that.”
He lifted his cup to his lips. “So you’ve discovered you’re Australian? Is that it?”
She hesitated. It was the first time she was mentioning her new knowledge to anybody, and she might have chosen somebody other than George—Hugh, ideally—but George was in this place at this time and she had to speak about it.
“What do you think about gypsies?” she asked.
He lowered his cup. “Have you been drinking, Barbara?”
“What?”
“It’s just that you’ve made very little sense since you came in here. Asking me whether I always knew I was Australian. Then you mention a personal discovery of some sort. Then suddenly you ask me my view of gypsies, of all people.”
Barbara had to admit that it sounded strange. But it all made sense, she explained, because … “Well, you see, I’ve just discovered that I’m at least one quarter gypsy. Just this morning. An hour or so ago.”
George shrugged. “So are lots of people, I imagine.”
“But it’s important …”
He shrugged again. “Not really. Gypsies look pretty much like anybody else to me. Two arms, two legs, a nose.” He paused, looking at her in a way which made it seem as if he were assessing her. “Of course, people are pretty hung up on these things in this country, aren’t they? In Australia it makes not the slightest bit of difference. Half the population can trace their roots back to some poor cattle thief, and so we don’t put
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