The Many Colours of Us

by Rachel Burton

  He clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘it’s not any of my business.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I reply, but he seems flustered, as though he’s crossed the line between family lawyer and family friend and I’m not at all sure which he is yet.

  As we finish up our food he suggests we go. He asks for the bill and as he pays I disappear to the ladies’. My feet are killing me but I think I manage to walk out of the restaurant without looking like I’m hobbling. He’s waiting for me outside, talking into his phone. When he sees me he raises his eyebrows and ends the call.

  ‘Let’s go over to Hyde Park,’ he says. ‘I have something I need to talk to you about and, if you don’t mind, I’d rather do it away from the office.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say, secretly intrigued.

  We find a bench in a relatively quiet, shady spot. As I go to sit down he squints into the sun as he looks towards the café.

  ‘Do you fancy an ice cream?’ he asks. The question is oddly incongruous with the professional demeanour he is trying to maintain.

  As I wait for him, I take my shoes off again and wiggle my toes in the grass. After a few minutes, he comes back and sits down next to me with two huge ice creams and hands one to me. I know he has something to tell me and part of me wants him to get on with it, but I also want to prolong this moment. It’s been a long time since I got to sit in the sun doing nothing with a beautiful man. Alec didn’t like to do nothing, and his had beauty faded in dusty Cambridge seminar rooms.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he says suddenly.

  ‘What?’ I look blankly at him, but he’s looking away from me. I’m sure that before Monday I’d never met this man before. I’d remember surely?

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to remember me, but you clearly can’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry but no,’ I say, a little alarmed now.

  ‘We met a few times when we were kids.’

  ‘We did?’

  ‘Yeah, my mum and dad used to go to your mum’s parties back in the 70s before either of us were born. When your mum started them up again to honour your birthday every year, Dad used to drag me and my brother along. Do you remember how they’d put all us kids in a room together and hope we’d behave? You hated it! You hated having your house invaded by children. I think you preferred being with the adults!’

  This rings a vague sort of bell but like so many things that happened in my childhood, events seem to melt into each other and I’ve put them all in a box at the back of my brain that I hardly ever look in. Like the box with my mother’s old headshots.

  It feels strange to think Edwin knew me as a child and I have absolutely no recollection of him. I suddenly feel a little vulnerable and exposed and pull my dress down over my knees.

  ‘How old are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Thirty-five, so I’m a few years older than you. I guess my memories of that time are a bit clearer.’

  He looks a bit crestfallen that I don’t remember, or take any delight in his memories.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, please don’t apologise. It’s just that those parties meant the world to me when I was a kid. My mum died when I was two, just after my brother was born, and as soon as we were old enough we were sent off to boarding school. I don’t think Dad knew what else to do. I don’t think he knew how to cope. One of the reasons I went into law was simply so we’d have something to talk about.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Stop apologising!’ He smiles. ‘Those parties usually fell in the half-term holidays and were always a highlight in a rather dreary childhood. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’

  I don’t want to admit to him that I can remember some things about those parties very well and I’m still not ready to think about a certain man and a certain Beatles song. I decide it’s time to change the subject.

  ‘You said you had something to tell me,’ I say, finishing up my ice cream and searching in my bag for a tissue.

  ‘Yes. There is still a lot of paperwork to go through and sign. It’s all going to be very boring I’m afraid. It seemed more appropriate to tell you about this away from the office. It’s not strictly to do with your inheritance.’

  He opens his briefcase and pauses, looking at me as though he’s trying to decide what he needs to do. After a moment, he takes out a sheaf of letters, all written on old-fashioned thick blue writing paper. The writing is big and loopy and written in that Peacock Blue ink that used to be so popular at school. Every letter is unopened and is addressed to me and every letter has ‘return to sender’ and a Notting Hill address scrawled across it in a very familiar hand.

  ‘A few weeks before your father died he asked me to go and see him. He was in hospital by then but he was still his old self in many ways. A terror to the nurses in general, always sneaking cigarettes despite the cancer and the oxygen.’

  It occurs to me that I may well be sitting next to the only person who really knew my father in his later life. I need to ask questions, lots of them, but I just don’t know what to ask.

  ‘He gave me those letters and said that after he died I was to give them to you, so you’d know he hadn’t forgotten you.’

  I look at the letters again. This means my father knew where I was all my life. And that my mother kept him away from me. I could have known my dad if it hadn’t been for her.

  ‘Every year on your birthday he wrote to you, from the day you were born until you were eighteen.’

  ‘And these are those letters?’ I ask. I’m feeling light-headed as I hold the letters in my hands. As I hold something my father had touched, had written. ‘Are they all here?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Edwin replies. ‘At some point over the years some have been mislaid. Bruce didn’t seem to know where. He was quite distressed about some being missing, but they might turn up yet.’

  ‘You said he stopped writing when I was eighteen,’ I say, still staring at the letters in my hand. I realise I have an overwhelming urge to sniff them but that’s probably something I should do in private. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think he hoped you’d come looking for him yourself then.’

  ‘How could I look for someone my mother claimed to have forgotten? It could have been anyone in London according to her!’ I snap.

  He holds up his hands. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that to sound so accusatory. It is what it is. But he wanted you to have the letters.’

  I shake my head, looking at the letters in my hand. A single tear drops onto the envelope on the top of the pile, smudging the ink.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, noticing my distress. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  ‘But isn’t there still paperwork to do? Don’t we need to…’

  ‘No, there’s no hurry, Julia,’ he says. ‘Are you in London next week?’

  ‘Yes, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘We can do all of that next week then. For now, let me get you a cab.’

  I clutch my letters and stagger after him in my uncomfortable shoes. All I want to do is change them for running shoes and run as fast and as hard as I can.

  *

  In times of trouble or intense emotional anxiety I only have one place to turn. Running. As soon as I get back to Campden Hill Road I grab my running things from my suitcase and hit the pavements of Kensington in the early evening sunshine.

  Running was something Alec had introduced me to. He ran miles and miles a week. He was always competing in half-marathons that he expected me to get up at the crack of dawn to accompany him to. He was always trying to beat himself. He once even ran the Paris Marathon, but at least I got a weekend in the City of Light for that one.

  One Sunday morning about five years ago I decided to go with him.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have to keep up.’

  He could be a patronising bastard. But he could also be sweet and tender and f
unny and he made me feel secure for years for probably the first time in my life. I don’t have to defend him any more though.

  That day he was a patronising bastard and of course I kept up. I’m only an inch shorter than him and I didn’t eat the endless rich college dinners and guzzle the gallons of wine that he claimed he had to for his career. I kept up with ease, much to his astonishment, and when I got home that Sunday morning after six miles up the River Cam I felt as though the whole world had slowed down, even the gremlins in my head had shut up. I could be right there in the present moment.

  I never ran races or timed myself and I never ran with Alec, or indeed anyone else, again, but I did try to run five or six miles a few times a week and it had become a touchstone in my life, a sense of familiarity rooting me in a world I felt increasingly inclined to escape from.

  I set off on the route I always run when I’m here – up the High Street towards Knightsbridge and then into Kensington Palace Gardens, past the residence of the late Princess Di and back into Hyde Park. I can never pass Kensington Palace without remembering the August after my fourteenth birthday, standing outside with Johnny, both of us crying over the dead princess who we always thought of as a neighbour, adding our bunch of pink roses to the hundreds upon hundreds of bouquets and messages from the nameless strangers who loved her.

  I run around the outside of Hyde Park towards Park Lane and then back towards Knightsbridge. I don’t think about anything except the sound of my feet on the ground. I don’t stop until I’m back on Kensington High Street and find myself outside the computer shop that stands where Kensington Market used to be. My mother gets upset just thinking about the fact they knocked down the market for this. I don’t think she even comes up this end of the High Street any more on principle.

  Johnny is waiting for me when I get back to Campden Hill Road. He’s sitting on one of the immaculate white sofas, trussed up in one of his bespoke suits even on a hot day like this. In his lap he has a shoebox. He doesn’t meet my eye. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to him yet. How could he have kept all this from me all these years?

  I barely acknowledge him as I walk straight upstairs. ‘I need a shower,’ I say.

  6th June 1993

  My dearest daughter,

  Now you are ten! My baby girl already a decade old.

  We haven’t met again since your third birthday; we haven’t danced under the stars, or listened to the Beatles together since then. But every time I hear Penny Lane I think of you, every time I see the stars in the sky, I think of you. Oh, who am I kidding! I think of my daughter every day.

  Other than not getting to see you, the last few years have been good to me. I’m still clean as a whistle, other than the ‘cancer sticks’ as your Uncle Frank likes to call my nicotine habit. Being sober has made me so much more productive in my work. For the first time in my life, I’m making money from my paintings and my last two exhibitions have been very lucrative. My agent loves me, as you can imagine!

  I decided to use some of this money to help you and your mother out. Maybe by the time you read these letters, which sit in a box in a drawer by my bed, you’ll already know this, but your mother isn’t very good with money. She earned a lot back in the 70s. She was beautiful and she worked hard for it, but when the work dried up and she was no longer getting modelling contracts she carried on living as though she was.

  I found out recently that she’d been remortgaging the Campden Hill Road house for years. To the point where it looked like she would have to sell it. So I have bought the house! Just like that! I can hardly believe I’m able to do such a thing. Frank says I’m getting ideas above my station. He says it in a thick Yorkshire accent like our father’s so I know he’s joking.

  One day I hope I can tell you about our father, about my family, well your family as well of course. I’d like to take you up to Yorkshire and show you where I came from.

  Anyway, back to the house. I bought it and put it in trust for you. Your mother gets to live there as long as she likes, but she can’t sell it or move you on without my permission and when I’ve gone it’s all yours.

  Maybe your mother will let me see you from time to time, maybe she won’t. I know she is still angry with me and can’t bear to see me. Please always know that the problem is between me and your mother, not between me and you.

  I always hear about what you’ve been up to through Frank who still sees you and your mother from time to time. You’re growing tall I hear, just like your mum. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.

  Happy Birthday, Princess.

  I love you.

  Your Father

  Chapter 6

  When I come back downstairs Johnny is still on the sofa, the shoebox on the seat next to him, as though he’s not yet ready for me to sit too close. He’s made sandwiches, tiny triangles of white bread and smoked salmon, thin slivers of cucumber and a pot of Earl Grey. Johnny is so very English it’s like being with someone from another era. I suspect this is what Mum has always liked about him.

  I feel calmer after my shower; my brain feels more ordered as though it’s ready to ask the right questions and take in the information. I put a couple of sandwiches on a plate and sit down opposite Johnny while he pours two cups of tea, adding a slice of lemon to each one.

  Only then does he finally meet my eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  I have no idea if I’m ready to forgive anyone. I’m glad Johnny’s here though. It gives me someone to be angry with instead of Edwin Jones, who, after all, is only doing his job. But then in many ways so is Johnny.

  ‘What’s in the shoebox?’ I ask.

  ‘Photographs. I thought you might like to see some.’

  ‘Of my father?’

  ‘Amongst other things, yes.’

  He hands me the shoebox. It’s heavy and I wonder how many photos are here and how Johnny ended up being in possession of them. He doesn’t say anything so I take the lid off and look inside.

  Lying on top is a photo of a face I recognise immediately. It’s him, the Penny Lane guy. I take the photo out and examine it. Nothing is written on the back and there’s no indication of who it is or when it was taken.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I ask, turning the photo around so Johnny can identify it, although I already know what he’s going to say.

  ‘That’s Bruce, your father.’

  So it was him all along.

  ‘Do you remember the night that was taken?’ Johnny asks. He doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘I think it was your third birthday. After you were born Philadelphia only threw parties on your birthday. Oh, but back in the 70s she threw them all the time and everyone would come.’ He smiles, drifting off into his memories.

  I look at the photo again. If this was taken on my third birthday then it must have been the night he danced with me and if there’s photographic evidence then, despite what she claimed, my mother must be able to remember. But then my mother claims to have forgotten a lot of things that she blatantly hasn’t.

  ‘I remember,’ I say, nudging him out of the reverie he seems to have slipped into. ‘It’s one of the clearest memories of my childhood, despite Mum trying to pretend it didn’t happen.’

  ‘He danced with you that night,’ Johnny says, ‘and with your mother. I honestly thought they were going to get back together, but something happened and he left. We didn’t see him again for years.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure. I took you up to bed and by the time I came back down Bruce was on his way out. I think he’d asked if he could see you, if he could take you out or something. But your mother said no. There was an argument, which everybody pretended not to hear.’

  ‘Did everyone know?’ I ask. ‘Did all of your friends know he was my father?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not at all. Your parents kept it very close. Those who did know, or who’d guessed, knew better than to say anything.’


  ‘Why was it always such a big secret? Why did she always say she couldn’t remember who I danced with? Why did she always say she couldn’t remember who my father even was?’

  ‘She couldn’t bear for you to see him if she couldn’t. She was so in love with him. She always was. But he was an addict. For years and years his love of booze always came first and after he got sober, which was around the time of your third birthday, he didn’t want your mother any more; he just wanted you. I think keeping him away from you was her way of punishing him for not loving her like she loved him.’

  My head is reeling. I can’t take it all in. I know my mother is self-absorbed but this is ridiculous.

  ‘So how did he end up buying this house?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah yes, well. Do you remember Frank?’

  ‘Uncle Frank?’

  Johnny nods. Uncle Frank was another guy who was always hanging around Mum. I think he lived here for a little while. I remember him coming and going and always giving me a pound coin or two when I was little. He was a painter I think.

  ‘Frank was Bruce’s younger brother. He lived constantly in Bruce’s shadow. They both went to St Martin’s but Frank was never going to be as good as Bruce. He ended up earning a living as a portrait painter. But for some reason your mother always kept him close and I suppose news of you got back to Bruce that way. That’s how Bruce ended up finding out about your mother’s money problems.’

  ‘Did Mum know it was Bruce who bailed her out?’ I ask. I feel as though I’m asking questions about a soap opera that I’ve lost track of.

  ‘She knew; she just preferred to pretend it wasn’t happening.’

  I look at the box of photos in my lap. I don’t even know where to begin with them. I put the lid back on them and put them on the table. I keep hold of the one of Bruce. The one of my dad. I drain my teacup and watch as Johnny refills it. I pop a tiny sandwich in my mouth and chew slowly as I think about my next question.

  ‘If you knew all of this why did you never say anything? Why did you always keep my mother’s secrets and always do exactly as she said?’