In the end, I slipped in between a rail of coats and snuggled up there. It felt warm and safe. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember is being in a cab on the way home and my mother trying not to be annoyed with me.
Sometimes I still feel as though I’m a disappointment to my mother. Tonight is one of those times.
‘She’s here,’ I call to Johnny as I watch the cab driver falling over himself to help Mum with her luggage.
I hear her heels on the wooden floor in the hall and the wheels of her suitcase as Johnny takes it from her. They whisper furtively in the hallway for a few moments, reminding me of Edwin and his constant phone calls. There can’t be any more secrets in the whole world can there? I close my eyes to shield myself from the impending onslaught.
‘Darling!’ my mother exclaims as she steps into the room. ‘Come out of the shadows and let me see you.’ I step towards her and let myself relax into her embrace. She smells of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door and is four inches taller than me due to her shoes. I feel as though I’m ten years old again and I notice some of the anger I’ve been holding towards my mother melts away.
Whatever she’s done, she’s still my mum. She was always there when I was sick, always ready to play the most bizarre of games that I made up on rainy afternoons. I give in to the hug, just for a few moments. I hadn’t realised how tired I was.
She pulls away from me and holds me at arm’s length. I know she’s looking at my damp hair, unmade-up face and sweats fresh from my post-run shower. I can’t help feel she wishes I was glamorous all the time like her and I feel my hackles rise again.
‘Still running?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘Good girl,’ she says, letting me go. She takes off her coat and sits down, kicking off her shoes. ‘I always wish I’d exercised more.’ She lights a cigarette with her gold lighter as if to demonstrate how unfit she is. She only smokes occasionally these days but I wish she wouldn’t.
After a few moments of small talk, I realise it will be up to me to steer the conversation around to my father and the letters and the whole running away to New York thing.
‘So,’ I say. ‘In the last two weeks, I have turned thirty, split up with my boyfriend, and I’ve inherited quite a lot of money, two London properties and an art studio from a father I never knew existed. Meanwhile my mother, who should have told me who my father was years ago, has been gallivanting in Manhattan. Who’s going to start the ball rolling with an explanation of events so far?’
‘You’ve split up with Alec?’ my mother asks. Trust her to start with this one.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But we’ll come back to that one.’
She doesn’t say anything but instead gives me this look that has made me, and many others before me no doubt, do things her way. It has worked since the day I was born and will carry on working for some time still, so there is no point giving in. I tell her about Alec. And when I’ve finished I’m in tears again, which puts me in a weaker position when it comes to steering this conversation back to the things I want to talk about.
Mum sighs and shakes her head. ‘I never did like that boy,’ she says. ‘He had strange eyes.’ Johnny comes in with glasses of champagne for everyone, which seems wildly optimistic, and hands me his handkerchief for the second time that week.
‘Look, Mum,’ I say, trying to regain as much composure as I can, ‘we need to talk about Bruce Baldwin and everything that’s happened recently.’
‘Why? You know everything now. Edwin’s made sure of that.’ I can’t work out if she’s angry or resigned.
This gently, gently approach isn’t getting me anywhere.
‘Mum, why did you send all his letters back?’
That gets her attention. She sits up and puts her champagne glass down on the table between us.
‘What letters?’ she asks in a failed attempt at nonchalance. I can see the panic rising.
I pull the wad of still unopened and now slightly battered-looking envelopes out of my bag and put them on the table. Under her make-up my mother is looking quite green.
‘The letters that Bruce Baldwin wrote to his daughter every year of her life on her birthday. The letters that have “return to sender” written on them in your handwriting.’
‘Where did you get these?’ she asks, picking the top envelope up. I notice her hand is shaking.
‘Bruce…my father gave them to Edwin to give to me. You’d proved full well you couldn’t be trusted to tell me a damn thing.’
She puts the letter back down on the pile and starts to cry. I didn’t mean to make her cry. I wait, trying not to get angry. Trying to remember that she is grieving too.
‘For years I kidded myself that I kept him away from you for your own good, that he was useless and a terrible influence. But there was more to it than that. He hadn’t touched a drink in twenty-seven years as far as I know and he saved our skins when he bought this house. I should have let him see you but I just couldn’t bear it. I loved him so much and he never really loved me, not in the same way.’
She pauses and I hand her Johnny’s handkerchief. I notice that at some point Johnny has left the room again.
‘He didn’t want me, you see, not once he’d cleaned himself up. He just wanted you. But if I couldn’t have him I didn’t want anyone else to have him either. I should never have done it. I should never have kept you and him apart.’
Usually when my mother puts on this sort of display it’s a sympathy act for attention, but there’s something different about her today. Behind her defences she seems genuine, as though she really is sorry. The tears seem real.
‘Since Bruce died though, I’ve known. I’ve known I had to face up to what I’ve done. And I’ve known I had to tell you. But I was so scared, Julia; I was so scared of how you’d react. That’s why I ran away to New York. I couldn’t bear it if you rejected me too. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I should have told you that more often.’
‘But you lost your career because of me,’ I say. It sounds harsher than I mean it to and I notice Mum swallow hard before she replies.
‘I was thirty, Julia; my career was nearly over anyway. And you were such a beautiful little girl. You brought me so much joy. I didn’t want Bruce to take you away from me.’
‘Mum, if what Edwin’s told me and what I’ve read about Bruce is true, it doesn’t sound much like he was able to look after me full-time. I think he just wanted to take me to the park now and then.’ I don’t say what I’m really thinking, that letting me in on the secret might have been nice too, but the words are there hanging between us unsaid.
‘Bruce broke my heart and I never let it mend enough to let you meet your father. It was Johnny who helped me understand that, but by then it was too late.’
‘Are you happy with Johnny?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘He’s no Bruce Baldwin, but that’s probably a good thing. Johnny’s good for me. We’re good for each other.’
‘And what about you and Marco di Palma?’ I say, trying to lighten the conversation a little, aware I won’t get much more from her today.
She has the decency to look a little horrified.
‘He told me the other day. I can’t believe how many people knew about my father and kept it from me.’
‘They were just doing what I asked them to,’ she replies. ‘Be angry with me, Julia, not them.’
One thing I’ve learned over the last few days is there’s no point being angry with anyone. What’s done is done; I know now. It’s like Edwin said in Hyde Park yesterday – the past is the past, although I’d love to know what he was referring to.
There’s one thing I don’t understand though. One more question I need to ask.
‘Why did he not just go behind your back to see me though?’
Mum sighs. ‘I threatened to go public,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how much you know about Bruce Baldwin but he valued his privacy above eve
rything. Even you I’m afraid. It’s one of the main things we argued about. I wanted to be stratospherically famous. He didn’t. He always wanted his art to be famous, not him. He thought of himself as just a conduit for the art or something. I told him if he made any attempt to tell you that he was your father, I would tell the press who your father was.’
She stops, aware probably of the look of astonishment on my face.
‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘But like I say, be angry with me not them.’
I realise that what I’m feeling isn’t anger. It’s a strange sense of abandonment, as if both of my parents used me as a pawn in their own battle. My mother always told me that she was happy alone, that she didn’t need a man to live her life, that marriage was an outmoded institution and that us girls were just fine as we were.
Over the years this attitude crept into my own feelings, thoughts and beliefs. By not knowing my father and by thinking, maybe mistakenly, that we could live perfectly well without him I had decided that marriage wasn’t for me, that committing to somebody else wasn’t what I wanted. In the end it destroyed Alec and me and only Pen could see it for the rubbish that it was.
‘I’m not angry,’ I begin, realising I’m nowhere near able to articulate how I feel yet. ‘I am curious as to why he kept writing the letters though.’ Not that either of us know what’s in them.
‘I think that was like a kind of therapy. One of the tricks he learned in rehab. Writing letters to those you love and those you’ve hurt and those who’ve hurt you. He wrote me a few in his time too.’
‘I always thought you weren’t meant to send those sorts of letters,’ I say, thinking back to something the counsellor at my school had said to me when I was going through a particularly bad time with Mum.
‘You should read them though,’ Mum says. ‘I’ve no idea what they say and I don’t want to, but they are probably the only way you’ll get to know your father now.’
And whose fault is that? I think. But I don’t say it. It really isn’t worth getting into an argument tonight. It’s late and I keep remembering what Johnny said about her grieving the love of her life. I can see she’s hurting.
‘So, is Johnny going to move in permanently?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘Is that OK with you?’ she asks.
‘Of course! I’m not really going to evict you; I can’t believe you’d think I would. In fact, I’m thinking of moving back myself.’
She smiles and starts crying again.
‘That would be lovely,’ she says and for once I think she genuinely means it.
6th June 1996
My dearest daughter,
I had a long and tedious meeting with my lawyer this week. He’s called Cedric Jones and he’s a friend of your mother’s, so I won’t say anything bad about him! He has two sons a little older than you: Edwin is just about to go up to Oxford and Robert is a year or two ahead of you at school. Robert plays a lot of rugby apparently. Cedric’s a good man and a good lawyer but he can be a bit pompous sometimes.
Anyway, it turns out I’ve made quite a bit of money over the last few years. It’s hard to comprehend if I’m honest. More importantly I don’t know what to do with all the money. Even after the tax bills are paid I’m not sure what to do. I live a modest life these days – almost frugal. I have my flat and my studio and I know you and your mother are set up for life, so as I came home from Cedric’s office I found myself wondering if I could use the money to help other artists.
I had a lot of help and support from tutors and other students when I was at art college. I didn’t have much money but there was always someone who would lend me some oil paints or a bottle of turps when I needed it. The thing I struggled with most, the thing we all struggled with most, was finding studio space – finding somewhere with enough room and the right kind of light to work in. Somewhere that wasn’t freezing cold, or damp or (the absolute worst) too dark.
Wouldn’t it have been great if there’d been somewhere we could have rented by the day or half-day to work from, at reasonable rates? Somewhere where there were paints and easels and equipment that we needed. Somewhere we could just turn up to with an idea and get going: experiment, play. Somewhere big enough so over time it could grow into a community place to exchange ideas.
And wouldn’t it be great if I could use my money to create this space now? To help art students, to encourage those who have never been encouraged, to support those who don’t have the good fortune of the support that I had. Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could create an Art Salon right here in London?
I need to think about this, about the logistics of it. I need to talk to a few people, play around with some ideas. But I think it could work! And it could be something that’s there for generations of artists to come, something to leave to the art community. Something to leave to you.
Something to make my daughter proud.
Well, in the meantime I think I’ll take on an art student or two to work with me at the studio, just to see if I can bear to share my space again after all these years.
Happy Birthday, Princess.
Your Father
Chapter 11
Most people dream of winning the lottery, of becoming overnight millionaires. They buy their lottery tickets and plan what they would do with the money should they be one of the chosen. I could never understand those people who said it wouldn’t change them.
I’ll admit I’ve often dreamed of what I’d do if I were a millionaire. Pen and I have bought the occasional lottery ticket and imagined the island paradise we would live on when we won. What nobody tells you of course is that when the money hits your bank account it really doesn’t change you. You can pay off your debts, get a better car, buy a house, never worry about where the rent or the next meal is coming from again. But no amount of money is going to bring my dad back so I can get to know him. No amount of money is going to make me suddenly know what I want to do with my life. Ultimately here I still am, sitting in my childhood bedroom, not wanting anything to change at all and knowing that so much already has.
It’s the early hours of Friday morning. It’s hard to believe that it’s only just over three weeks since I got that first email from Edwin. Back then I didn’t know who my father was and had a £500 overdraft and an almost maxed-out credit card. Was I happier then? It’s hard to remember.
I’ve been up all night reading my father’s letters. I don’t feel I know anything more about him now than I did before. I have a strange sense of disappointment now I’ve read them; I was expecting them to answer so many questions but they have just raised more.
I think the only way I’m going to get to know Bruce Baldwin is to start looking at his artwork. Graeme has already mentioned that several of his exhibitions were about lost children, fathers and daughters, that sort of thing. Maybe that will show me more than any letter or photograph ever can. I’m not sure how I’ll go about that though. Maybe Edwin will be able to help.
The sun is rising over Kensington now and I realise this will be the perfect time for a run to allow my thoughts to settle. I pull on my running gear and quietly leave the house so as not to wake Mum and Johnny. I take my usual route down to Kensington Palace Gardens and across Hyde Park. As I approach Park Lane, I find myself wondering what Edwin is doing right now. Probably sleeping if he’s got any sense. I wonder who he’s sleeping next to, but quickly decide I don’t want to think about that. I realise I know very little about him. I don’t even know where he lives. Maybe I can pick Mum’s brains about that.
Back at the house I shower and dress. There’s still no sign of life from Mum or Johnny so I make myself breakfast and sit in the garden. My mind soon returns to the letters. There was one thing that stood out amongst all the other random information about my father, his family and my mother’s behaviour. His idea of setting up an Art Salon: a fully equipped studio where young artists could work on their portfolios, as it’s so hard to rent any kind of decent
space in London.
I’ve been thinking about what I could do with some of the money I’d inherited since my meeting with the tax lawyers. I keep coming back to the idea of a charitable foundation or a trust in his name. Suddenly through his letters my father has let me know what it is I need to do. I have no idea how you would go about setting up an Art Salon but I’m sure it’s what Bruce Baldwin would have wanted. I’m excited and want to talk to someone about it.
Despite it still not being 9 a.m., I find myself dialling Edwin’s mobile.
He picks up after two rings.
‘Julia, hello!’
‘I’m sorry to phone so early.’
‘No it’s fine, I’m already in the office,’ he says. Good to know he’s not still in bed with whoever it is he shares his bed with. ‘Can you just hold on one minute?’
I hear him shuffling paper around and shifting his chair away from his desk. I imagine him stretching his long legs out, and along come those butterflies again. I push that thought away.
‘Julia, how are you?’ He sounds pleased to hear from me.
‘I’m good. I…I’ve decided to listen to the universe and move back to London permanently.’
‘Fantastic,’ he says, laughing.
‘Edwin, I finally read the letters last night.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of the ones you gave me yes.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Good question.’ I sigh deeply. ‘I’m not sure yet. In a way, I think they raise more questions than they answer.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have given them to you.’ He sounds as though he’s talking to himself. ‘Perhaps some things are best left alone.’
‘Oh, no not at all. I’m so glad you gave them to me. I needed to find out about my father in his own words and this is as close as I’m ever going to get. Did you think you shouldn’t have?’
‘I did wonder. What if reading them now, after all this time, dug up stuff that maybe was best left in the past. If I hadn’t been able to change his mind about seeing you, what good would the letters do? It was Dad who insisted I gave them to you, he said that Bruce was our client first and foremost so we had to respect his wishes.’
The Many Colours of Us Page 8
