The Many Colours of Us

by Rachel Burton

  ‘It was the right thing to do, Edwin; don’t worry,’ I say brightly, fearing the conversation is taking a depressing turn. ‘I mean, it certainly feels a bit weird that all this stuff was going on around me and I never knew about it, but I’m glad I know now.’

  ‘Phew!’ Edwin jokes, but I can tell it’s been bugging him whether he did the right thing or not. I tell him a little bit about what my father had written about me, about Mum and about his life, although I’m not sure how much he already knows.

  ‘There was something in the letters I wanted to talk to you about,’ I say after a while.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Well the other day, when I met with the tax lawyers, I had this idea that I should set up some sort of charity in my father’s name.’

  ‘Yes, Simon mentioned something about that.’

  ‘Who’s Simon?’

  ‘Your financial advisor, Julia,’ he replies patiently. I knew I’d never remember which one was which.

  ‘Anyway,’ I carry on, ‘it turns out that my father had been contemplating something similar.’ I go on to tell him about Bruce’s idea.

  ‘Great minds think alike eh?’ Edwin says when I’m finished.

  ‘Did he never mention it to you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, but remember I was only his lawyer in the last few years of his life and he really wasn’t very well for most of that time.’

  ‘I wonder why he never did it himself?’

  ‘Who knows? I wonder if Dad knows anything about it. I can ask him if you like?

  ‘Would you? That would be great.’ I pause. ‘I hope the reason he didn’t do it isn’t because it’s too difficult to do.’

  ‘Nothing is too difficult to do, Julia,’ Edwin says confidently. ‘You just need to know who to ask. Have you any idea about a venue?’

  ‘To be honest I hadn’t even begun to think about it yet. I just wanted to tell someone about the letters really. Although Bruce did mention he wanted it to be in London.’

  ‘I wonder if your father’s old studio in Whitechapel would work?’ Edwin says, as though thinking out loud. ‘We could go and take a look together next week if you like? Maybe we could even meet Frank there too. I’m sure he’d want to be involved.’

  His enthusiasm is suddenly rather overwhelming. I forget how much is still left undone and unsaid. I haven’t spoken to my dead father’s brother in over a decade, and then of course I had no idea I was related to him. I still have the studio to look at. I’m sure there’s still paperwork. And on top of all of that I still want to know more about Edwin himself. Where he lives and, more importantly, who he lives with. He must notice that I’ve been quiet for a while.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m rushing ahead, aren’t I – forgetting how much there is for you to take in. It’s just…’ He pauses. ‘It’s just such a good idea. Such a good way to remember your father. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘It’s just a bit much sometimes. I think I’m doing all right and then suddenly it hits me again how huge all of this is.’

  ‘So, you’re back in London for good?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to go and sort a few things out back in Cambridge at some point but yes.’ I realise that this decision feels like a huge relief. Maybe there’s something in all that New Age claptrap Pen spouts. Maybe the universe is looking out for me after all.

  ‘Great, well have a think about how you want to do this, when you’d like to see the studio and when you’d like to meet Frank, and then give me a ring. In the meantime, I’ll have a chat with Dad and do a bit of research to see how one goes about setting up an Art Salon.’

  His enthusiasm is as infectious as it is overwhelming and I’m grinning despite my misgivings as I hang up the phone.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Johnny has been telling me about your new beau,’ my mother says over the top of the latest copy of Vogue magazine later that day.

  I’ve spent most of the day on my laptop, researching art salons. I’ve found out absolutely zero helpful information but I have been looking at a lot of paintings online, some by my father. I don’t really know what I think about them yet. I feel as though I need somebody to explain them to me, but from what I understand, Graeme was right about a lot of his work being about lost children and broken parent-child relationships. There is something very haunting and sad about the paintings I’ve looked at and it’s left me feeling rather flat.

  I hope Edwin’s been more successful with art salon research.

  ‘What beau? What on earth are you talking about? I told you Alec and I have split up.’

  ‘Not Alec. Edwin,’ she says, putting her magazine aside.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum, he’s your lawyer not my boyfriend.’ My mother is as bad as Pen.

  ‘Well that’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ I ask rolling my eyes at her.

  ‘Marco di Palma tells me that you and he were looking very cosy the other night. He said he was at the point of asking you to get a room, but then you left suddenly.’

  ‘Marco, as we both know, is prone to hyperbole.’ I reach over for the copy of Vogue as this conversation is going nowhere fast but she flicks my hand away from it.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I came home and I presume he went back to his, wherever that may be. Johnny will back me up.’ Although quite why he should have to I don’t know.

  ‘So, you don’t know where he lives?’ she asks eyeing me suspiciously.

  ‘No. Actually,’ I begin, hoping to get some use out of this odd conversation, ‘I was wondering if you might tell me a bit about him.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh yes, and why would you want to know about him?’

  ‘Just curiosity,’ I reply, nonchalantly.

  ‘We’ve all known Edwin since he was a baby,’ she says in an offhand manner. I wonder what on earth that’s got to do with anything.

  ‘Yeah, apparently he remembers me from when we were kids.’

  ‘Does he now?’ she says archly. ‘Do you remember him?’

  ‘No. Mum, what’s going on?’

  ‘Edwin lives on the top floor of a converted house in Notting Hill, not far from where Bruce…’ she hesitates ‘…your father used to live. His brother lives on the ground floor and his father lives on the first floor.’

  ‘So basically he still lives at home?’ I’m astonished. There was me thinking he slept next to a different beautiful woman every night in his minimalist bachelor flat.

  ‘He lives in a self-contained apartment in what used to be the family home.’ She seems very defensive about all this. ‘And anyway, are you or are you not living at home yourself?’

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten, Mother, this is my house.’

  ‘Touché,’ she replies.

  ‘Mum, why are you being so weird about Edwin? Why does he live at home, converted flat or not?’

  She sighs. ‘You’ll have to ask him. When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Next week. We’re going to talk about…’ I stop, realising I haven’t talked to Mum about the Art Salon idea yet.

  ‘Well ask him about his brother,’ she says. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  *

  Marco is flicking his tea towel in an animated fashion at Edwin when I arrive at the restaurant the next evening. Edwin’s face, a mixture of amusement and bemusement, breaks into a grin when he sees me. Marco stops flicking as he turns around to greet me.

  ‘Bella Julia!’ he exclaims smothering me in exuberant kisses. ‘I was just telling Mr Jones here how he has to treat you like a princess at all times!’

  ‘I should think so,’ I reply, ‘the amount he charges per hour.’ Marco looks at me in a slightly bewildered way. I lower my voice. ‘He’s Mum’s lawyer, Marco. How many times do I have to tell you? Get me a glass of red, will you?’

  Marco wanders off, flicking his tea towel at some other unsuspect
ing customers. It’s heaving in here as usual and there’s barely room for me to squeeze into the seat opposite Edwin.

  I want to launch straight into a barrage of questions about his brother and why he still lives, to all intents and purposes, at home, but Johnny asked me to be sensitive.

  ‘Don’t go in all guns blazing like your mother would,’ he said in the hallway as I left. ‘Edwin might not be ready to tell you and even if he is, be sensitive.’

  ‘I’m nothing like my mother,’ I say, knowing full well I can be exactly like her a lot of the time and had every intention of just walking into the restaurant and asking him outright.

  ‘Be sensitive,’ Johnny repeated.

  So I let Edwin do the talking. I let him tell me about the logistics of setting up a public art studio. This kind of bureaucratic nonsense bores me to tears, which is why I was such a terrible paralegal and it’s just as well I never made it to law school, but Edwin is excited and animated so I sit back and watch him, making the most of his continued good mood.

  He grins as he talks about planning permissions and insurances in that way only a lawyer would find interesting. He looks relaxed for once, his hair still damp from the shower, his polo shirt undone at the neck. I realise this is the first time I’ve seen him out of a suit.

  ‘And I spoke to Dad,’ he says, stretching his legs out under the table so they brush against mine. I have no idea if it’s intentional or not.

  ‘About Bruce’s ideas?’ I ask, trying not to notice the feel of his leg against mine as he stretches. Marco’s is not big enough for people as tall as Edwin. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Well, sadly by the time Bruce got around to talking to Dad about it, his heart wasn’t in it any more. He’d become very despondent about things.’

  ‘In one of the letters, one of the last ones I think, he talked about how he’d never got around to it, but I couldn’t work out why. What was he so down about?’

  He looks faintly embarrassed. ‘Mostly about still not seeing you.’ He pauses. ‘But I know that’s not your fault, so please don’t feel guilty or think that I’m trying to say you should have tried to find him.’

  I sit up so I can concentrate more on the conversation, and ask the question I’ve been putting off for days.

  ‘Edwin, have you any idea why Dad never came looking for me?’

  ‘I thought your mother explained that,’ he says with a vague expression of distaste as though the whole situation makes him uncomfortable. He’s not the only one.

  ‘Yes, yes she did but I mean later on. Once I was an adult. He must have known where I was?’

  Edwin nods once, confirming my suspicions.

  ‘So, he could have got in touch with me after I left home without going through Mum. Without anyone knowing.’

  ‘Julia, I think you need to appreciate how famous your parents were. If anyone had found out, it would have become public knowledge and that would have been hard for everyone. Especially you. Bruce never wanted to hurt you or put you in an uncomfortable position and…’ He pauses for a moment, looking away from me. ‘And he was terrified you wouldn’t want to see him.’

  ‘Why would he think that?’

  ‘He seemed to think he’d let you down. That he hadn’t done anything to make you proud.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He pauses for a moment. ‘He told me,’ he says. ‘He talked about it a lot towards the end. He loved you, or at least he loved the idea of you but…’ Edwin stops, pressing the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.

  ‘I’m sorry, Julia,’ he says eventually. ‘Like I said the other day, I tried to talk to him about seeing you. I tried to encourage him to meet you before he died, but he was adamant. I couldn’t change his mind.’

  ‘Maybe I should have tried harder to find him,’ I say quietly. I feel there is something Edwin isn’t telling me, but he looks so sad I don’t want to push him.

  ‘Maybe somebody could have told you,’ Edwin says, emphasising the ‘somebody’. There’s an edge to his voice and I wonder how he has felt keeping my mother’s secrets all these years.

  ‘Well don’t you go feeling bad about that,’ I reply. ‘You were bound by client confidentiality.’

  He sighs and looks away from me again. I signal to Marco to come over to lift the atmosphere. Or at the very least clear the dirty plates.

  I try to steer the conversation back to the present and by the time we’re finishing up dessert and coffee, Edwin has told me all about my father’s studio in Whitechapel and how perfect it will be for the Art Salon.

  He pauses, grins at me. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I have a habit of taking over.’

  That smile makes my stomach flip over. The atmosphere has shifted away from the sadness of talking about my father and so I’m loath to ask the question that I’ve been waiting all evening to ask. But if I don’t do it now I never will.

  ‘Edwin, Mum and Johnny, they…well…’

  ‘What?’ His brow furrows; the smile disappears.

  ‘They suggested I ask you about your brother.’ I’m looking down at my hands, which are resting on the table between us. ‘You don’t have to tell me of course but…’

  ‘I do want to tell you,’ he says. ‘But not here.’ He places his hand on top of mine, just for a moment. ‘Let me pay and we’ll go for a walk.’

  *

  We walk the other way down the High Street, towards Earls Court and Holland Park. Edwin doesn’t say anything at first; he just puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking. He offers me his arm and pulls me a little closer. We’ve turned onto Phillimore Gardens before he finally speaks.

  ‘I hated school,’ he says. ‘Didn’t fit in at all. I was as awkward and pompous then as I am now.’

  ‘You’re not…’ I begin.

  ‘I am. And we both know it,’ he interrupts with a small smile. ‘It wasn’t until Robert got there two years later that I started to feel even remotely comfortable. Rob’s more of a people person than me, he gets on with everyone, he’s the life and soul of any party. And he looked out for me. I know it’s usually the older brother looking out for the younger one but it wasn’t like that with us. I owe him a lot, you know?’

  I don’t know, having never had siblings, so I keep quiet and keep walking, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘At the start of my second year at Oxford, Rob had an accident while playing rugby. He was brilliant at rugby; he was all set to play at County level but…’

  I want to say that Bruce had mentioned his brother’s passion for rugby in the letters but suddenly Edwin stops walking and pulls away from me.

  ‘A tackle went wrong. Rob broke his back. He has a complete spinal injury between his first and second thoracic vertebrae.’

  ‘What does that…’ I begin.

  ‘Sorry, in layman’s terms it means he’s paralysed from the chest down. It means he’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’m sure there’s nothing I can say so I step towards him and place my hand on his arm until he’s ready to carry on. A man with a tiny pug walks past, glaring at us.

  ‘The first year was the worst,’ he says, when the man and his dog have passed. ‘There were times when we didn’t think he’d make it. Life changed completely, but Dad insisted that I stay at Oxford, get my degree and go to law school so that I could take over the firm and he could be at home with Rob. That’s when I had the idea of using some of the insurance money to convert the house into three flats. One for each of us, with Rob on the ground floor in a specially adapted apartment. He can be quite independent these days to be honest but Dad likes one of us to be at home with Rob at all times. There are things that he’ll never be able to do for himself.’

  I don’t ask what; it’s not my business. I can take an educated guess.

  ‘So, that’s where you disappear to and why your phone is always ringing,’ I say, selfishly pleas
ed that it’s not off to meet one of the beautiful women I imagine him with.

  He nods. ‘His accident is also the reason your mum stopped the parties. Everything changed after that.’ All these years I thought it was because I’d made it clear I didn’t want the parties any more. How self-absorbed can I be?

  I have about a million questions running through my head but now is not the time to ask them.

  Slowly we start to walk back around towards Campden Hill Road again. ‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘What do you do when you’re not working or looking out for your brother?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he says, rather glumly. ‘I go to the gym, I hang out with Rob, I keep up to date on any developments in spinal injury treatment, stem cell therapy, that kind of thing. Rob has a nurse who comes in most days, so I hang out with him a bit too.’

  I look at him, surprised that his brother still needs regular professional care.

  Edwin sees the question in my face. ‘He sorts out his medication, painkillers, anti-inflammatories, does his physical therapy with him. Dad was very insistent that I didn’t become Rob’s primary carer. I’d have done it in a heartbeat but Dad thought it would change our relationship. Rob and I have always been close…’ He trails off, shrugs. It’s clearly still incredibly painful for him to talk about and I don’t want to push him.

  ‘Oh and more recently,’ he goes on, ‘I’ve had the rather onerous job of looking after my client’s long-lost daughter!’ He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes and I can see he’s trying to force himself to be cheerful. Despite that, the smile still makes those butterflies in my stomach do a bit of a boogie.

  ‘I’d like to meet your brother some time,’ I say, wishing my mother had given me a bit of a heads up about all of this. She really is terrible at telling people things they need to know.

  ‘You should come over one day,’ he says, his awkwardness returning. ‘I think Dad would like to see you again too.’ I forget that all these people know me, know exactly who I am and where I came from. It still feels weird.