The Many Colours of Us

by Rachel Burton

  ‘Then you think we can do it?’

  ‘Someone I know works at Tower Hamlets Council. He owes me a favour and he’ll push the permission through as quickly as possible. So yes. I think we can do it!’

  ‘And you’ll help?’

  I want the Art Salon to be a huge success and I cannot do that alone. I’m lucky to have someone so supportive on my side.

  ‘I’ll help in any way you want me to,’ he replies. ‘As will Frank and maybe your mum would like to be involved?’

  I smile. ‘She’s already interfering,’ I say, telling him about her suggestions for heat and insulation. ‘Although it’s almost as hot as your office in here today so I don’t know what she’s talking about.’

  ‘You know insulation keeps buildings cool as well as hot?’ he asks.

  I don’t reply. Why would I have known that?

  ‘And she thinks we should build that sewing room,’ I continue, changing the subject. I tell him about my conversation with Mum this morning, about my fledgling clothes business. ‘She wants to call it “Sew’n’Sew” but I think that’s tacky,’ I say.

  ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea.’ He grins.

  ‘You would. You thought of it first.’

  He looks at me. ‘How are things with your mum? It felt very…um…tense when I was there the other day.’

  ‘We’re getting there,’ I reply. I don’t want to tell him any more than that. I have a very strong feeling this should be between Mum and me if we’re going to lay the past to rest once and for all.

  ‘So,’ he says when he realises I’m not going to elaborate, ‘where shall we begin?’

  Chapter 19

  The planning permission arrives on the first day of August. It’s early in the morning and I’m sitting in the garden drinking coffee. The long, hot summer hasn’t given up yet but this morning the sun is still low in the sky and the air feels cool, so I’ve pulled one of Mum’s shawls around my shoulders. There is an all-encompassing stillness so typical of London in August, when anyone who can afford to takes a month off to get out of the city.

  I can, of course, afford to get out of London in August myself these days but that fact still hasn’t really sunk in, and besides there has been so much to do. The last few weeks have been such a whirlwind it’s hard to believe August is here already. That we’re due to open the studio in less than seven weeks’ time.

  Everything is going according to plan. With Edwin Jones organising proceedings it’s hard to imagine anything else. He really has thought of everything, from needing to reinforce the floor where the potter’s kiln is going to go, to what sort of lights we’ll need, to disabled access. But at no point has he ever taken the decision-making away from me; I have the final say in everything. Although I’ve fallen into the habit of running everything past Mum before I sign any idea off. She tends to agree with me and I can’t persuade her to come and see the studio yet.

  ‘I just can’t face it, dear,’ she says. ‘But I will soon, I promise.’

  She seems happy with the plans though, which I’m pleased about seeing as I spent three long boring days with architects and surveyors finalising them. If she’d wanted changes I think I might have pulled the plug on the whole project!

  On top of that I’ve been trying to turn as many of the new designs I’ve been creating into actual clothes. Some of them have been successful, some of them less so, but I’m getting there.

  I’ve been sending WhatsApp pictures to Pen of all the outfits I’ve made to try to get a second opinion. I keep thinking about her and Graeme and wondering how she’s feeling, as she refuses to talk about it. I’m trying to distract her with the WhatsApp pictures. She’s enthusiastic enough but utterly indiscriminate, telling me everything is brilliant. Not much help at all really.

  ‘Do you want a top-up?’ Johnny asks, as he comes out on to the patio with the coffee pot.

  I shake my head and he sits down next to me.

  ‘This is for you,’ he says handing me an official-looking envelope with Tower Hamlets Council printed on the top.

  We look at each other, both knowing what it contains.

  I rip it open, quickly scanning the contents.

  ‘Well?’ Johnny asks nervously. He knows everything is hanging on this.

  ‘Approved!’ I say with a grin.

  ‘Thank God!’ Johnny cries, wiping his brow melodramatically.

  We’ve been waiting for the planning permission to be approved before we can start the structural work. Now it really is all systems go and the builders can go in this morning. We’re paying them double time to work through the weekends until it’s done.

  ‘Good morning,’ my mother cries as she comes into the garden, unusually cheerful for this time in the morning. Johnny dashes into the kitchen for a cup for her coffee. Once a PA always a PA.

  I wave the letter at Mum. ‘We’re approved,’ I say with a grin.

  ‘Wonderful.’ She grins back. ‘Oh wonderful. This is really going to happen, isn’t it?’

  ‘If we can pull this off in time, yes. Yes, this is really going to happen!’

  ‘If anyone can pull this off it’s you and Edwin.’

  I try not to smile when she says our names together like that.

  Johnny comes back into the garden and pours a cup of coffee for Mum. As he hands it to her they exchange a glance. Mum shakes her head almost imperceptibly, but Johnny seems to be overruling her for once.

  ‘I know we all promised to be honest with each other from now on,’ he says. ‘That we’re all working on putting the past to rest. Delph and I have something to tell you.’

  *

  ‘Married?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Yes,’ my mother says, reaching over to take Johnny’s hand. ‘There’s no need to get hysterical about it.’

  ‘But you always said…’

  ‘People change, Julia,’ she interrupts. Clearly her previous resistance to marriage is not going to be discussed right now.

  ‘OK, well when did you decide this?’

  ‘I proposed in March,’ Johnny says. ‘Not long after Bruce died. When you get to our age you learn to seize the day. I was as surprised as you are that she said yes.’ He looks over to my mother, while I stare at them both.

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ I ask.

  ‘There were so many things…’ my mother begins.

  ‘We didn’t want to overwhelm you, dear girl,’ Johnny interrupts.

  I exhale loudly. ‘Any more secrets I need to know?’

  ‘Well,’ my mother begins, ‘we weren’t intending to get married until next spring but we’ve just found out there’s been a cancellation at the Register Office on the Bank Holiday weekend.’

  ‘Less than a month away?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘You’re going to organise a wedding in less than a month?’ I’m amazed. My mother can barely organise her own travel arrangements.

  ‘Well I was hoping you’d help,’ she replies.

  Typical.

  *

  I’m standing outside Bruce Baldwin’s studio in Whitechapel with Frank and Edwin. It’s early morning and the sun is already hot on the back of my neck. I’m just wearing jeans and a vest; a dark pink eternity scarf is my only concession to handmade today. I draw it closer to my nape to stop myself burning. This British summer has been unprecedented.

  ‘I thought they were leaving it until next year,’ Frank says. I’ve just broken the news about the Bank Holiday wedding.

  ‘There was a cancellation at the Register Office for the Bank Holiday weekend,’ I say. ‘So, that’s when the wedding is.’

  ‘Christ,’ Edwin mutters. ‘This studio is never going to get finished if we’re going to be interrupted by a wedding.’

  The shock of my mother’s impending nuptials has kept me awake half the night. It’s not that I mind. I’m glad she’ll have Johnny to look after her and they clearly love each other
very much, but I honestly never thought my mother would get married. She spent so long telling me how unnecessary it all was, how we were fine on our own, that I’d grown to believe it. And I’m left wondering if I’ll ever find that, if I’ll ever find someone I can trust enough to love that much and be loved in return.

  A wave of sadness washes over me and I push it away as we walk into the studio.

  ‘Wow,’ Edwin says. ‘These builders are certainly fast workers!’

  Last time we were here, at the beginning of last week, before the planning permission came through, I was on the brink of finally realising the full potential of this building and how it could be used to fulfil my father’s ambitions.

  Today though, now the builders have begun the construction works, it looks terrible. All the paintings are gone, I have no idea where, and all the non-supporting internal walls have been ripped down and their rubble left everywhere. At least I hope they were non-supporting walls. A man in a yellow hard hat and high-visibility vest comes over to us to give us hard hats and vests of our own. ‘Health and safety,’ he mutters.

  ‘Nice to see you all again,’ he says, once we have our full health and safety attire on. It’s not until then that I realise this is the architect. The last time I saw him he was in an aesthetically pleasing, beautifully lit office wearing a suit almost as well cut as Edwin’s.

  I smile at him but I can’t think of anything to say. I’m suddenly overcome with the enormity of it all. How much there is to do and how little time there is to do it in.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the architect says. ‘But trust me, this bit is messy but quick. We’ll have new walls in here in no time. You’ll be choosing paint and floor coverings before you know it!’ He smiles reassuringly.

  ‘We need to talk about that and how you want to lay the place out,’ Edwin says. ‘These guys reckon they can get it done by the Bank Holiday, which gives us plenty of time to get the floor in and paint.’

  ‘Just in time for Mum’s wedding,’ I reply. Edwin rolls his eyes.

  We’ve decided to divide the studio into four different spaces, each focusing on different art media. Then there will be a mezzanine level with smaller rooms for individual projects. One of the hardest parts of the design of this project apparently has been the mezzanine level because Edwin has insisted on disabled access to it, which means a lift. But between us we’ve done it. Now it just needs building.

  Both Frank and Edwin have been a huge support. They talk so animatedly about everything. These two men not only know exactly what they are doing, but they also knew my father. They knew what he liked, and how he worked, and what his voice sounded like, and they are more qualified than anyone to help me make it a place my father would have been proud of.

  But they are doing more than that. More than they’ll ever know. Over the last month they have helped me to become more proactive, to create the life I want for myself. I know this dressmaking idea of Mum’s is closer to what I want than anything ever has been in the past and I’m learning how to get on with things rather than thinking of something and then never doing anything about it. I’ve got the beginnings of a business, an Art Salon, maybe even a life to be proud of!

  It has also been the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life, and today I’m hot and exhausted and worried about my mother’s wedding, which she has planned nothing for, and I realise that I’m crying. Suddenly Edwin is by my side, his arm around me, gently leading me outside, leaving the architect chatting to Frank.

  ‘Hey,’ he says when we’re alone. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I just feel so bloody overwhelmed by everything,’ I say when I’ve found breath between sobs.

  ‘I know, Julia,’ he replies. ‘But we’re a team. You, me, Frank, the builders. We are doing this together.’ He pulls me into a hug and his body feels solid and muscular against me. I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. I could stay here all day.

  Eventually I pull away from him.

  ‘You can do this you know,’ he says. ‘And you can come out of this stronger than ever before. This is your chance to turn everything round.’

  I nod. ‘But Mum’s wedding has thrown a bit of a spanner in the works. I really want to open my business on the night we launch this place, but Mum really wants me to help and typically she’s not organised anything at all.’

  He smiles. He knows what my mother’s like.

  ‘Would you like a bit of time out from this,’ he says, gesturing towards the studio. ‘While the structural work is being done, so you can concentrate on your business and your mum’s wedding?’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he replies.

  ‘You and Frank are probably more qualified to do this than me anyway.’

  He takes my hand again. ‘That’s simply not true, Julia,’ he says.

  6th June 1988

  My dearest daughter,

  Five years old for you and two years sober for me and what an amazing two years it’s been.

  Sobriety suits me, it turns out. I feel so much more creative and productive and have painted so much new work.

  My next exhibition is on in November at the Tate. The Tate! I can hardly believe it. I will of course invite you and your mother but I’m not holding my breath about you coming. I always have you in my mind when I paint. You’re my inspiration, my muse, my reason not to drink every day and I hope one day you will see my paintings and maybe even like them!

  I always knew I would paint. I don’t think I could stop if I wanted to (in rehab they often tell you that you replace one addiction with another – well it turns out that painting’s mine!), but I never thought I’d make money out of it. Knowing that I can help to support you these days makes it a little bit more bearable that I can’t see you.

  Because the only thing that could possibly have made the last two years any better would have been seeing you more regularly. But I live in hope, and remember something else that I learned in rehab. The things that are the hardest, the things that we struggle with the most, are the things that help us change.

  Happy Birthday, Princess.

  Your Father

  Chapter 20

  My mother has become bridezilla. You would think a woman who has turned sixty and always declared that marriage wasn’t for her would be calmer about her forthcoming nuptials. But you would be wrong.

  We have three weeks, and apart from booking the Register Office she seems to have done nothing. Johnny is wandering about the house in a daze with big wide eyes like a rabbit in the headlights, probably rueing the day he ever proposed.

  ‘Mum, will you just sit down,’ I say as she paces the living room hysterically. There are bridal magazines everywhere but not one of them is suitable; even she’s admitted they aren’t aimed at sixty-year-old brides.

  She sits. She’s getting better at doing what I say.

  ‘Now listen,’ I begin authoritatively, pen and paper in hand. ‘The Register Office is booked so that’s one thing to tick off the list.’ She smiles proudly. She clearly has no idea how long my list is and how nothing else has been ticked off.

  Did I mention we have three weeks?

  ‘Right, well next we need somewhere to hold the reception,’ I continue.

  ‘Well that’s easy,’ she replies. ‘The Royal Garden Hotel of course.’ As if it would be anywhere else.

  ‘Well you might have left it a bit late,’ I begin.

  ‘Nonsense! I do still have the influence to pull strings you know. I am Philadelphia Simmonds.’

  I hope she’s right.

  ‘Then there’s the guest list.’

  ‘Johnny’s doing that.’

  Is he?

  ‘OK, well how about flowers, food, music and the dress?’

  She looks at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ she has a wheedling tone to her voice. ‘I was hoping you’d make the dress. And you
’d better make one for yourself too as I’d like you to walk me down the aisle.’

  Right.

  Just as I’m about to start swearing at my mother my phone rings. It’s Edwin. I really don’t have time for this.

  ‘What?’ I snap.

  ‘Nice to speak to you too.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘Mum’s driving me mad. She’s set the date for the wedding but hasn’t done anything else and now she wants me to make the dress.’

  He chuckles softly to himself. I forget sometimes how well he knows my mother.

  ‘You don’t know anyone who can do the flowers, do you? Or anyone who’s in a band and is free on Bank Holiday weekend?’ It’s a long shot but Edwin does seem to have contacts all over London.

  ‘Can’t help you with the flowers I’m afraid but one of the younger solicitors at work is in a jazz band or something. Whether he’s free or not I can’t tell you but I can ask?’

  Every time. Just when I think a situation will never be saved, Edwin comes to my rescue. Every time.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Listen, Julia, I know you’re busy, but can you meet me this afternoon?’ he asks.

  ‘Is something wrong with the studio?’ I ask, panic rising.

  ‘No, not at all. It’s something else I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Are all the building works on schedule?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course they are!’

  With Edwin Jones in charge, how could they be anything else?

  I hear my mother talking to someone on the telephone and realise I need to get her to focus on this damn wedding.

  ‘Look, Edwin, I have to go. I have to get this wedding sorted or it will be a disaster.’

  ‘But can you meet me this afternoon. Please, it’s important.’

  Something about the way he says it makes my stomach flutter in that way it has a habit of doing when Edwin is around. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘Two o’clock at the Tate Modern,’ he says.

  As I hang up the phone my mother comes back into the room, a smug smile on her face.