The Many Colours of Us

by Rachel Burton

  *

  I wake up to the unpleasant smell of disinfectant and cabbage. I hear their voices before I can bring myself to open my eyes, before I realise where I am or what has happened.

  ‘A rented bicycle of all things,’ my mother is bemoaning loudly. ‘I’ve always hated those monstrosities. Why couldn’t she have been hit by something more glamorous? A Porsche or something?’

  ‘I suspect if she’d been hit by a Porsche, we’d be identifying her body right now,’ says another voice that I recognise.

  Edwin.

  I struggle to open my eyes.

  As Edwin and my mother continue to bicker about whether or not I should be dead, neither of them noticing that I’m waking up, I look carefully around the room. I’m very aware that looking at anything is extremely painful, so I narrow my eyelids to slits. I’m not sure if it helps at all.

  I’m in a dingy hospital ward. Everyone else here looks grey and worried and they are staring at my mother and Edwin, both of whom look wildly out of place, so tall and glamorous and loud. They look like they’ve been beamed down from another planet and I wonder what the ordinary-sized, ordinarily dressed people are thinking.

  Edwin is holding my hand. I’m suddenly very acutely aware of how much I’ve missed him, even more than I’ve admitted to Frank or Pen. Even more than I’ve admitted to myself. I have no idea why he’s here but I’m so glad he is. I squeeze his hand to get his attention and he looks at me.

  ‘You’re awake,’ he says quietly, lowering his voice several decibels from the voice he’s been using on my mother, which I suspect is the voice he uses in court.

  I try to move but a blinding pain hits me behind my right eye, like the worst headache I’ve ever had, tripled.

  ‘Don’t try and move,’ he says, so I lie back on the pillows and close my eyes again, waiting for the wave of nausea to subside. The last thing I need right now is for Edwin to see me throw up.

  ‘Does she need more pain meds?’ my mother asks, talking over the top of me. ‘Maybe I should adjust the pillows.’ She starts to fuss with the bedding and the pain shoots through my head again.

  ‘Maybe just leave it,’ Edwin says, adopting his court voice again. My mother takes a step away from the bed though, so it seems to work.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. My mouth is bone dry and I really want some water, but I can only manage a couple of words at a time.

  ‘You were hit by one of those ridiculous bicycles while crossing the High Street,’ my mother announces to the whole ward. ‘You’ve been unconscious ever since. I always knew those bikes would be a disaster. Haven’t I always said it?’ Luckily for everyone, before Mum has a chance to warm to her theme, a nurse comes across to tell us that visiting hours are nearly over and Miss Simmonds needs some rest.

  ‘When can I go home?’ I ask. I wonder if the nurse knows who I am. I wonder if she read the papers last Bank Holiday weekend.

  ‘If you get a good night’s sleep tonight and there’s no sign of concussion by the morning, you’ll be discharged after the doctor sees you tomorrow.’

  ‘What time shall I come and pick her up?’ my mother asks.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ the nurse replies. ‘Now come on, both of you.’

  I’m still holding Edwin’s hand for dear life and I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let him go.

  ‘Can I have five minutes?’ he asks the nurse. She looks at him and I can see her trying to say no, but nobody can resist those blue eyes and she concedes, nodding once and drawing the curtains around us as she escorts my mother away.

  ‘I’ll wait for you in the lobby, Edwin,’ my mother says as she disappears in a waft of perfume.

  Edwin and I look at each other until it hurts too much to keep my eyes open any longer. As I lean my head back against the pillows I feel his thumb gently massaging the palm of my hand. The sensation is almost too much.

  ‘Can I have some water?’ I ask.

  He holds a glass to my lips and I’m able to drink enough to stop my mouth feeling like the Gobi Desert. I hear him put the glass back on the cabinet by the bed and feel him reach across me to brush the hair out of my face. The gesture reminds me of sitting in Kensington Palace Gardens after Mum’s wedding. But I know nothing is the same any more.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened properly?’ I ask.

  ‘Well you did get hit by a pushbike.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. My mother’s right, it isn’t very glamorous. ‘It was Marco who recognised you and called your mother. It happened almost right outside his restaurant. You hit your head on the kerb. Your mother called me and I got here as quickly as I could.’

  ‘Why?’ I manage to open my eyes. I need to see him, and he catches my gaze, holds it for just a moment.

  ‘Because I needed to see you, to know you were OK…’ He trails off.

  ‘I was coming to see you.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounds surprised.

  ‘Yes, I…I wanted to say how sorry I was for what I said. I should have phoned before now.’ I want to say more but another wave of nausea hits me and I close my eyes again.

  He squeezes my hand. ‘You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s been an awful time for all of us, and I’m sorry I took my frustrations out on you. You didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘I did,’ I say. ‘I was being selfish.’

  He doesn’t say anything and the next thing I know is the feel of his lips on my forehead as he kisses me softly. I open my eyes again and he smiles at me. He looks tired and worried.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  He nods but doesn’t say anything else. He just sits there holding my hand until I fall asleep.

  Chapter 28

  ‘Stop flinching and try to stay still.’ My mother is getting annoyed with me.

  ‘Why are you doing this anyway? I just want to go home and go to bed. I feel dreadful.’

  ‘You’ll be grateful when I’m finished,’ she says.

  ‘Well go a little easier will you. I’ve got a black eye and a very sore head.’

  ‘Which is why I’m doing your make-up for you, so you don’t look so dreadful.’

  This is the point where I’d roll my eyes except it hurts too much.

  I woke up alone this morning, feeling worse than ever. I didn’t know it was possible to have such a bad headache and still be conscious. To my surprise the doctor dosed me up on painkillers and pronounced me well enough to go home. I feel like I need at least another two days in here but apparently I’ve become a bed-blocker.

  I was allowed to go and have a shower after the doctor had been and I saw myself in the mirror for the first time. I hardly recognised myself. It really was a spectacular black eye. My face looked pale and ill and my hair lank and greasy. I can’t believe Edwin saw me like this. After I’ve washed and dressed I feel worse but I do look a little better. Not good enough for my mother though who has brought her entire make-up box to disguise my hideous black eye. I must look good apparently because, rather than going home to bed where I should be, we’re going on an outing.

  ‘Where are we off to anyway?’ I ask, knowing full well there’s no point arguing with her or trying to delay the outing for some other time.

  ‘You’ll see when we get there,’ she replies, coming at me with a lipstick.

  I snatch it from her. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing my own lipstick,’ I say.

  Eventually after much fuss and bother my mother steps back and looks at her handiwork. She sighs.

  ‘You’ll do I suppose,’ she says.

  I look in the mirror, terrified at what I might see, but even I have to admit she’s done a good job. I don’t look much like my old self, but I do look human again, which is something.

  After some medical formalities and a pit stop at the pharmacy to collect my heavy-duty painkillers, we set off for wherever it is we’re going. I feel dizzy and nauseous and hope that wherever
it is, it won’t take long. It’s still pouring with rain.

  To my shock, rather than getting a taxi, my mother is driving Johnny’s Fiat. I haven’t seen my mother drive for years, and when she does it’s with much trepidation about being on the wrong side of the road.

  ‘You’re driving?’ I query.

  ‘I am capable,’ she says with a sniff.

  I don’t have the energy to argue so I get into the passenger seat and close my eyes as she lurches out of the car park onto the Fulham Road.

  ‘Try not to hit any bikes,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll be about forty minutes,’ she replies. ‘Try to get some sleep.’

  In other words, be quiet, Julia, and don’t criticise my terrible driving. I close my eyes and let the swish of the windscreen wipers lull me to sleep.

  *

  When I wake up we’re parked on Whitechapel Road outside my father’s old studio. There are two skips full of what appears to be rubble outside, and the building is sporting new glass doors and windows. My mother is smiling.

  ‘Doesn’t it look wonderful?’ she asks, as though she did it herself.

  ‘When were you last here?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh a few days ago…’ She stops, realising what she’s admitted.

  ‘So you plucked up the courage to face it then?’

  ‘Well, in your absence I was asked to give some advice on a matter,’ she answers pompously.

  ‘What matter?’

  ‘You’ll see. Now come on. You need to choose a floor and then you can see your surprise.’

  ‘Why did you teach Edwin to dance?’ I ask. Suddenly I want to know her side of the story. This other life that I don’t remember, even though it was going on right under my nose.

  ‘So he could sweep you off your feet at my wedding!’ She laughs.

  ‘Mum, for once in your life can you just answer a question properly?’

  She stares straight ahead and for a moment I don’t think she’s going to say anything else. ‘I told you that after their mother died, Edwin and Robert became like sons to me. Cedric didn’t have a clue what to do with them. He was grief-stricken by his wife’s death and he just couldn’t talk to them. I took them under my wing a bit. Cedric and I had always been close; he was the first person I knew in England. It was just the natural order of things.’

  I want to tell her that the natural order of things was to put her actual biological child first, or share details of her parentage. And then I remember how I went to day school and got to come home every evening, how much fun Mum and I used to have when I was a kid. How Johnny was always there when I had a problem, or when school got too hard. How there was always money (thanks, I now discover, to my millionaire father) and always love, even if it wasn’t in the most conventional way.

  And I remember Edwin telling me about how lonely he was after his mother died, how much he hated boarding school and how he didn’t get to go home in the evenings even though home was only across London. And I realise that it wasn’t that bad, that it really wasn’t as bad as I’ve often pretended it was and that it was probably much, much worse for Edwin. And definitely for Robert.

  ‘I suppose I’d better go and choose this floor then,’ I say, trying not to show my reluctance as my mother starts to get out of the car.

  ‘Are you sure you can park here?’ I ask.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ my mother replies, marching me towards my father’s old studio.

  6th June 1999

  My dearest daughter,

  Happy sweet sixteen, my darling.

  It’s been two years since I last saw you, but now I only have myself to blame.

  Over the last months I’ve felt your mother softening, as though, now you are older and starting to make your own decisions about life, she might let me see you occasionally. She might be ready to tell you the truth.

  But now I’m not sure I want her to tell you the truth. After all these years I’m beginning to wonder if your mother did the right thing. If keeping me away from you was for the best.

  I used to be full of grand ambitions to do something worthwhile with my art, that grand idea of an Art Salon for one. But nothing ever came to fruition and I’ve never been sure if making a couple of million for daubing paint on a canvas that rich people were willing to pay for is particularly worthwhile either. Just because people go wild over something doesn’t always mean it’s any good. Some things are just like the emperor’s new clothes and as I get older I’m beginning to wonder if my art is one of those things.

  No matter how successful I become as an artist, I still don’t feel good enough. I still don’t feel worthy of you.

  So maybe your mother was right. Perhaps it’s best if you don’t know about me, that you don’t see what a mess I’ve made of everything. And perhaps it’s not up to me and your mother to decide anyway. Maybe one day you can make that decision for yourself.

  I hope you enjoy your birthday, my darling, wherever you are.

  Happy Birthday, Princess.

  Your Father

  Chapter 29

  We walk through the newly installed frosted glass doors of my father’s old studio into a space that is barely recognisable from the last time I was here. I can’t believe I haven’t been before now after all the work I’ve put into this studio. I can’t believe I didn’t just come and see it last week when it was ready. Everyone is right when they say I can be as stubborn as my mother. I need to work on that or I’m going to miss out on a lot of good things in life.

  ‘Darling, you really have done a fantastic job,’ my mother says, holding her arms up. ‘It looks amazing!’

  ‘I didn’t do it on my own.’

  ‘Maybe not, but the idea was yours and the idea is always the most important thing.’

  ‘The idea was in the letters…’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she interrupts. ‘Look here’s Frank.’

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ Frank says as he emerges from behind yet another stack of paintings. I’m still staggered at how prolific my father’s talent was. ‘How are you feeling, Julia? Edwin told me about the accident.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m still feeling pretty ropey,’ I reply. ‘But Mum thought it was about time I got involved in things again.’ I’m not for one moment going to admit that she might be right.

  ‘Edwin’s out the back somewhere. Shall I go and get him?’ Frank asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Mum says, before I’ve had a chance to answer. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  They stride off towards the back of the studio and I’m left alone. I sit down on a wooden stool and look around me. I can’t believe we’ve pulled it off.

  Four beautiful spaces have been created, just as we planned, with small anterooms coming off each space. There’s a mezzanine level as well with private rooms coming off it where people can work quietly on their own. The windows have been opened up and there’s a new skylight in the roof letting in lots of beautiful natural light and everything is painted white. It’s pretty much perfect and almost exactly how I imagined it. The only floor that this place deserves is pale wood.

  ‘Hello, you,’ Edwin says as he steps out of one of the back rooms. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a grubby white T-shirt that he’s clearly wiped his hands on. He looks beautiful. ‘It’s good to see you. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Well my head hurts like hell and I look like crap, but apparently I’ll live.’ I smile.

  ‘Good, I’m glad.’ He comes towards me but he doesn’t touch me or bend to kiss me. He doesn’t mention last night, about sitting with me until I fell asleep. ‘You don’t look like crap,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Pale wood floors,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Oak maybe, or pine. Can we afford that?’

  ‘We can afford that,’ he says with a grin. His smile lights up the whole room. My fingers ache for wanting to reach out and touch him but he’s not coming close enough. I don’t know where I stand.

  ‘I can’t
believe we did it!’ I say.

  ‘To be honest, neither can I.’

  ‘Really? I thought you always had faith!’

  ‘I had moments of doubt along the way. Would you like the tour? I’ve got something to show you.’

  He shows me around the different spaces and what they’ll be used for: painting, drawing, sculpture, photography. He tells me that the potter’s wheel and kiln are going to be installed later in the week and assures me the floor has been reinforced to accommodate them. He shows me the small rooms for storing equipment and cleaning paintbrushes and the room that could be used as a dark room for traditional photographers. He shows me the gallery that will be used to display my father’s paintings when we launch but, as time passes, will display the work of the new up-and-coming British artists.

  He talks to me about how much money we can put into it each year and what that will buy, about who can use it and who we can help, about setting up rehabilitation programmes for young offenders or people recovering from illness. And then he pauses outside a door leading off the mezzanine.

  ‘I’ve saved the best until last,’ he says, opening the door. ‘This room is for you.’

  The door opens onto a beautiful whitewashed room with one big window and a skylight. There are what appear to be clothes rails lining one wall and a set of built-in cupboards. Two dressmaker’s dummies sit in one corner and on the desk under the skylight is a state-of-the-art sewing machine. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘We’ll have to take everything out again to put the floors down,’ he says. ‘But I just wanted you to get the idea.’

  ‘This is fabulous!’ I say. It really is. I couldn’t have designed a better room for myself.

  ‘You can change anything you want.’

  ‘I don’t want to. It’s perfect. But why? Why did you do this?’

  ‘Julia, we both know this whole idea is about so much more than your father’s legacy. This is the new start that you wanted. The chance to take your talent out into the world.’