The Many Colours of Us: The perfect heart-warming debut about love and family

‘Edwin is Cedric’s son,’ Mum interrupted in a vague, spaced-out kind of way. ‘And Bruce died of course.’

‘Bruce who?’

‘Bruce Baldwin.’ After a long pause, in which I waited for her to elaborate she said, ‘I must go now, darling. I suppose I’ll see you on Monday. You have a key?’

‘Yes, Mum, but listen…’

‘Well, let yourself in.’

‘Mum?’ But she’d already gone.

So Edwin Jones telling me he’s known her since he was a child just didn’t add up.

I had asked Pen if the name Bruce Baldwin meant anything to her.

‘As in Bruce Baldwin the world-renowned artist?’ she replied.

‘I guess. I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Really, Julia, you can be such a philistine sometimes. He died a few months ago; his obituary was in the Times.’

‘Did you read it?’

‘I did actually. It’s quite a poor-boy-made-good story. He was born into a Yorkshire mining family, managed to get into grammar school where the art teacher discovered his talent and off he went to St Martin’s, although I suspect it was all a lot more difficult and arduous than I’ve just made it sound! Apparently, he spent years in and out of rehab before he was finally recognised in the art world. I should think the obituary is still online if you want it. Why anyway?’

‘Mum,’ I replied. ‘When I asked her about Edwin Jones and the inheritance she started going on about Edwin’s father and Bruce Baldwin. I can’t really see how it’s all connected.’

‘Well you know your mother, Julia, nothing if not vague. You’ll find out on Monday anyway.’

*

So here we are on Monday and Edwin Jones is looking at me across the table. Neither of us has spoken for several minutes.

He breaks the silence first. ‘Julia, are you OK? Can I get you anything?’

I shake my head. Edwin looks vaguely uncomfortable. He is still holding the folder of papers. I wonder what they say.

‘I never knew who my father was,’ I begin, although I suspect he knows this already. ‘My mother always claimed she had forgotten, which was rubbish of course but if you know my mother you know that sometimes it’s impossible to get anything out of her.’

Edwin smiles. That smile tells me he knows my mother well.

‘I think you probably need to tell me everything you know,’ I say.

He sighs, putting the folder down on the coffee table and leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Whatever he has to tell me, he really doesn’t want it to be his job. Finally, he looks at me, placing his hands on his knees. I realise I can’t look at him so I focus on his hands as he begins to tell me what can only be described as the story of me.

‘My father, Cedric Jones, dealt with your mother’s legal affairs when she arrived from New York in 1973,’ he tells me. ‘This firm worked closely with your mother’s agency so she wasn’t the only model on the books. It’s hard to believe that this stuffy old place was quite hip and bohemian in its time.’ He looks around at the endless wood panels, as though he would rather be anywhere else than here. He’s not the only one.

‘Here’s what I know,’ he says, as I keep looking at his hands. They are lovely hands, well looked after, big, slightly tanned. ‘Philadelphia Simmonds and Bruce Baldwin had an on-off relationship throughout the 70s and early 80s. You were born towards the end of that relationship and for whatever reason, shortly afterwards they went their separate ways. I know that your mother never told you about Mr Baldwin but I can tell you that they were certainly in contact throughout your life, although I don’t believe your father saw you very often.’

He pauses. His hands are going in and out of focus and I feel very hot again. I look up and use every ounce of energy to concentrate. I have a thousand questions but don’t have the energy to ask any of them.

‘As you may know, after you were born your mother lost some of her lucrative contracts…’

‘All of them apparently,’ I interrupt. ‘And don’t I know it.’

‘Yes, well…’ Edwin looks down at his own hands. Thank goodness they’re there or what would we have to focus on during these awkward moments. ‘In a nutshell, she ran out of money sometime in the early 90s. She remortgaged her house several times but by 1993 she was in serious financial difficulty. It was around that time that Mr Baldwin, your father, bought the house off her.’

I’m paying attention now. My mother hadn’t owned the house since I was ten? My father owned it? And she never thought to tell me? Because, of course, she’d ‘forgotten’ who my father was.

‘From that point on my father became Mr Baldwin’s lawyer too. Mr Baldwin set up his will not long after buying the house. In it he has left everything to you.’

‘Everything?’ I ask, not sure what everything entails.

‘A trust has been put to one side for your mother but otherwise, yes, everything. The house in Campden Hill Road, Bruce’s flat in Notting Hill, his studio in East London and, of course, his entire estate. Basically,’ he concludes, bringing the palms of his hands together, ‘you’re a very rich woman.’

I stand up and Edwin looks up at me. His eyes are very blue.

‘I think I need to go now,’ I say. I feel as though the wood panelling is going to close in on me if I don’t get out soon.

He stands up quickly, opening the door and ushering me through.

‘I completely understand this must come as a huge shock to you,’ he says as he leads me back down to reception. ‘There is still a lot we need to go through but perhaps you should go home and talk to your mother. We can meet tomorrow or later in the week if you prefer?’

‘Um…later in the week maybe,’ I reply.

‘Muriel will fix an appointment,’ he says, turning to the grey-haired woman at the reception desk. ‘How am I fixed for Friday?’ he asks her.

She books an appointment and Edwin Jones turns back to me, shakes my hand.

‘Until Friday,’ he says.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_f72456e6-f35c-570a-be97-eaa27426164a)

‘Mum, it’s me,’ I call as I let myself into my mother’s house on Campden Hill Road. Actually no. It’s my house now. I shake my head, unable to take it in.

No reply.

‘Mum,’ I shout up the stairs. Still nothing. I check the rooms of the ground floor and head down into the basement kitchen.

The note sits in the middle of the kitchen island. The island that is used for nothing other than making and drinking coffee or gin and tonic, depending on the time of day. I have never seen my mother cook.

Darling girl, had to pop to Manhattan for a few days. Enjoy yourself and see you another time, Love Mom xxx

Forty years in England and she still insists on spelling like an American. And who the hell ‘pops’ to Manhattan. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that she’s avoiding me now Edwin has told me everything he knows.

My relationship with my mother has been fractious for years, mainly due to her refusal to tell me who my father is. But despite this, every few months the umbilical pull back to West London is too strong to resist. I have long since lost count of the number of times I’ve made the journey from Cambridge to Kensington; train to Kings Cross, the fast one if I can get my times right and then the Circle line going west and south, looping through Baker Street and Bayswater, stations I’ve travelled through for half of my life but never got out at, until my stop, High Street Kensington.

There are probably quicker ways, but I love the Circle line. It was the first tube I ever remember travelling on and the first I ever travelled on alone. It’s as much my home as the streets of Kensington above and there’s something about its circuitous nature that appeals to me. There is no end of the line here, just a sensation of going around and around until you find what you are looking for. I’m probably the only person in London who has warm feelings about the Circle line. Most people find it as useful as a chocolate teapot.