The Many Colours of Us: The perfect heart-warming debut about love and family. Rachel Burton
to two long pinstriped legs. Very long pinstriped legs. Someone who I can only presume to be Edwin Jones is smiling at me, his shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbows, his tie loosely knotted. He’s a lot younger than I imagined. And a lot more handsome.
‘Miss Simmonds,’ he says. I nod, unable to find my voice. He looks hot. In more ways than one.
‘Would you like to follow me?’
I stand up and realise how tall he is – a good five or six inches taller than me. I could have worn heels, I think, pointlessly. At 5’10” I rarely get the chance to wear heels without feeling slightly ridiculous. I follow him up a wide spiral staircase and along a wood-panelled corridor. He holds open the door to his office. His name is emblazoned on it in gold plate.
‘Take a seat, Miss Simmonds,’ he says as we walk in.
‘Julia, please,’ I say, finally finding my voice.
‘Julia,’ he repeats. He turns on a pedestal fan and opens his window a little wider. ‘Thank you for coming down from Cambridge to meet with me. I’m sorry if it’s inconvenienced you at all but this is a little…um…sensitive and I felt it should be done face to face.’
It’s unbelievably hot in here and I can feel the stray hairs at the nape of my neck getting damp. The walls are wood panelled like the corridor, making the room dark, and I can’t decide if that helps or hinders with the heat.
‘That’s OK.’ I smile, trying very hard not to show that it has inconvenienced me. ‘It’s less than an hour on the train.’
We both sit down on leather armchairs either side of a low coffee table, rather than at his overwhelming leather-topped desk. This whole room reminds me of a scene from a Dickens novel. It’s tremendously old-fashioned and nothing like the sleek chrome and glass air-conditioned office I work in.
He pours me a glass of iced water out of a jug on the table and asks if I want any tea or coffee. I shake my head. I just want to get on with things now.
He picks up a folder of papers and looks at me. He really is quite beautiful. It’s so hot in here that I feel a bit odd, a little light-headed. I can’t quite catch my breath. I take a big gulp of water and I remind myself I’m here to inherit some horrible artefact and then I’ll never see these offices or Edwin Jones again.
‘You look exactly like your mother,’ he says, still looking at me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying that.’
I shrug. ‘No, everybody comments on it.’
‘I’ve known her a long time,’ he goes on, ‘since I was a child actually. My father was her lawyer originally but he retired a few years ago. Her numerous papers have been handed to me.’ He pauses again. I wonder why Mum didn’t say anything if he’s known her for years as he claims. This is all very odd.
Just as I think I’m going to have to fill the silence with something inane he begins to speak.
‘The truth is, Miss Simmonds…um…Julia, I don’t really know where to start with this. I asked Philadelphia to tell you herself but she insisted I do it.’
‘Typical,’ I say.
‘Does the name Bruce Baldwin mean anything to you?’
I stare at him, slightly taken aback. ‘Up until last week I’d never heard of him,’ I say, ‘but over the last few days I’ve heard his name several times. He died earlier in the year I’m told.’
He pauses again. I watch him take a breath. He looks as though he is about to apologise for something but stops himself.
‘Bruce Baldwin was your father.’
*
When I first received an email from Edwin Jones telling me I was the benefactor of an inheritance, I imagined the worst. My mother’s friends have been dropping like flies recently, the hedonistic 70s finally catching up with them, and they do like to remember ‘little Julia’ in their wills. The worst inheritance so far has been an elephant’s foot umbrella stand that turned out to have been made from an actual elephant’s foot. My housemate, Pen, made me sell it on eBay. It wasn’t worth as much as we’d hoped.
I had phoned my mother about it, of course. She always seems mildly surprised when I call.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, fine, dear,’ she replied. She always says this, whether she’s fine or not.
‘Look, Mum, I was thinking of coming down to London to see you next week. Monday afternoon maybe?’ I was testing the waters. I was never sure if she liked having me around or not.
‘The big smoke calling you back already?’ she asked. She knows I can never stay away for very long.
‘Well a solicitor called actually,’ I replied. ‘Does the name Edwin Jones mean anything to you? Or a firm called Jones & Cartwright?’
My mother was suddenly uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Mum?’
‘Um…it may ring a bell,’ she finally admitted.
‘Well this Edwin Jones says I’ve inherited something and I just wanted to check…’
‘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