To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (14 page)

John Summers travelled back to Peterborough to attend his brother’s first one-man show. His mother would never have forgiven him had he failed to put in an appearance. He
had just learned the result of his Business Management examinations. He had been awarded a 2.1 degree, which wasn’t bad considering he had been Vice President of the student union, with a
President who had rarely made an appearance once he’d been elected. He wouldn’t tell Mother about his degree, as it was Robin’s special day.

After years of being told by his mother what a brilliant artist his brother was, John had come to assume it would not be long before the rest of the world acknowledged the fact. He often
reflected about how different the two of them were; but then, did people know how many brothers Picasso had? No doubt one of them went into business.

It took John some time to find the little back street where the gallery was located, but when he did he was pleased to discover it packed with friends and wellwishers. Robin was standing next to
his mother, who was suggesting the words ‘magnificent’, ‘outstanding’, ‘truly talented’ and even ‘genius’ to a reporter from the
Peterborough
Echo.

‘Oh, look, John has arrived,’ she said, leaving her little coterie for a moment to acknowledge her other son.

John kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘Robin couldn’t have a better send-off to his career.’

‘Yes, I’m bound to agree with you,’ his mother concurred. ‘And I’m sure it won’t be long before you can bask in his glory. You’ll be able to tell
everyone that you’re Robin Summers’s elder brother.’

Mrs Summers left John to have another photograph taken with Robin, which gave him the opportunity to stroll around the room and study his brother’s canvases. They consisted mainly of the
portfolio he had put together during his last year at school. John, who readily confessed his ignorance when it came to art, felt it must be his own inadequacy that caused him not to appreciate his
brother’s obvious talent, and he felt guilty that they weren’t the kind of pictures he would want to see hanging in his home. He stopped in front of a portrait of his mother, which had
a red dot next to it to indicate that it had been sold. He smiled, confident that he knew who had bought it.

‘Don’t you think it captures the very essence of her soul?’ said a voice from behind him.

‘It certainly does,’ said John, as he swung round to face his brother. ‘Well done. I’m proud of you.’

‘One of the things I most admire about you,’ said Robin, ‘is that you have never envied my talent.’

‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘I delight in it.’

‘Then let’s hope that some of my success rubs off on you, in whatever profession you should decide to follow.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said John, not sure what else he could say.

Robin leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t suppose you could lend me a pound? I’ll pay it back, of course.’

‘Of course.’

John smiled - at least some things never changed. It had begun years earlier, with sixpence in the playground, and had ended up with a ten-shilling note on Speech Day. Now he needed a
pound. Of only one thing could John be certain: Robin would never return a penny. Not that John begrudged his younger brother the money. After all, it wouldn’t be long before their roles
would surely be reversed. John removed his wallet, which contained two pound-notes and his train ticket back to Manchester. He extracted one of the notes and handed it over to Robin.

John was going to ask him a question about another picture - an oil called
Barabbas in Hell
- but his brother had already turned on his heel and rejoined his mother and the
adoring entourage.

When John left Manchester University he was immediately offered a job as a trainee with Reynolds and Company, by which time Robin had taken up residence in Chelsea. He had moved
into a set of rooms which his mother described to Miriam as small, but certainly in the most fashionable part of town. She didn’t add that he was having to share them with five other
students.

‘And John?’ enquired Miriam.

‘He’s joined a company in Birmingham that makes wheels; or at least I think that’s what they do,’ she said.

John settled into digs on the outskirts of Solihull, in a very unfashionable part of town. They were conveniently situated, close to a factory that expected him to clock in by eight
o’clock from Monday to Saturday while he was still a trainee.

John didn’t bore his mother with the details of what Reynolds and Company did, as manufacturing wheels for the nearby Longbridge car plant didn’t have quite the same cachet as being
an
avant garde
artist residing in bohemian Chelsea.

Although John saw little of his brother during Robin’s days at the Slade, he always travelled down to London to view the end-of-term shows.

In their freshman year, students were invited to exhibit two of their works, and John admitted - only to himself - that when it came to his brother’s efforts, he didn’t
care for either of them. But then, he accepted that he had no real knowledge of art. When the critics seemed to agree with John’s judgement, their mother explained it away as Robin being
ahead of his time, and assured him that it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the world came to the same conclusion. She also pointed out that both pictures had been sold on the opening day,
and suggested that they had been snapped up by a well-known collector who knew a rising talent when he saw one.

John didn’t get the chance to engage in a long conversation with his brother, as he seemed preoccupied with his own set, but he did return to Birmingham that night with PS2 less in
his wallet than he’d arrived with.

At the end of his second year, Robin showed two new pictures at the end-of-term show -
Knife and Fork in Space
and
Death Pangs
. John stood a few paces away from the canvases,
relieved to find from the expressions on the faces of those who stopped to study his brother’s work that they were left equally puzzled, not least by the sight of two red dots that had been
there since the opening day.

He found his mother seated in a corner of the room, explaining to Miriam why Robin hadn’t won the second-year prize. Although her enthusiasm for Robin’s work had not dimmed, John
felt she looked frailer than when he had last seen her.

‘How are you getting on, John?’ asked Miriam when she looked up to see her nephew standing there.

‘I’ve been made a trainee manager, Aunt Miriam,’ he replied, as Robin came across to join them.

‘Why don’t you join us for dinner?’ suggested Robin. ‘It will give you a chance to meet some of my friends.’ John was touched by the invitation, until the bill for
all seven of them was placed in front of him.

‘It won’t be long before I can afford to take you to the Ritz,’ Robin declared after a sixth bottle of wine had been consumed.

Sitting in a third-class compartment on the journey back to Birmingham New Street, John was thankful that he had purchased a return ticket, because after he had loaned his brother PS5 his
wallet was empty.

John didn’t return to London again until Robin’s graduation. His mother had written insisting that he attend, as all the prizewinners would be announced, and she had heard a rumour
that Robin would be among them.

When John arrived at the exhibition it was already in full swing. He walked slowly round the hall, stopping to admire some of the canvases. He spent a considerable time studying Robin’s
latest efforts. There was no plaque to suggest that he had won any of the star prizes - in fact he wasn’t even ‘specially commended’. But, perhaps more importantly, on this
occasion there were no red dots. It served to remind John that his mother’s monthly allowance was no longer keeping up with inflation.

‘The judges have their favourites,’ his mother explained, as she sat alone in a corner looking even frailer than she had when he last saw her. John nodded, feeling that this was not
the time to let her know that the company had given him another promotion.

‘Turner never won any prizes when he was a student,’ was his mother’s only other comment on the subject.

‘So what does Robin plan to do next?’ asked John.

‘He’s moving into a studio flat in Pimlico, so he can remain with his set - most essential when you’re still making your name.’ John didn’t need to ask who
would be paying the rent while Robin was ‘still making his name’.

When Robin invited John to join them for dinner, he made some excuse about having to get back to Birmingham. The hangers-on looked disappointed, until John extracted a PS10 note from his
wallet.

Once Robin had left college, the two brothers rarely met.

It was some five years later, when John had been invited to address a CBI conference in London on the problems facing the car industry, that he decided to make a surprise visit
to his brother and invite him out to dinner.

When the conference closed, John took a taxi over to Pimlico, suddenly feeling uneasy about the fact that he had not warned Robin he might drop by.

As he climbed the stairs to the top floor, he began to feel even more apprehensive. He pressed the bell, and when the door was eventually opened it was a few moments before he realised that the
man standing in front of him was his brother. He could not believe the transformation after only five years.

Robin’s hair had turned grey. There were bags under his eyes, his skin was puffy and blotched, and he must have put on at least three stone.

John,’ he said. ‘What a surprise. I had no idea you were in town. Do come in.’

What hit John as he entered the flat was the smell. At first he wondered if it could be paint, but as he looked around he noticed that the half-finished canvases were outnumbered by the empty
wine bottles.

‘Are you preparing for an exhibition?’ asked John as he stared down at one of the unfinished works.

‘No, nothing like that at the moment,’ said Robin. ‘Lots of interest, of course, but nothing definite. You know what London dealers are like.’

‘To be honest, I don’t,’ said John.

‘Well, you have to be either fashionable or newsworthy before they’ll consider offering you wall space. Did you know that Van Gogh never sold a picture in his lifetime?’

Over dinner in a nearby restaurant John learned a little more about the vagaries of the art world, and what some of the critics thought of Robin’s work. He was pleased to discover that his
brother had not lost any of his self-confidence, or his belief that it was only a matter of time before he would be recognised.

Robin’s monologue continued throughout the entire meal, and it wasn’t until they were back at his flat that John had a chance to mention that he had fallen in love with a girl named
Susan, and was about to get married. Robin certainly hadn’t enquired about his progress at Reynolds and Co., where he was now the deputy managing director.

Before John left for the station, he settled Robin’s bills for several unpaid meals and also slipped his brother a cheque for PS100, which neither of them bothered to suggest was a
loan. Robin’s parting words as John stepped into the taxi were, ‘I’ve just submitted two paintings for the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy, which I’m confident will
be accepted by the hanging committee, in which case you must come up for the opening day.’

At Euston, John popped into Menzies to buy an evening paper, and noticed on the top of the remainders pile a book entitled
An Introduction to the World of Art from Fra Angelico to
Picasso.
As the train pulled out of the station he opened the first page, and by the time he had reached Caravaggio it was pulling into New Street, Birmingham.

He heard a tap at the window and saw Susan smiling up at him.

‘That must have been some book,’ she said, as they walked down the platform arm in arm.

‘It certainly was. I only hope I can get my hands on Volume II.’