To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (15 page)

The two brothers were brought together twice during the following year. The first was a sad occasion, when they attended their mother’s funeral. After the service was
over, they returned to Miriam’s home for tea, where Robin informed his brother that the Academy had accepted both his entries for the Summer Exhibition.

Three months later John travelled to London to attend the opening day. By the time he entered the hallowed portals of the Royal Academy for the first time, he had read a dozen art books, ranging
from the early Renaissance to Pop. He had visited every gallery in Birmingham, and couldn’t wait to explore the galleries in the back streets of Mayfair.

As he strolled around the spacious rooms of the Academy, John decided the time had come for him to invest in his first picture. Listen to the experts, but in the end trust your eye, Godfrey
Barker had written in the
Telegraph
. His eye told him Bernard Dunstan, while the experts were suggesting William Russell Flint. The eyes won, because Dunstan cost PS75, while the
cheapest Russell Flint was PS600.

John strode from room to room searching for the two oils by his brother, but without the aid of the Academy’s little blue book he would never have found them. They had been hung in the
middle gallery in the top row, nearly touching the ceiling. He noticed that neither of them had been sold.

After he had been round the exhibition twice and settled on the Dunstan, he went over to the sales counter and wrote out a deposit for the purchases he wanted. He checked his watch: it was a few
minutes before twelve, the hour at which he had agreed to meet his brother.

Robin kept him waiting for forty minutes, and then, without the suggestion of an apology, guided him around the exhibition for a third time. He dismissed both Dunstan and Russell Flint as
society painters, without giving a hint of who he did consider talented.

Robin couldn’t hide his disappointment when they came across his pictures in the middle gallery. ‘What chance do I have of selling either of them while they’re hidden up
there?’ he said in disgust. John tried to look sympathetic.

Over a late lunch, John took Robin through the implications of their mother’s will, as the family solicitors had failed to elicit any response to their several letters addressed to Mr
Robin Summers.

‘On principle, I never open anything in a brown envelope,’ explained Robin.

Well, at least that couldn’t be the reason Robin had failed to turn up to his wedding, John thought. Once again, he returned to the details of his mother’s will.

‘The bequests are fairly straightforward,’ he said. ‘She’s left everything to you, with the exception of one picture.’

‘Which one?’ Robin immediately asked.

‘The one you did of her when you were still at school.’

‘It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done,’ said Robin. ‘It must be worth at least PS50, and I’ve always assumed that she would leave it to
me.’

John wrote out a cheque for the sum of PS50. When he returned to Birmingham that night, he didn’t let Susan know how much he had paid for the two pictures. He placed the Dunstan of
Venice
in the drawing room above the fireplace, and the one of his mother in his study.

When their first child was born, John suggested that Robin might be one of the godparents.

‘Why?’ asked Susan. ‘He didn’t even bother to come to our wedding.’

John could not disagree with his wife’s reasoning, and although Robin was invited to the christening he neither responded nor turned up, despite the invitation being sent in a white
envelope.

It must have been about two years later that John received an invitation from the Crewe Gallery in Cork Street to Robin’s long-awaited one-man show. It actually turned out
to be a two-man show, and John certainly would have snapped up one of the works by the other artist, if he hadn’t felt it would offend his brother.

He did in fact settle on an oil he wanted, made a note of its number, and the following morning asked his secretary to call the gallery and reserve it in her name.

‘I’m afraid the Peter Blake you were after was sold on the opening night,’ she informed him.

He frowned. ‘Could you ask them how many of Robin Summers’s pictures have sold?’

The secretary repeated the question, and cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, told him, ‘Two.’

John frowned for a second time.

The following week, John had to return to London to represent his company at the Motor Show at Earls Court. He decided to drop into the Crewe Gallery to see how his brother was selling. No
change. Only two red dots on the wall, while Peter Blake was almost sold out.

John left the gallery disappointed on two counts, and headed back towards Piccadilly. He almost walked straight past her, but as soon as he noticed the delicate colour of her cheeks and her
graceful figure it was love at first sight. He stood staring at her, afraid she might turn out to be too expensive.

He stepped into the gallery to take a closer look. She was tiny, delicate and exquisite.

‘How much?’ he asked softly, staring at the woman seated behind the glass table.

‘The Vuillard?’ she enquired.

John nodded.

‘PS1,200.’

As if in a daydream, he removed his chequebook and wrote out a sum that he knew would empty his account.

The Vuillard was placed opposite the Dunstan, and thus began a love affair with several painted ladies from all over the world, although John never admitted to his wife how much these framed
mistresses were costing him.

Despite the occasional picture to be found hanging in obscure corners of the Summer Exhibition, Robin didn’t have another one-man show for several years. When it comes to
artists whose canvases remain unsold, dealers are unsympathetic to the suggestion that they could represent a sound investment because they might be recognised after they are dead - mainly
because by that time the gallery owners will also be dead.

When the invitation for Robin’s next one-man show finally appeared, John knew he had little choice but to attend the opening.

John had recently been involved in a management buy-out of Reynolds and Company. With car sales increasing every year during the seventies, so did the necessity to put wheels on them, which
allowed him to indulge in his new hobby as an amateur art collector. He had recently added Bonnard, Dufy, Camoin and Luce to his collection, still listening to the advice of experts, but in the end
trusting his eye.

John stepped out of the train at Euston and gave the cabby at the front of the queue the address he needed to be dropped at. The cabby scratched his head for a moment before setting off in the
direction of the East End.

When John stepped into the gallery, Robin rushed across to greet him with the words, ‘And here is someone who has never doubted my true worth.’ John smiled at his brother, who
offered him a glass of white wine.

John glanced around the little gallery, to observe knots of people who seemed more interested in gulping down mediocre wine than in taking any interest in mediocre pictures. When would his
brother learn that the last thing you need at an opening are other unknown artists accompanied by their hangers-on?

Robin took him by the arm and guided him from group to group, introducing him to people who couldn’t have afforded to buy one of the frames, let alone one of the canvases.

The longer the evening dragged on, the more sorry John began to feel for his brother, and on this occasion he happily fell into the dinner trap. He ended up entertaining twelve of Robin’s
companions, including the owner of the gallery, who John feared wouldn’t be getting much more out of the evening than a three-course meal.

‘Oh, no,’ he tried to assure John. ‘We’ve already sold a couple of pictures, and a lot of people have shown interest. The truth is that the critics have never fully
understood Robin’s work, as I’m sure no one is more aware than you.’

John looked on sadly as his brother’s friends added such comments as ‘never been properly recognised’, ‘unappreciated talent’, and ‘should have been elected
to the RA years ago’. At this suggestion Robin rose unsteadily to his feet and declared, ‘Never! I shall be like Henry Moore and David Hockney. When the invitation comes, I shall turn
them down.’ More cheering, followed by even more drinking of John’s wine.

When the clock chimed eleven, John made some excuse about an early-morning meeting. He offered his apologies, settled the bill and left for the Savoy. In the back seat of the taxi, he finally
accepted something he had long suspected: his brother simply didn’t have any talent.

It was to be some years before John heard from Robin again. It seemed that there were no London galleries who were willing to display his work, so he felt it was nothing less
than his duty to leave for the South of France and join up with a group of friends who were equally talented and equally misunderstood.

‘It will give me a new lease of life,’ he explained in a rare letter to his brother, ‘a chance to fulfil my true potential, which has been held up for far too long by the
pygmies of the London art establishment. And I wondered if you could possibly …’

John transferred PS5,000 to an account in Vence, to allow Robin to disappear to warmer climes.