To Cut a Long Story Short

Chalk and Cheese

‘Such a talented child,’ said Robin’s mother, as she poured her sister another cup of tea. ‘The headmaster said on speech day that the school hadn’t produced a finer artist in living memory.’

‘You must be so proud of him,’ said Miriam, before sipping her tea.

‘Yes, I confess I am,’ admitted Mrs Summers, almost purring. ‘Of course, although everyone knew he would win the Founder’s Prize, even his art master was surprised when he was offered a place at the Slade before he had sat his entrance exam. It’s only sad that his father didn’t live long enough to enjoy his triumph.’

‘And how’s John getting on?’ enquired Miriam, as she selected a jam tart.

Mrs Summers sighed as she considered her older son. ‘John will finish his Business Management course at Manchester some time in the summer, but he doesn’t seem able to make up his mind what he wants to do.’ She paused as she dropped another lump of sugar in her tea. ‘Heaven knows what will become of him. He talks about going into business.’

‘He always worked so hard at school,’ said Miriam.

‘Yes, but he never quite managed to come top of anything, and he certainly didn’t leave with any prizes. Did I tell you that Robin has been offered the chance of a one-man show in October? It’s only a local gallery, of course, but as he pointed out, every artist has to start somewhere.’

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 £2 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 £5 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 £10 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 £100, 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.’

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 £75, while the cheapest Russell Flint was £600.

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 £50, and I’ve always assumed that she would leave it to me.’

John wrote out a cheque for the sum of £50. 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.

‘£1,200.’

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 £5,000 to an account in Vence, to allow Robin to disappear to warmer climes.

The takeover bid for Reynolds and Co. came out of the blue, although John had always accepted that they were an obvious target for any Japanese car company trying to gain a foothold in Europe. But even he was surprised when their biggest rivals in Germany put in a counter-bid.

He watched as the value of his shares climbed each day, and not until Honda finally outbid Mercedes did he accept that he would have to make a decision. He opted to cash in his shares and leave the company. He told Susan that he wanted to take a trip around the world, visiting only those cities that boasted great art galleries. First stop the Louvre, followed by the Prado, then the Uffizi, the Hermitage in St Petersburg, and finally on to New York, leaving the Japanese to put wheels on cars.

John wasn’t surprised to receive a letter from Robin with a French postmark, congratulating him on his good fortune and wishing him every success in his retirement, while pointing out that he himself had been left with no choice but to battle on until the critics finally came to their senses.

John transferred another £10,000 to the account in Vence.

John had his first heart attack in New York while admiring a Bellini at the Frick.

He told Susan that night as she sat by his bedside that he was thankful they had already visited the Metropolitan and the Whitney.

The second heart attack came soon after they had arrived back in Warwickshire. Susan felt obliged to write to Robin in the South of France and warn him that the doctors’ prognosis was not encouraging.

Robin didn’t reply. His brother died three weeks later.

The funeral was well attended by John’s friends and colleagues, but few of them recognised the heavily built man who demanded to be seated in the front row. Susan and the children knew exactly why he had turned up, and it wasn’t to pay his respects.

‘He promised I would be taken care of in his will,’ Robin told the grieving widow only moments after they had left the graveside. He later sought out the two boys in order to deliver the same message, though he had had little contact with them during the past thirty years. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘your dad was one of the few people who understood my true worth.’

Over tea back at the house, while others consoled the widow, Robin strolled from room to room, studying the pictures his brother had collected over the years. ‘A shrewd investment,’ he assured the local vicar, ‘even if they do lack originality or passion.’ The vicar nodded politely.

When Robin was introduced to the family solicitor, he immediately asked, ‘When are you expecting to announce the details of the will?’

‘I have not yet discussed with Mrs Summers the arrangements for when the will should be read. However, I anticipate it being towards the end of next week.’

Robin booked himself into the local pub, and rang the solicitor’s office every morning until he confirmed that he would be divulging the contents of the will at three o’clock on the following Thursday.

Robin appeared at the solicitor’s offices a few minutes before three that afternoon, the first time he had been early for an appointment in years. Susan arrived shortly afterwards, accompanied by the boys, and they took their seats on the other side of the room without acknowledging him.

Although the bulk of John Summers’s estate had been left to his wife and the two boys, he had made a special bequest to his brother Robin.

‘During my lifetime I was fortunate enough to put together a collection of paintings, some of which are now of considerable value. At the last count, there were eighty-one in all. My wife Susan may select twenty of her choice, my two boys Nick and Chris may then also select twenty each, while my younger brother Robin is to be given the remaining twenty-one, which should allow him to live in a style worthy of his talent.’

Robin beamed with satisfaction. His brother had gone to his deathbed never doubting his true worth.

When the solicitor had completed the reading of the will, Susan rose from her place and walked across the room to speak to Robin.

‘We will choose the pictures we wish to keep in the family, and having done so, I will have the remaining twenty-one sent over to you at the Bell and Duck.’

She turned and left before Robin had a chance to reply. Silly woman, he thought. So unlike his brother — she wouldn’t recognise real talent if it were standing in front of her.

Over dinner at the Bell and Duck that evening, Robin began to make plans as to how he would spend his new-found wealth. By the time he had consumed the hostelry’s finest bottle of claret, he had made the decision that he would limit himself to placing one picture with Sotheby’s and one with Christie’s every six months, which would allow him to live in a style worthy of his talent, to quote his brother’s exact words.

He retired to bed around eleven, and fell asleep thinking about Bonnard, Vuillard, Dufy, Camoin and Luce, and what twenty-one such masterpieces might be worth.

He was still sound asleep at ten o’clock the following morning, when there was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he mumbled irritably from under the blanket.

‘George, the hall porter, sir. There’s a van outside. The driver says he can’t release the goods until you’ve signed for them.’

‘Don’t let him go!’ shouted Robin. He leapt out of bed for the first time in years, threw on his old shirt, trousers and shoes, and bolted down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

A man in blue overalls, clipboard in hand, was leaning against a large van.

Robin marched towards him. ‘Are you the gentleman who’s expecting a delivery of twenty-one paintings?’ the van driver asked.

‘That’s me,’ said Robin. ‘Where do I sign?’

‘Right there,’ said the van driver, placing his thumb below the word ‘Signature’.

Robin scribbled his name quickly across the form and then followed the driver to the back of the van. He unlocked the doors and pulled them open.

Robin was speechless.

He stared at a portrait of his mother, that was stacked on top of twenty other pictures by Robin Summers, painted circa 1951 to 1999.