‘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 P
S5 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’.