To Cut a Long Story Short

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.’

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.’