To Cut a Long Story Short

‘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 suggeste

d 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.