To Cut a Long Story Short

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.

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 PS10,000 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.