To Cut a Long Story Short (2000)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘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 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’.

  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.’

  ‘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.