The New Collected Short Stories (14 page)

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.

‘£1,200.’

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.

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 £5,000 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 £10,000 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.

He retired to bed around eleven, and fell asleep thinking about Bonnard, Vuillard, Dufy, Camoin and Luce, and what twenty-one such masterpieces might be worth.

He was still sound asleep at ten o’clock the following morning, when there was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he mumbled irritably from under the blanket.

‘George, the hall porter, sir. There’s a van outside. The driver says he can’t release the goods until you’ve signed for them.’

‘Don’t let him go!’ shouted Robin. He leapt out of bed for the first time in years, threw on his old shirt, trousers and shoes, and bolted down the stairs and out into the
courtyard.

A man in blue overalls, clipboard in hand, was leaning against a large van.

Robin marched towards him. ‘Are you the gentleman who’s expecting a delivery of twenty-one paintings?’ the van driver asked.

‘That’s me,’ said Robin. ‘Where do I sign?’

‘Right there,’ said the van driver, placing his thumb below the word ‘Signature’.

Robin scribbled his name quickly across the form and then followed the driver to the back of the van. He unlocked the doors and pulled them open.

Robin was speechless.

He stared at a portrait of his mother, that was stacked on top of twenty other pictures by Robin Summers, painted
circa
1951 to 1999.

T
HERE IS A MAN
from Cape Town who travels to the black township of Crossroads every day. He spends the morning teaching English at one of the local
schools, the afternoon coaching rugby or cricket according to the season, and his evenings roaming the streets trying to convince the young that they shouldn’t form gangs or commit crimes,
and that they should have nothing to do with drugs. He is known as the Crossroads Convert.

No one is born with prejudice in their hearts, although some people are introduced to it at an early age. This was certainly true of Stoffel van den Berg. Stoffel was born in Cape Town, and
never once in his life travelled abroad. His ancestors had emigrated from Holland in the eighteenth century, and Stoffel grew up accustomed to having black servants who were there to carry out his
slightest whim.

If the boys – none of the servants appeared to be graced with a name, whatever their age – didn’t obey Stoffel’s orders, they were soundly beaten or simply not fed. If
they carried out a job well, they weren’t thanked, and were certainly never praised. Why bother to thank someone who has only been put on earth to serve you?

When Stoffel attended his first primary school in the Cape this unthinking prejudice was simply reinforced, with classrooms full of white children being taught only by white teachers. The few
blacks he ever came across at school were cleaning lavatories that they would never be allowed to use themselves.

During his school days Stoffel proved to be above average in the classroom, excelling in maths, but in a class of his own on the playing field.

By the time Stoffel was in his final year of school, this six-foot-two-inch, fair-haired Boer was playing fly half for the 1st XV in the winter and opening the batting for the 1st XI during the
summer. There was already talk of him playing either rugby or cricket for the Springboks even before he had applied for a place at any university. Several college scouts visited the school in his
final year to offer him scholarships, and on the advice of his headmaster, supported by his father, he settled on Stellenbosch.

Stoffel’s unerring progress continued from the moment he arrived on the campus. In his freshman year he was selected to open the batting for the university eleven when one of the regular
openers was injured. He didn’t miss a match for the rest of the season. Two years later, he captained an undefeated varsity side, and went on to score a century for Western Province against
Natal.

On leaving university, Stoffel was recruited by Barclays Bank to join their public relations department, although it was made clear to him at the interview that his first priority was to ensure
that Barclays won the Inter-Bank Cricket Cup.

He had been with the bank for only a few weeks when the Springbok selectors wrote to inform him that he was being considered for the South African cricket squad which was preparing for the
forthcoming tour by England. The bank was delighted, and told him he could take as much time off as he needed to prepare for the national side. He dreamed of scoring a century at Newlands, and
perhaps one day even at Lord’s.

He followed with interest the Ashes series that was taking place in England. He had only read about players like Underwood and Snow, but their reputations did not worry him. Stoffel intended to
despatch their bowling to every boundary in the country.

The South African papers were also following the Ashes series with keen interest, because they wanted to keep their readers informed of the strengths and weaknesses of the opposition their team
would be facing in a few weeks’ time. Then, overnight, these stories were transferred from the back pages to the front, when England selected an all-rounder who played for Worcester called
Basil D’Oliveira. Mr D’Oliveira, as the press called him, made the front pages because he was what the South Africans classified as ‘Cape Coloured’. Because he had not been
allowed to play first-class cricket in his native South Africa, he had emigrated to England.