To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (16 page)

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.

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.

The press in both countries began to speculate on the South African government’s attitude should D’Oliveira be selected by the MCC as a member of the touring side to visit South
Africa.

‘If the English were stupid enough to select him,’ Stoffel told his friends at the bank, ‘the tour would have to be cancelled.’ After all, he couldn’t be expected
to play against a coloured man.

The South Africans’ best hope was that Mr D’Oliveira would fail in the final Test at The Oval, and would not be considered for the coming tour, and thus the problem would simply go
away.

D’Oliveira duly obliged in the first innings, scoring only eleven runs and taking no Australian wickets. But in the second innings he played a major role in winning the match and squaring
the series, scoring a chanceless 158. Even so, he was controversially left out of the touring team for South Africa. But when another player pulled out because of injury, he was selected as his
replacement.

The South African government immediately made their position clear: only white players would be welcome in their land. Robust diplomatic exchanges took place over the following weeks, but as the
MCC refused to remove D’Oliveira from the party the tour had to be cancelled. It was not until after Nelson Mandela became President in 1994 that an official English team once again set foot
in South Africa.

Stoffel was shattered by the decision, and although he played regularly for Western Province and ensured that Barclays retained the Inter-Bank Cup, he doubted if he would ever be awarded a Test
cap.

But, despite his disappointment, Stoffel remained in no doubt that the government had made the right decision. After all, why should the English imagine they could dictate who should visit South
Africa?

It was while he was playing against Transvaal that he met Inga. Not only was she the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on, but she also fully agreed with his sound views on the
superiority of the white race. They were married a year later.