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  ‘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