McCalliog and his hens (1)

“I went into Meirson’s Antiques today,” my wife said one night, as we sat in bed, reading. 

“Oh yes,” I said distractedly. 

“He’s got a painting, one of McCalliog’s hens, £15,000 he’s asking.  A pair of Orpingtons.” 

“Well, if you have a spare £10,000 Meirson will let you have it.” 

“£15,000.” 

“Oh, you always need to haggle with Meirson, he always gives in.” 

“Your parents had a McCalliog painting, didn’t they?” 

“Yes, McCalliog’s ducks, it was the only picture in the house. It adorned the wall above our fireplace as long as I lived there.” 

“Where did it come from?” 

“It was a wedding present, apparently.” 

“Quite a valuable wedding present. Who was it from?” 

“I don’t know. It wasn’t considered valuable, I think there were a lot of them kicking around the village, he must have been a local artist.” 

“What happened to it?” 

“I’m not sure, actually. I assume Tilly took it, I was in my old flat when mother died, didn't have space for much. Tilly took everything bigger than a shoebox.” 

“You should let her know.  £15,000 is not to be sniffed at.” 

I continued to read my book in silence, while my wife played on her phone. 

“It says here, that McCalliog was from Lincoln,” she said eventually. “So not local to you at all.” 

“That’s strange,” I said. “I’d always assumed he was a local artist.” 

“And you don’t remember who the present was from?” 

“No,” I remembered, “Mother was always deflective about it. ‘Just someone from the village’ she used to say.” 

“Someone who gave her a £15,000 painting.” 

“I’m sure Meirson can be brought down to £10,000 if you push him.”  A statement which would prove to be extraordinarily wrong.