McCalliog and his hens (2)

The next day my wife went into town to meet a friend for coffee while I pottered in the garden. She rang me mid-tulip sounding breathless with excitement. 

“There’s a right kerfuffle at Meirson’s Antiques,” she said.  

“At Meirson’s!” I said, incredulous. Meirson’s was the least kerfufflesome store I had ever encountered. 

“It’s the painting. The McCalliog.” 

“What’s happened, have the hens come to life?” 

“No, he’s put the price up.” 

“The price?” 

“Of the McCalliog.” 

“What is it now, £20,000?” 

“No, half a million.” 

“Half a million pounds?”  

“Yes. Apparently that’s what they’re selling for now. There was one sold at auction last week for $700,000 dollars.” 

“Good lord.” 

“You’ll have to ring Tilly and let her know. If she’s still got the duck painting, well, just think what she could do with that money.” 

“Yes,” I said. “Give some of it to us I hope.”