McCalliog and his hens (5)

“Milton Keynes?” 

“Yes, Milton Keynes.” 

“The McCalliog painting is in Milton Keynes?” 

“All of your mother’s furniture and fixings are stored in a lockup in Milton Keynes. Hopefully the McCalliog will be amongst them. I’ve not looked in years” 

“But why Milton Keynes, it’s no-where near where you live, or where our mother lived.” 

“It was the cheapest lockup facility I could find. It’s practically free. Are you going to pick it up?” 

“Yes, I’ll go.” 

“You’ll need to come here first, for the key. I’ll be at golf, but Tilly will give you everything you need.” 

I drove up to Tilly’s but didn’t go straight from there to the locker, as I arranged to drive to Milton Keynes the following day with Miss Armitage. 

“Milton Keynes?” she said. 

“It’s where their storage locker is apparently. Do you want to come with me. We can talk on the way, there are things I need to tell you. I’d like to know more about McCalliog.” 

“I'd love to,” she said. “There’s nothing in my diary I can’t cancel and this could prove to be the find of a lifetime.” 

On the drive to Milton Keynes I told her about my mother’s resemblance to the woman in ‘Woman With Swan’.  I showed her a photo of my mother, that Tilly had given me.

"It's her," she said. "Woman with Swan is your mother."

“Can you tell me where McCalliog lived,” I said. “I’m trying to piece together where and when they would have met.” 

“We think that Woman with Swan dates to around 1957 to 1960 If that helps."

“And where was McCalliog then?” 

“This was what I call his hen-finding period. He spent time in a number of towns, paiting the local breeds, Beverley, Consett, Castle Douglas, Preston, Hereford, King’s Lynn.” 

"King’s Lynn,” I said.  “My mother was in King’s Lynn.” 

“What was she doing in King’s Lynn.” 

“She was in service, she worked as a maid for a big family there.” 

“When was this?” 

“It would have been around 1959, then she met my father in Norwich, in 1961, and her world changed. I was born two years, later, 1963.” 

There was a window. A window of less than a year, when my mother and McCalliog were in the same town. But why did he paint her? Why did he gift her a painting of ducks, why were the only non-chicken paintings in all of McCalliogs. 

“I will go through my notes for the period, there may be something to connect them.” 

We approached Milton Keynes. 

“I’m excited,” Celia said. 

“Milton Keynes does that to people,” I said. We both laughed. 

“If this is genuine, it will change everything we know about McCalliog.  Two paintings that aren’t chickens, one of a swan and one of ducks, and both somehow connected to your mother.” 

“You’ll have to update your book.” 

“You’ll have to read my book.” 

“I’ve ordered a copy.” 

My sat nav took me to the lockup on the outskirts of town, meaning that we had to navigate the full twenty-roundabout-circuit. The key fitted and I opened the door. 

“Gosh, there’s barely space to move.” 

Miss Armitage wasn’t exaggerating, the entire storage space was crammed with furniture, boxes, and goodness what else, piled up towards the ceiling, with barely room to crawl around. 

“At least I have nothing in my diary,” I said. 

“You start on the left, I’ll start on the right. We’re looking for a painting, don’t get distracted, I realise that these are your mother’s things, but just look for a painting. That’s the only reason we here.” 

We worked methodically through the cramped lockup. Though it seemed overwhelming, it didn’t take long.  Less than fifteen minutes into the search I found a brown-paper-wrapped square the right size for a painting. 

“Found it,” I said.  

Miss Armitage stumbled across the lockup to join me, and together we carefully removed the cover, to reveal a pair of ducks staring back at us 

“It’s in good condition,” she said, relieved. 

“Is it genuine?” 

“Let’s get it outside, in the light.” 

We lifted the painting outside and where she studied it carefully. 

“The signature’s there, clear as day, McCalliog. At first inspection it looks perfectly genuine, you can tell from the brushwork, very unique. The colours are unconventional for mallards, brighter than you’d expect.” 

“Is that good?” 

“Who knows.  It certainly adds to the unique nature of the painting.” 

I thought this summary meant that she’d finished, but she continued to inspect the painting carefully. 

“I’ll lock up,” I said.  But I didn’t, as Celia had warned I got distracted by my mother’s things, and I was wandering around, treading through personal history when I came across them. 

I rushed straight to Celia. 

“There are more paintings,” I said. “About ten of them.”