McCalliog and his hens (6)

We took all ten paintings outside and unwrapped them carefully. 

The first painting was of a pair of squat, black waterfowl. 

“Moorhens,” I said.  “With their reflections on the water.” 

Celia pointed directly to the signature.  

“McCalliog.”  She scanned the picture carefully. 

“It looks authentic. And you’ve never seen this before?” 

“No, never. It must have been stored up the loft. There was a lot of junk up the loft.” 

“This isn’t junk.” 

“No.”  I did the sums in my head, at least £5 million. This wasn’t junk. 

We carefully unwrapped each of the paintings in turn.  Geese (Canada Geese), Great Egrets, House Sparrows, a flock of seagulls, a lone Barn Owl in flight, Reed Buntings, Pied Wagtails, a Curlew, a pair of Cormorants and an Emu.  

With the seventh painting, the wagtails, was a note, in a hand that resembled 

“You see silly,” it said. “I don’t just paint hens.” 

All ten of the paintings were in the familiar McCalliog style, and adorned with the same scribbly signature. 

“We need to get these to the auction house,” Celia said. “They’re valuable beyond words.” 

Tilly chose this moment to call. 

“Any joy?” she said. 

“Yes,” I said. “We found the painting. And ten others.  Do you know anything about them.” 

“No, though we cleared out the loft. There was a lot of junk there. These others, are they ...?” 

“They all look like McCalliogs, yes.” 

“So they’re worth ...?” 

“Untold millions, yes.” 

“Gosh,” she said. 

“I think ‘gosh’ is the right word.” 

“We’ll need to go back to the lockup,” Celia said. “Search for letters, try to find out more about their relationship.” 

“Relationship?” 

“You realise that Woman with Swan is the only solitary painting with a human form in any of McCalliog’s work?” she said. “It’s always been assumed that the woman in the painting wasn’t just a model, but someone significant in his life.” 

“You think she went out with McCalliog before she met my father?” 

“He must have been close, to have painted her, to have painted all of these for her.” 

 “He must have ended the affair for some reason.” 

“Or she did. He was a struggling artist at the time, not a great prospect for a husband.” 

“But his works are worth millions.” 

“They are now, but they were worth barely nothing during his lifetime, he struggled to sell any. And think about the note, she must have berated him for only painting chickens.” 

“So, he proved to her he didn’t just paint chickens.” 

“By painting other birds.” 

We both laughed.  

The paintings were authentic, all eleven of them, but my estimate of £5 million proved a ridiculous under-evaluation. As a set, a unique set of non-poultry McCalliogs, they wetted the desire of the two billionaire McCalliog collectors and there was a bidding war that would make spendthrift governments blush at the excess. 

Miss Armitage went through all of the documents taken from our mother’s house, but there was nothing else to connect her with McCalliog, no letters, no diaries, just eleven paintings.  

The final auction bid came in, £212 million. 

"I wonder what mother would think to find out McCalliog’s are worth some much now?” I said to Miss Armitage. 

“What would McCalliog think?  He was looked down on throughout his life, just the ‘chicken bloke’ was how the art establishment described him.  There were times he barely had money for paint and canvas.”