RANDOM 5/11/05

Henley-in-Arden Horse Market – where the smaller lots stand waiting auction, the Romany men are doing spit and shake deals; three or four of them in dark coats talking fast to each other, heavy accents, an Irishmen in there among them. They circle each other as they barter, negotiating fast, aware that what they are doing needs to be done quickly, frowned upon. They are feverish – one holds out his hand to shake, whilst the other (Brylcream, long coat, curly dark hair, ruddy face and jowls) turns this way and that against closing the deal. The two onlookers shake their heads and purse their lips but quietly let the thing take its course. A latent sense of anger here, mistrust maybe. As if the man offering a price is paying back for some previous misdemeanour, or his price insults the seller again. Honour is at stake. The beast they are bargaining over is a small, natty ‘ride and drive’ pony harnessed to a two-seat carriage. She stands idly, one of the onlookers holding her reins, dips her head occasionally. Behind them is another that they are seemingly less interested in, not dissimilar to the first, this one bucks a little and chides at his tether. Eventually, amid sideways glances and some coarse shouts the deal is done and the men disperse into the crowds leading the horses quickly away.
The auction ring, for official sales, is a corrugated iron hut – inside the air is damp and heavy, a thick smell of hay and manure – bidders faces carved out by the wind and rain, soiled hair, leather cheeked, some old and bent out of shape like moorland ash, with walking sticks and thick green coats – they stand close to the pen where each lot is brought in and paraded for view, the bidding begins – the auctioneer is a portly man with a splash of wiry ginger hair and a head-piece microphone into which he chatters and plays out the bids, a constant reel of numbers and sale gab: “fine horse fine horse, one hundred, look at her move there one hundred gents, twenty twenty, one twenty, fifty fifty, one fifty; look at that, at that look at that, quiet as the driven snow; over here two hundred, with you with you at two hundred, fine horse easy rider, over here at two twenty two twenty I’m selling, two twenty two twenty” and bash with the mallet, all done in two minutes. This repeats throughout the morning and into the early afternoon; a mixture of different horses of all ages and breeds and sizes. The bidders themselves are almost invisible, a hidden code of nods and winks and tics that only the auctioneer is party to and familiar with keeps the day moving. I try to work out who might actually be buying, but it is almost impossible – I am supposing regular faces on the other side of the ring, dark eyed men looking thoughtful, their brows buried under wide brimmed hats, with the smallest of gestures possibly the only giveaway of their interest and will to part with cash.
After a number of small and fairly average sales, a proud and beautiful 9 year old bay mare is brought in. Massive; she towers above the ring at sixteen two. Highly intelligent; her ears and eyes pricking constantly, the long head with a solid spot of white between her brows always on the move. There is a serious change of atmosphere in there, backs prickle, the men in peaked caps who have spent most of the time at the rear of the hut come close, even if they don’t want to bid they want a better look at the awesome creature now present, to appreciate her. The bidding here starts at five hundred but rapidly flies to over a grand, selling at £1480 to a rather non-descript middle aged couple with RP accents.
Outside, at the mouth of the auction ring, where the horses are trotted in for sale, there is a constant hubbub – sellers, owners, observers, cheaters, workers, kids all gazing in or chatting, keeping an eye. Here the faces tell more than the place alone – capped men in long coats linger right at the entrance, turning and talking in rapid whispers to each other, furtive and on the make somehow - wild-boy country gangsters who hawk wads of cash between their palms as if they are making separate deals on those made in the ring, double bidding? Then there are the gypsies and the Romanies stood in family groups with their curly haired elders and tradesmen, their skinhead adolescents and wiry pony tailed brothers, their kids and wives stood by or playing with or running off through the pens with plastic toys and beef slabs to chew. And the real old Worcestershire men, generation after generation of farmers living and working the same land for fifty years or more as their dads before them etc. They stand in the mass of folk like solid old oak trees, not moving or moved by the sway of bidding, they observe and take note, nodding to each other occasionally as if transmitting some psychic message of knowledge or proving prophecies correct. Bent and twisted, propped on walking sticks with a drop of snot hanging and bright red weather-beaten cheeks. They appear to come from elsewhere, another time, never changed.
The ‘tat’ auction in another hut, an old pig or sheep pen – all kinds of items on sale: leather harnesses, old saddles, boots, brass, wax. The auctioneer here stands on a bench and bangs a metal pole with a tiny mallet when the sales are made – this is brief and low key compared to the main sales in the horse ring. The auctioneer here is thin and lanky, looking somewhat bored and uninspired. I wonder where these men come from, how they learn their trade and quick gab, where they live. I presume there must be some familial handover from each generation, trained to talk fast yet clear from a babe in arms? This one gibbers and his voice echoes in his awkward body, he twitches and taps on his feet lightly, long pale blue smock and trousers tucked into his socks, an air of the Steptoe (or in his case step toe shuffle form foot to foot).