FROM THE ARCHIVES:Nell McCafferty described the wheeling and dealing at a horse fair in Buttevant in this piece. – JOE JOYCE
IN THE high heat of the day men in torn suits and busted shoes, who wouldn’t be allowed to loiter in a Dublin street, lingered over horse flesh and drew out great rolls of money from the deep pockets of their dingy trousers.
It took as much time to sell a Shetland pony for £100 as it did to sell a hunter for £1,000. In cash. I saw a half-hour pass on a price difference of £5, before 310 multi-coloured notes were counted out and handed over. The only sign of supermarket efficiency was in the wholesale distribution of chips which came briskly through a front parlour window at 20p a bag, no haggling and no vinegar either.
A buyer and seller couldn’t agree and a bulky man in shirt sleeves took it upon himself to mediate.
“Let each man state his case and the other man know it. Let ye give your word and not break it,” he admonished them, two friendly arms knotted around each of their necks.
A hundred and sixty for the cob, said the seller. A hundred and fifty, said the buyer.
The mediator started to strangle them. Produce your money, he said to the buyer. A fistful of cash was cautiously held out.
The seller shook his head. “Give me £10 off for luck,” said the buyer. No deal. The mediator announced that he had a plan. “Let ye come close and listen,” he tightened his neck lock.
We all came close. “He’ll give you £155 if ye give him back five for luck.”
“That’s only £150,” said the calculating seller. “It’s not,” said the mediator. “It’s £155, and you being decent are giving him back five.”
“I’ll give him one back for luck,” said the seller. “And another for a drink for me,” said the mediator.
“Done,” said the seller. He took £155, put in his right pocket and from his left pocket offered the buyer two single pound notes for luck.
The mediator wandered off satisfied. He mediated up and down the street for an hour and I asked him what was in it for him. “Yerra a girl. I’m the buyer and these men are fronting for me,” he boomed.
The beautiful little palomino with the soft blue eyes, destined for the front man’s children, would be in France as horse steak by Friday.
Its hide would go to Germany for leather. The tail and mane would go to Holland to make paint brushes. The brains and the pituitary glands would be exported for use in chemicals. The cheeks and tongue would go into animal food.
The hooves used to be deployed for glue, but that industry has gone synthetic. Not to worry. A bullet in the palomino would kill it quickly.
That particular deal was sealed when the front man made his mark on the animal by reaching to the ground, plunging his hand into manure, and slapping a fistful of shit on the animal’s rump.
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