Their cattle were safe in their pens but now other cattle were packed in among them so that they didn’t have space to move or lie. All the other pens were similarly filled and it was like a breathing sea of cattle under the steel girders and the lamps and the spluttering loudspeakers. A group of judges accompanied by a crowd moved along the pens reserved for the cattle competing for prizes in the different breeds. They paused and discussed and sometimes looked again before handing out the red and blue and yellow rosettes to a sudden sharp burst of clapping from the crowd. Then they moved on quickly to the next stall where the same process was repeated. The names of the winners in each section and the overall winner, the champion of Monaghan Day, were broadcast on the crackling, echoing loudspeakers to further applause, followed by a warning that the sale was commencing shortly. When the loudspeakers went dead, the lowing and bellowing and shouting, sliding of hooves, the clanging of gates resumed.
Jamesie entered both pens to quickly groom and freshen the appearance of his animals, but Ruttledge thought the grooming would have little effect. In his mind the cattle were already gone. The buyers were moving among the pens. They were easy to pick out, as they wore hats and ties and suits protected by cloth overcoats with large square pockets, and they wore the red cattlemen’s boots laced high. Some carried bamboo canes like military batons. The signs were good if they paused outside the pens, and even better if they prodded or felt the cattle, and better still if they noted down their numbers.
Jamesie and Ruttledge didn’t have to meet Patrick Ryan until the commencement of the sale and went to the restaurant and had mugs of tea at the counter. Some men who had come distances were already eating dinners or big sandwiches at the Formica-topped tables on the rough concrete floor. In the kitchen behind the counter, women with their hair gathered up in pink plastic hats were busy rushing about as they prepared the hundreds of meals they would be serving till late into the night. While they were at the counter another announcement that the sale was about to begin spluttered over the loudspeakers but not until they heard the unmistakable sound of the actual bidding did they leave for the ring. Patrick was already there. In a dark suit and white shirt and tie he looked more like one of the dealers than any of the farmers gathered around the ring.
“Patrick. You’re shining,” Jamesie held out his great hand.
“The two of yous are a sight for sore eyes,” he said with perfect poise in the middle of the jostling and pushing in the crush around the ring. “If you didn’t leave your manners behind today you’d be walked on.”
“We never had much in the first place,” Jamesie responded, delighted.
“Did ye get my poor steers in or did they take to the hedges?”
“In no time they’ll be coming under the hammer. They look so good we were nearly putting them in for the prizes,” Jamesie said.
“Would you like to see them, Patrick?” Ruttledge enquired. “The pen is nearhand.”
“I’ll see them soon enough,” he laughed agreeably.
The initial bidding was slow. The cattle entered the ring through a weighing cage, the hands of the scale swinging wildly around the big white face before settling on the number of kilos the animal weighed. The assistant to the auctioneer then chalked up the animal’s number and weight on the back of a board and then swung it round to face the ring. None of the first six cattle to enter the ring was sold. There was much of the actor in the auctioneer; he bantered and traded insults with the tanglers, to the amusement of the crowd packing the barriers and sitting in the high stand above the ring.
“This is a fucken disaster,” he shouted down.
Then, to further laughter and cheering, he rolled his sleeves up as if getting ready to fight. “We might as well all go home and go to bed,” he shouted, and the shouts and the answering jeers and laughter crackled and spluttered out from the loudspeakers.
“You’ll have a great time riding Molly,” was shouted back and cheered to the roof, while the auctioneer pretended to be shocked, which increased the cheering. “Nobody ever does the like of that in this part of the country,” he shouted nonchalantly back, which was received with wild hooting and cheering and wolf-whistles.
Suddenly, a dramatic hush fell. The big dealers were taking their places around the ring and on the steps of the stand. The banter ended. There was a deadly silence as the bids rose quickly: “Who’ll give me four hundred? — 420, 430, 440, 460, 70, 80. Who’ll give me five hundred? On my right—505, 510, 520, 510. All done,” the auctioneer leaned to the seller in the box below the auctioneer’s seat. They held a brief discussion. “Not enough. He wants a little more. Who’ll give me 520, 515, 510. I have to my left 510, any more, who’ll give me more?” The price didn’t advance, and he looked to the seller again, who nodded. “On the mart—510, 515, 520, 540, 550, 555, 65, 70, 75, 80, 580 pounds. All done. All done.” He looked round at all the bidders moving slowly from face to face. “Sold! Five hundred and eighty pounds!” bringing the hammer down.
Once started, the selling went very quickly. The auctioneer’s voice took on the incantation of prayer; it was the rhythm and repetition that indicated its simple purpose more than any words or numbers. After the first dozen or so sales, a murmur of approval went round the ring. The prices were good, more than good, and all the indications were that it was going to be a great Monaghan Day.
Jamesie’s face expressed his relief instantly but he was too tense to speak or rub his hands in satisfaction. Already Patrick Ryan had wandered away to another part of the ring and was talking with other people. Ruttledge and Jamesie decided to separate. Ruttledge was to go to the other ring and sell the heifers. They couldn’t risk staying together because they couldn’t be sure which would come on the market first. On his way between the rings he passed Father Conroy, who nodded recognition but did not pause or speak. Close to him was his old acolyte, the church sacristan, Jimmy Lynch. The priest had made no attempt at disguise and was wearing his white collar with old clerical clothes. He was absorbed and separate. There were many there who knew him but once they saw his face they turned aside. Care was needed passing between the rings, and a number of times Ruttledge had to climb on gates and the rungs of pens to avoid the rush of milling, frightened cattle being moved between the rings and the pens.
As soon as he reached the heifer ring, he saw from the chalked numbers that he hadn’t come too early, and he recognized his own cattle in one of the holding pens. They did not look distressed. By now, they were probably numbed. As their numbers drew close, the selling seemed to race. Ruttledge watched the big hands of the scale until it came to rest when the first animal entered the cage, and waited to see that it tallied with the number chalked on the board before entering the box. Through the little window he was able to look out at the buyers crowding round the ring and packing the stand. Like prayers, the bids were called out, and when they slowed to a stop the auctioneer leaned down. “What do you think yourself?” he found himself asking, despite the fact that he knew the auctioneer would not want to take responsibility. The auctioneer went round the ring again. The bids rose a little higher. The next time he looked his way he nodded vigorously to sell.
“On the mart — slowly.” The bidding rose quickly and when the auctioneer brought down the hammer, he turned towards the box and nodded his satisfaction with the price. What followed was over in an instant. He was being handed the sales’ slips and another man was taking his place in the box. At other marts he had seen old farmers leaving the box looking as dazed and befuddled as he felt. A man clapped him on the shoulder and brought a smiling, friendly face up close. “Those were great prices. They were nice cattle!”