The farmer said, ‘Well, what can I do for ye?’
‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘we’re looking for a bit job o shawin turnips.’
‘Oh yeah, oh that I’m needin. Can you shaw turnips?’
‘Oh aye.’
‘Where are you stayin?’
‘We’re staying up in the tents in the Hoolet’s Neuk and some o wir friends is workin tae the farmer there and there no enough work for everybody, so we’re huntin for a bit job of wir own.’
‘Oh yes. Have you shawed neeps and turnips before?’
‘Oh, we’ve shawed turnips all wir life!’ And the farmers knew the travellers were the greatest at this job because they’d done this all their days. But it was a bargain. Yellow turnips which had a small root, you did them a penny cheaper. And then you got the swede turnip, they had a big root and you got a penny extra for doing these. So the travellers were cute.
The farmer would say, ‘Well, what do you charge?’
‘Well, we usually do them by the hundred yards.’ At that time we were getting four pence, so you had to do three hundred yards for a shilling. If you put four hundred-yard drills together and made a row of turnips, then the cart could come up the side and the farmer could load them in. But the bargain was, ‘We’ll do them for a shilling if you give us some hay for the horse!’ You had to get the hay.
The farmer would say, ‘Okay, we’ll give you some hay for your horse.’ Now in these days there were no balers for baling hay. There were stacks of hay all over the place. Every field was filled with the best of hay. The farmer would tell the travellers, ‘Oh, yes, there a stack, go and help yourself. Take some hay!’
Now they would go and take some hay. But they wouldn’t go back again and take any more of this hay where they got permission. They would go to another farm where they weren’t working at night-time and help themselves to as much as they wanted – steal it! And feed their horses. Oh, I’ve done it myself!
Then if anybody, the police came and said the farmer missed his hay, somebody was stealing it, we’d say, ‘Oh, we didn’t steal any hay.’
‘Where dae you get yir hay for yir horses?’
‘We get it on the farm where we’re working. As much as we want.’
And the police would drive down to the farmer and say, ‘Are you missing any hay? Are the tinker people, travelling people stealing your hay?’
‘No,’ he says, ‘I gev them permission tae take hay, and there been nobody here since they came. I tellt them to help theirselves, and they’ve hardly ever took a drop o hay frae me. It’s there for them if they want it. They work for me and can have as much as they want.’
But what sense would it be taking all his hay when there was so much going about for nothing, for the taking of it? We could have taken his hay, as much as we wanted. But these other farmers wouldn’t give you any at all, they wouldn’t even sell it to you! We never made too much of a good thing. We did take some of his hay now and again for an excuse, in case the other farmers we took it from would kick up hell and phone the police. But remember, keeping four or five horses off one stack of hay would soon have gone down, got finished in very little time. Where would we have been then? And we did share it out with those who didn’t have enough.
So my cousin and I started shawing turnips and we shawed all week. The farmer was very pleased and he gave us plenty of hay! My cousin then said to me, ‘I’ll have to go to Dundee. I would like to have a walk down through the rest of the dealers. Do you want to come along?’
In 1943 when I was there in Dundee there must have been, at least, close on four hundred horses on the street, four hundred people working with horses. The co-operative had horses for the delivery of milk. Then there were the coalmen, there were people selling brickets, people selling firewood and there were others who just kept horses for dealing alone. There were rag-and-bone men. There were people collecting, hawking in the streets in Dundee. And it was nothing to see, going into a rag store in an evening, fifteen, sixteen or eighteen horses yoked, lined up tail to nose waiting to get served. All these horses and all these wee dealers in the town. They came from all neuks and crannies. And my cousin took me to all these places. He said, ‘We’ll go to such-and-such a place, we’ll see such-and-such a man here.’ He took me all these wee back places, the wee stables at corners – you’ve no idea the corners and hideouts where they kept their horses! They had loose boxes in here and wee stables in this place, and round these corners, up these wee streets – all had these horses. Some had two, some had three. They had one for work and the orra one for swapping and dealing with. This is what brought all the travellers here. Because it didn’t matter what kind of horse you took into Dundee, you could have a deal before you went back that night.
I remember wee Rabbie Townsley. He had a pony, a fat Shetland. It was as broad as it was long. But it was lazy, lazy as could be! And this man came up on a Sunday and he had a beautiful horse. It was a hackney, a trotting horse. And everybody saw it coming – you could see up the road in the distance because it was a long strait before you came to the camping place. There were no hedges or anything. And the idea was, when the dealers came near the camps, they put the horses going as hard as they could so the travellers could see.
They looked and said, ‘God, there’s a horse comin. Look at the way that can go, the way he’s goin! And he’s comin in here.’ They would say to themselves, ‘Well, if I can have a swap for him, I’ll get hit!’ So this man came in, and his horse, head in the air. He was pulling it back on the reins, a high stepper. He drove into the camping part.
‘Well, boys!’
‘Aye.’
‘Nice day!’
‘Oh, yeah, great day.’ Oh, this great big fire, camp fire going outside.
He looked all around, ‘Ye got many beasts aboot yese the now?’
‘Oh, we’ve two or three here.’ Then they swarted to swap. Everybody wanted this horse! But no. Some of them offered money, five and six pounds with their horses. Some of them tried to deal with him. But no. He had a look round every horse that he came up to. And wee Rabbie Townsley had this fat Shetland pony. It was like a block of wood. And I knew Rabbie in his own mind thought there was no way in the world this man was going to take this Shetland from him. So everybody tried their best to get a swap and deal with him; nobody could deal. This fast trotting horse. And the travellers liked a trotting, fast horse, because it was a means of getting there and getting back! Cousin John tried. No, he couldn’t have a deal. So Rabbie was standing near the fire and he had this wee horse. Black Shetland.
So the dealer turns round and says, ‘Wha belangs tae the wee bit Sheltie, the thick Sheltie there?’
‘Oh,’ we said, ‘that wee mannie there, that chap, his tent’s up the road there.’
‘Man, that’s a braw bit o beast that,’ he says. ‘It’s a braw Sheltie.’ You wouldn’t see it, was that small! He must have needed it for some purpose. He had a mark for it. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘I like that wee pony.’
‘Well, if you like it, there’s the chap belangin to it.’ Wee Rabbie came wandering over, his pipe stuck in his mouth. I can remember him fine. When Rabbie was young he had the bonniest head of curly hair you ever saw in your life. Beautiful curls! Rabbie came, smoking his pipe, walked over to the man by the fire. And he was admiring this great trotting horse that everybody had tried to deal for.
The man said, ‘Is it you that belangs tae the bit Shelt, Rab?’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘it’s me. Aye, that’s my wee bit pony there. It’s no much, really, an old dottlin thing.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I dinna ken, it’s a braw wee Sheltie. What would ye be seekin for the likes o that? What kind o money would ye be wantin in it?’
‘Oh,’ Rab said, ‘I couldnae sell it. I couldna lea masel stuck without a horse. I wouldnae sell it. I would swap, but I wouldnae sell.’ And swapping Rabbie’s horse was like swapping a mini for a Rolls Royce. And all the travellers were there. The man had turned dow
n some good horses. But he wouldn’t take any else. This was a surprise to everybody.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘what do ye think o that beast I’ve got there? That’s a guid bit o trottin horse, that would dae ye a turn. It’s quiet and it can trot for fun.’
‘Oh,’ Rabbie said, ‘maister, I ken by the looks o it, I’ve seen it comin in the road there. It can really trot. That’s a guid beast that. I could dae wi a beast like that, but I could never, I’d never hae the money tae buy that.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘maybe we could hae a bit o a deal.’
‘Oh,’ Rabbie said, ‘no, maister, I couldnae deal wi you, no wi the horse I’ve got. Ye’ll be needin too much for that.’
‘Nah, man,’ he says, ‘I wouldnae be sayin that.’
‘Well,’ Rabbie says, ‘what kind o deal will ye want? I’ve nae money tae gie ye. And I ken yir horse is a lot better than mine.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve taken a notion to that wee beastie o yirs, man.’ This was a man Kelby from Dundee. ‘And I think, how do you say, we’ll take one for each other?’
Well,’ Rabbie said, ‘fair enough. If that’s what you want, I’ll gie ye one for each other. But I’ve nae money aboot to gie ye. I’ll gie ye a level swap.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll call it a level swap,’ and they [SLAP] hit hands and that was the deal made. So the man went and got Rabbie’s beautiful wee pony, fat and thick, but it was young, yoked it on his float. And he went away walking with it home to Dundee. Now all the travellers were gathered round Rabbie.
‘Rabbie,’ they said, ‘by Christ, you’ve got, by God you’ve got a horse this time, Robert! That horse can trot. Did you see the way it was comin in there?’
‘Oh,’ Rabbie said, ‘it’s a guid beast, a guid horse. That man must be a wee bit moich, giein me a horse like that for that wee bit Shetland. Well, them that wants it noo can hae it. I can swap onybody here that wants it noo!’ But no, he never had a deal.
So next morning Rabbie couldn’t wait to get it yoked. And he made all the excuses to go for sticks – there were plenty of sticks at the camp already – but he wanted to drive with it. And he put the horse in the cart. It couldn’t walk! It was that lame it couldn’t even take a step. It was beautiful, a topper o a horse. Whatever way the dealer had doctored it up, its two front feet were just as if they were boiled – it had founder in both feet. Rabbie should have known right away. But it was standing in the long grass when the man bragged it up. And poor Rabbie lost his pony that day. Rabbie could have checked on it. Everybody was so excited, but everybody was fooled.
A horse that’s foundered, if you start off with it, it goes lame till it heats up. Once you go for a couple of miles the pain goes away from its feet. But once it stands the night, the next morning it can’t walk.
If travellers went to a yard for a swap and they saw the horse that interested them . . . you see, travellers in their own minds were very, very cute, especially among country folk, among the country dealers. The average non-traveller dealer thought he was cute, but the travellers could buy and sell them at every corner! Especially when they went into a place where a dealer had three or four horses, and they wanted a special one. They had a look around and the minute they saw the horse – they were like Indians – this horse they would never go near, never try to swap for it. They would pick some other one, and try and barter or deal for it. And when they couldn’t come to a deal they’d turn round and say to the man, ‘Well, what about this ane here?’ The one they were interested in would be the last one they would come to, even suppose there were six horses in the stable.
Some travellers bred horses themselves. They kept mares, a special one and they bred foals off it. But the only snag that bothered travellers was when a mare foaled. They had to stay in the one place with this mare until the foal was able to walk. A young foal couldn’t walk on the road, and the mother full of milk. She couldn’t work and couldn’t walk on the road because the foal needed to have a suck every now and again. So the natural thing was to take the mare to a farmer’s field and let her run there for about four or five months till the foal’s feet got hard. When a wee foal is born it’s feet are only soft. You couldn’t expect it to walk on the hard road, wear its wee hooves away.
And travellers would sit up with a mare the whole night when she was going to foal. They would kindle a big outside fire and tie the mare as close as they could. They would sit up till it foaled. The least disturbance, the least movement the mare would make, they would go up to her. And they would keep this great big fire on.
Other travellers again wouldn’t take a mare in foal, no way, because it was too much burden, too much bother. I mind on one traveller man getting a mare in foal, and when the mare foaled, he put it in a bag and drowned it. Like a pup. He couldn’t do anything else. It was illegal to yoke the mare when it was foaled. You could work it right up to the end till it was just about foaling. But after, you had to get some place to put the two horses.
But oh dear, dear, dear, the dealing among them! Some of these non-traveller dealers, the country folk did nothing else but deal in horses. That was their trade. And it was a great thing in their life to burn you. They took enjoyment out of getting the best of a deal. It’s not that they held any animosity against you, and they didn’t want to be tricky against you. But it was a code never to get the worst o a bad deal. And these non-traveller horse dealers tried their best to get the best of the traveller. I’ve been through it, I’ve had my burns as well as the rest of them. I’ve paid for my learning along the way.
I mind a wee tale about this old traveller man who went to the market with this horse. He met this well-known dealer. And it was a nice horse he had, a beautiful horse. But these two had always been at each other for having a deal every time they met, and they always tried to get the best o each other. So they finally had a swap, and they had a deal on the road. This old traveller man gave this horse dealer his horse, and he got a horse and got some money to boot. So after the old traveller man had the deal, one of the men came up to the dealer.
He says to him, ‘By God, Bob, the old tinker finally fixed you today. You finally had a bit swap with him, he finally set you back today a bit.’
‘What do you mean about that?’ he said.
He said, ‘You didnae get the best o him the day anyway.’
‘Ach aye, I got the best o him, man!’
He said, ‘It’s no a bad bit beast you got, but you didnae get the best o him!’
‘And what makes you think that?’
He said, ‘I ken that horse you got fae him.’
‘Dae ye?’
‘Aye, I ken it.’
‘Man,’ he said, ‘I got a good pony there. The ane I gied him is blind in the ane ee.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I ken it’s blind in ane ee, but that ane he gied you is blind in baith! Now that the God’s truth! I’ve seen that horse. That’s a pit pony. That horse is blind in baith een.’ It was stone blind. That was big Bob Forsyth. By Christ he got him on that one!
And they walked about, this gold watch and chain across their breast, ye ken, this gold eldrin hanging down. They always had this whip in their hand, the horse dealers. And this scarf had to be tied. It didn’t matter who it was, this hankie was tied to the side of their neck, like a cowboy’s bandana, but folded in like a scarf. The horse dealers never went without a red polkadot bandana around their necks. God, they were queer! just common men, family folk, the natural everyday man. But that was their life, horse dealing. And they would go far and near. It was the patter, the tale they built up about this beast and what it could do. Where they got it and what it came off. You’ve no idea! Who had it before them and how it could trot, all this carry on. Oh, I ran in with some of the best of them.
Old Mickey from the Star of Markinch. He could look through a horse, x-ray it with his eyes from tail to head. Some of them were really good, you know. You couldn’t cheat them, no way. They could look at it, just see it standi
ng or walking, and every complaint the horse had, ringbone or spavins, any complaint it had from tail to end they could tell you. I knew Mickey for about thirty years. He was ninety when he died. I spent a lot of time with him and I had many’s a deal with him. He told me a wee story.
He told me he left Fife, where he stayed all his days, and went to Aberdeen to the sale. In these days there weren’t lorries or transportation to take horses back. They walked any horses they got all the way back by road. And he bought nine in the Aberdeen sale. Now it takes a bit of doing to walk nine horses from Aberdeen to Fife. And he put them into a field at night. (Any farmer would let you turn your horses into a field for the night.) And he had a coat on, it was the summertime, he just lay down in the hedge. Then took them on the road next morning again. And he came to this old man and woman, a tinker’s camp at the roadside, a wee bow tent. It was the morning, he had just come out of the field. Between Aberdeen and Stonehaven, Old Mickey tellt me this himself, and och sure, I could let you hear it with his son!
Mickey said, ‘I was hungry. I would have given anything for a cup o tea, for a drink o tea. So I came to this wee camp. There were an old man and his wife, and they had a donkey and float. The old man came out. He’d seen me coming with these nine horses. They tied them tail to nose, led them all along the road. He stopped me on the road.’
He said, ‘Ye’re kind o early on the road Mister Mickey.’ He kent him.
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘early on the road.’
He said, ‘By God, you’ve got a handful there.’
‘Aye, a wee handful. I’ve got a long road to go, I’ve got to go to the Coaltown of Balgonie in Fife. But I’ll tell ye something, has your wife ony tea?’
The Horsieman Page 15