As I walked into the yard of the market, it was like a smaller, scruffier version of the auctions that I have gone to in Norco, California. The characters have replaced their Stetsons with the cloth cap and gained a different but equally incomprehensible accent.
There was an abundance of middle-aged white men; white shirts tucked in around the beer belly and long purposeful swaggers between the clicks of Irish horse traders and pony club trainers. There were young girls who had dressed up to come down, in sparkly low-rise jeans and spiky high heels, makeup and friends. There were the stable rats, kids born on a horse, when their horse has an itch on his nose they will absent-mindedly scratch it.
One boy like this was leading out fifteen or so three-year-old gypsy horses parked three to a stable at the back of the yard. He would go in and grab them out like he was reaching for a pint of milk from the fridge. Another thin middle class lady placated a fearful horse. Cooing around him, nervous and lithe, the horse reminded me of the bespectacled policeman at the station. She tried to comfort the young thing that saw her as the scariest monster in the yard.
"Do you know were the market is?" I had asked the policeman as I walked out of the mainline station earlier that day. It was one of those bafflingly hot days that filled our summers this July. The sun was hot and dusty even at 9 am, a slight wisp of cool in the breeze like glass of fresh ice-cold water; the only remnant of the morning.
"Wrong day luv" the Indian man said from beneath the bell helmet. He was in the middle of a helpful conversation with another lost Londoner so I turned to his companion. He was a white man, maybe more of a boy, with glasses and spindly hands, not senior enough for the helmet; he wore just a policeman's cap.
"Do you know were the market is?"
"I'm not from around here," he said apologetically in a slightly foppish accent that proved it. As I looked about these litter filled outskirts of London's back and beyond, he and I were the ethnic minority in a sea of blue and white tarpaulin street stalls.
"You're at the wrong station luv," the helmet interjected, "its Hanes market that open on a Wednesday"
"No, it's a horse market" on seeing disapproval dawn on his forehead I added, "you probably don't know about it." Had I been less determined to go, I would have been on the next train east, back to the comforts of the London that I know. He insisted that the market was not selling anything today, not even horses.
"So I know were to find the market the next time I am here, where is it on a Saturday?"
About twenty minuets into the walk, through the grocery stores that pour out onto the street, I thought that perhaps he was right about the market. It was not just the distance, but the environment. This was urban. Were you could get plantain and cheap socks, spices and sari's. I could not imagine any of the equestrian people that I have met in England venturing here. Like in the US, they tend to be white, country folk.
Then up ahead there was a lone horsebox parked in a bus stop, next to an idling white van and nestled in the shade of a bra and underwear stall. I had found the Southall horse market.
The auctioneer came walking through the yard, ringing his bell like a rag and bone man. He had a long white coat that came to his calves and a big mustache. He knew all the people there and smiled dapperly but there was a steal cold edge to him. He looked a bit like the pope. The men all leaned into the railings that marked the ring of the sale, one foot perched on the rail, the weight of the world hanging on there frowned faces.
And then the biding began. If the auctioneer was to be believed there was a tremendous flurry of excitement as each horse was paraded about the uneven tarmac. His old eyes darted about and the prices that he called out rose and rose. Maybe they were bidding with a blink of an eye or the scratch of the head but as I looked out on the crowd about me it was an ocean, still and featureless. The only bid that I could see was from a very out of place young girl in a baseball cap and jodhpurs. That will be me next week.
"Are you biding?" I asked the man next to me. It seemed the only way to get to the bottom of this stonewall. He was, I could tell by his smile. "For that man there" he pointed toward the end of the ring. I was even more confused.
I didn't buy a horse this time, to the great sadness of the burly horse trader and his lovely wife who had wanted me to buy their 4 year old pony who had belonged to their daughter for 5 years. "Bomb-proof this horse" he boasted, a gleam of recognition in his eyes for the bargain if not for the math.
This time I walked home, next time I'll ride.
