I’m walking across the Market Square of a Saturday morning when I see the crowd herding up around the back of a blue Transit van.  I had ta go ta the bank ta get a canvas moneybag and a rake of plastic coin bags ta be ready for the Sunday church door collection. 

It’s kinda spitting rain, so some people have their hoods up, but no umbrellas yet.   I can recognize a lot of the crowd, mostly people from around town and few in from country shopping of a Saturday. 

I know I shouldn’t stop; Pat’ll be cranky if I don’t get back to the church fast.  He on’y sent me ta the bank at the last minute before it closed at noon to get the money bags so we could count everything up during the masses tomorrow.  And there’s a rake a cleaning ta be done back in the church: the sanctuary ta be mopped, the seats dusted, flowers ta be bought up in O’Donnell’s and put in them big brass vases that Pat says “t’Indians made for a coupley a pennies each.  Ya never hear no preachin’ about that, now do ya?”

Still a crowd is a thing ya don’t see much except maybe up if Celtic have a big match or Mayo are playing above in McHale Park.  There must be something good ‘cause people wouldn’t be crowdin’ tagether for no reason at-all-at-all.  So, it’s worth a bit a Pat’s crankiness ta see what’s goin’ on.

“Oh, we’re all gud now,” a little, ould fella, says real loud, but not shouting, with a sigh an’ a nod at me. 

He’s standing a few steps up a stepladder, just behind the open doors of the blue van.  In a baggy black cardigan with a kinda pinched face, a pointy nose, a rake of forehead and a wild, scraggly head of hair, he looks just like the Irish builder in Fawlty Towers.  

Just my luck, he keeps going an’ points his boney finger right at me, my face blushing red hot, as he says: “Money bags is here.  Cum here young fella, an’ we’ll take gud care a yer money.”

He has a Dublin accent, making me country-suspicious.

“Yaz needn’t worry about it … not much anyways!”

The crowd all starts laughin’ but it’s not like school where they all suddenly turn on ya – laughin’ an’ pointin’ fingers at ya.  Instead they keep staring at him, like he’s a magician.

“Cum in now, don’ be ah…faraid, Burnie hasn’t bitten no one latterly.  Stan’ in clow…ser, so’s I don’ loose me vice,” he says waving the crowd in.  “Here, … here, cum in, cum in.”

He reaches a hand back and Burnie, the helper, gives him a handful of them four-in-one pens!  They’re great; blue, black, red and green ink all in one pen!  Ya just push the button for whatever colour ya want, then it pushes its way down, pushing the other colour back up.  Fierce handy altogether in school.

“Here, here, a little gift from Burnie an’ me,” he starts throwing the pens into the crowd.

There’s all sorts a pushin’ n’ shovin’ by the crowd ta get them.  I see a young Traveler fella in fight ta the death with some ould farmer for one a them, and two ould wans, that’d be back in the church every evening at seven sayin’ the Rosary for peace in the North, clawin’ at one another over a pen.

“Relax foe…lks, relax, Burnie has rakes more a dem pens.  We’ll be thrungin’ dem out later, but first up I have an amm…aazing deal on a towester!”

Burnie, a small-bald-fat fella, jowly-pint-faced and piggy eyes, in a greasy looking blue anorak, hands him a box.

“Now Burnie, don’t be hidenin’ dis luvly towester from the good people a Gaul… May-oh.  Take it ourra de box, will ya, ya big leibide.”

From his perch on the stepladder, he nods at everyone, looking all serious.

“May…oh,” he forces out a sigh.  “May-oh God Help Us – roight!  Ga…reat countee, de best in Ire…land.  But dis fella, don’t ya see,” he slaps Burnie’s anorak hood with the back of his hand, “he doesn’t get let ourra Dublin hardly at-all-at-all.  He couldn’t sell water in de Burren so he couldn’t.”

He shakes his head fast, one hand grasping the top step of the ladder.

“Here I am with de finest towester ever made in Germany.  Didn’t dey make dem great Panzer tanks back in de day, an’ now they make great towesters.  It’d towest yer bread de finest, missus,” he nods a big nod down at Mrs Reilly, “ya know, for de hubby, an’ him headin’ off fer a day’s work in de bog.  It twould, now I’n tellin’ yaz de God’s honest truth dere.”

Ah, I’m thinking, I better get back ta the church, this fella is only a chancer, sure the Reillys don’t go ta the bog at-all-at-all-at-all.

“Now above in Arnotts a Henry Street, de manager’d charge ya de full arm an’ half a leg for dis towester, so he would.  I’m tellin’ ya de God’s honest true…it now.  He’d show no mercy on yaz country people at-all-at-all-at-all.  Here, here, cum closer, cum closer.”

He waves everyone in.

“Burnie, haf yaz any more a dem pens back dere, d’ya?” he waves his hands impatiently – one at the crowd, the other at Burnie. “Cum on, cum on.”

Suddenly a volley of royal blue and white pens gets shot out of Burnie’s hands almost straight up in the air.  The crowd lurches forward toward the stepladder, fingers grasping for the manna of four-ink pens.

“Now I’ll tell yaz what I’ll do is, for de first towester, I’ll sell yaz all a ticket for ten P.  But everyone has ta buy.  If yaz cannit afford ten P, then be’s off about yer beeswax, an’ don’t forget ta stop inta the priest’s gaff fer de free lunch.”

Out of the cardigan pocket he pulls a roll of pink tickets, unrolls a rake a them, tears them off and gives them to Burnie.

Burnie’s all business, he never stops moving, his piggy little eyes darting around the crowd, his face always in a cranky scowl.  Immediately, he tears the first ticket in two and grabs a tenpenny piece off Mulligan, the ould retired postman.

“Now, yer ten P please mam,” the little fella on the ladder leans forward with a ticket for a heavy farmer woman with a big head of frizzy hair, that you’d sometimes see flying down Gallows hill on a black bike.

She gives him a hard stare.

“Sure, ya haf as gud a chance as anyone mam.  Ten P an’ this ga…reat Krupp’s towester cud be towesting the sliced pan dis evenin’.”

She relents, produces a shiny black purse from nowhere, unclipping the brass mechanism, her chubby fingers fishing out a silver tenpenny piece.

The crowd hums as he reaches off the stepladder to them.  Burnie works the fringes.

“Fuck off ourra dat,” Burnie snaps at the little Traveller fella, the scowl not even increasing, his piggy not even looking at the young fella.  “Or I’ll break yer arse with a kick, so I will.”

The little fella steps back, staring sideways at him, but doesn’t leave.

Tenpenny bits switch hands for pink tickets torn in two – the number being printed twice on each ticket.

“Now, someone give me a hat, jus’ so yaz see it’s all fair n’ square like.  Here, here, mam!”

He aims his index finger at Mrs Cunningham, the doctor’s wife, with a big purple hat plopped on top of her head.  

I’m so surprised ta see her here, that I look away.

“Here, cum up here mam, an’ you’ll be de master, … er, I mean de mistress a ceremonies,” he waves his hands impatiently.  “It’ll be just like de Irish Sweepstakes, on’y you’ll be coverin’ for all dem nurses in dere lily-white dresses.”

I imagine Mrs Cunningham is blushing behind all her makeup, but surprisingly, she takes a step forward.

“Clear de way, clear de way for de lady with de purr…pell hat, she’s gonna draw a winner for us.  De Mayo Sweepstakes is on dis mornin’ here in Castlebar, with de grand prize of a Krupp’s towester.”

The crowd parts and Mrs Cunningham, barely suppressing an embarrassed smile and sliding these really long, sore looking, pins out of her hat and hair as she makes her way to the stepladder.

“Now, crowd back in everyone wid yer tickets.  Free towester here, just ten P a chance.”

He holds his hand out for the hat; people immediately start dropping their halves of the tickets into that purple hole.

Burnie, furiously tearing pink tickets in two, mops up any tenpenny pieces held up around the edges, and then pushes his way back to the stepladder.

I don’t buy a ticket, even though I have a sixty P in me pocket – sure we have a toaster at home.

“Here yaz are now,” he takes another step up the stepladder and reaches forward with the hat.

“All de tickets in, every ticket in May-ho into dat hat now.  A luvly towester ben given away here in Market Square Castlebar, sur ya couldn’t go wrong wid a deal like dis, could yaz?”

He puts his hand in the hand and mixes up the tickets.  A few fall out.

“Here, here,” he raises his voice.  “Get dem es…capees, dere’s no gettin’ away from dis Mount…joy, every ticket has ta stay inside.”

The crowd scramble for the tickets and drop them back in.

“Now, take wan out mam.  Cover yer eyes so dey don’t be saying ya seen yer own ticket in dere.”

Mrs Cunningham flashes a big toothy smile to the crowd, clenches her eyes deliberately shut, brings her left hand up to her eyes and starts fishing for the hat with her right.

“Here, here,” the little fella on the stepladder says, grabbing her hand.  “An’ I’ll take yer hand, not in marriage but in ticket-picken.”

He grabs a hold of her hand and guides it to the hat.

“Pick one now for the de luckiest purson in May-ho.”

Mrs Cunningham’s pale white hand reaches down into the purply-black hole in the hat and draws out a half ticket.  The little fella takes the piece of pink paper and slowly holds it up in front of his face.

“Awright, are yaz ready?”

He gazes out over the growing crowd, more people getting nosey as to what’s going on.

“Naught-naught-naught, tree …, seven …, nyon …, fohwer.”

He looks back across the crowd.

“Again, tree-seven-nyon-fohwer,” he stares around, his eyebrows suddenly rising.  “An’ it’s de gentleman wid de ears stickin’ ourra de side a his head.”

Who had won it but Big Ears!  A tall mental patient from above in Saint Mary’s with a thin plaster of white hair across his head and big frying-pan ears.

Big Ears stood holding up his ticket, his eyes darting around nervously.

“Wait now till Burnie checks yer ticket sur,” he nods slowly.  “An’ yaz’ll never be short a slice a towest again in yer life.  Not till dey send fer you from above.”

He points up at the sky.

Burnie reaches into the van, grabs a toaster-sized cardboard box and muscles into the crowd, the box held up over his head.

“Now, now, listen up, the gud news is Burnie has a rake a more towesters in de back a de van,” he stops for a breath, watching Burnie transact with Big Ears.

“So here’s what we’ll do.  I’m gonna offer yaz the towesters at a fair price an’ we’ll see if May-ho likes dat.  Awright?” he looks hard across the crowd.  “An’ if yaz doesn’t like that price, maybe Burnie here’ll let me help yaz out a bit more.  Awright dere now Burn, get yer arse back up here, we need more pens.”

The crowd around the stepladder has about doubled, but a lot are standing back staring, fingers on chins, foreheads furrowed.  The little Traveller is skirting the crowd, getting hands-jammed-in-pockets-hard-stares from everyone.

Burnie, head down, pushes back through the crowd, reaches into the box of pens and fires them up into the air over his shoulder.

Magically, the crowd pushes in, arms up, fingers tingling for four-ink pens.

“Now ya see, above in Arnotts a Krupp’s towester’d cost ya twenny five quid, an’ a rake a pence on top a dat, fer ta keep de stealin’ goin’ like.  Dat’s how mister Arnotts makes his money.  D’yaz tink mister Arnotts goes ta de bog?  Noooooo!”

He waves his hand around over the crowd, the words coming out like he’s an actor on the stage.

“Mister Arnotts is sittin’ above on de Hill a Howth smow…king cigars an’ drinkin’ brandy while we’re all out here workin’.  But ferget abour him.  Here’s what I’m … what Burnie is gonna let me do for yaz, de gud people a Castle…bar.  So dis Saturday morning, on’y cause yaz are up an’ at it gud n’ early.”

He stops for a breath, stares across the crowd, his hands waving everyone in closer.

“Now, whatayaz tink of a towester dat doesn’t cost twenny five nyontee nyon, but instead, be de magic a Burnie here, only costs yaz a tenner today.  Special offer of a towester fer a tenner.  How many a yaz will be takin’ one fer a tenner?”

His eyes dart across the crowd, a look of almost nervousness on his face.  I follow his eyes.  All eyes in the crowd are on him.

There’s an odd fella from St Gerald’s Secondary School standing up front in a green duffle coat, his hood up, his mouth hanging open.

“Jayzus, will yaz shut dat mouth will yaz.  I haven’t seen a mouth like dat since I was fishin’ on de Shannon.”

He doesn’t smile at his joke but keeps checking on peoples’ faces.

“A tenner now is all …,” he closes his lips tightly and stares around at the crowd, a few hands are up.

“But let me tell yaz what, Burnie here is feelin’ very generous, ‘cause see, he’s grandmudder is from May-ho, an’ he always lookin’ ta help de people a May-ho.  So fer today only, for dis auction only, we’re gonna ta give dem away for eight quid.”

He draws in a quick breath.

“Eight quid, now dats a bargain amongst bargains.  If Burnie wasn’t standin’ here next ta me, I’d say he’s goin’ soft in his ould age.  Eight quid for de finest a German towester enganeerin’, an’ dem tieves above in Arnotts lookin’ for more dan tree times as much.  Now how many a yaz’ll be taking one for eight quid?”

 A few hands shoot up and when I’m watching them, don’t I see Da standing over on the other edge of the crowd.  Immediately I want to leave, thinking Da’ll think I’m all wrong for even standing here listening ta these dodgy fellas.

But the crowd is heaving now, pushing up against the stepladder.

The little Traveller is talking to Big Ears, holding his two hands up to accept the toaster.

“Azy, azy now folks, we have enough towesters for everyone, but dere’s still a few yaz not seein’ de bargain here.  So how’s about, I just lose me mind altagether, an’ sure if Burnie bates de daylights ourra me for it, so what, it’ll keep yaz all happy.  So how about I say yaz can all have one for seven quid.  Now, dat’s de vury best I can possablee do taday.”

Arms reach up, fingers holding fivers and ones, the crowd surges forward.

“Awright, awright, cum on Burnie, get dem towesters ready!”

“What are you doing here?” I hear in my ear.

It’s Da.

“Oh, just comin’ back from the bank an’ I was wondering what this was all about.”

“An’ did ya buy ana’thing offa them chancers?”

“No-no-no.”

“Gud,” he sighs, nodding backwards.  “‘Tis all stolen stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a course, sure how else could they be sellin’ it for them prices.”

“An’ why don’t ya arrest them so?”

He purses his lips, jams his hands deeper into his anorak pockets and twist nods.

“Sure there’s no report of toasters stolen for me ta follow up on,” he pulls one hand out of an anorak pocket and wags his finger at me. 

“See, they were probly stolen above in t’North or abroad in England.  No record of the crime here, don’t ya see.  Nathin’ we can do.  They can sell away.”

“An’ are you gonna buy a new toaster?”

“Not at all, sure our toaster isn’t broken, is it?”

“No, but if we had a second one, in the morning it’d be faster.”

“Aragh, go away outta that.  Two toasters!” he twists his head hard.  “Sure people’d think we’re mad.  Now, get on about yer business.”

I turn to get back to the boredom of cleaning the church.

The little Traveller fella is still wrangling with Big Ears over the toaster.

“Now, yaz’ll all haf to come back dis afternoon, when we’re sellin’ de tellies.  Tell yer neighbours an’ aunts an’ uncles an’ everyone ta cum break open der piggy banks.  Big sale dis afternoon on Japaneeze telly…visions.  Yaz won’t believe de prices!”