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Pat Smyth, a civil servant with the National Assistance Board in West Tyrone from the 1930's to the 1950's, recalls his memories, experiences and the larger than life personalities he encountered on the way.
An account of social life at Omagh in the forties would be very incomplete if one were to leave out auctions, which were nearly as popular as wakes! Every town in Ulster had one or more auction salesrooms where second-hand furniture and chattels were bought and sold.
Usually, there would have been auction sales monthly on market days or fair days, and in every town at least one long-established firm had a monopoly, or near monopoly. Even in 'Catholic' towns most auctioneers were influential pillars of the establishment, moneyed people who had the right connections to attract support.
When I was stationed at Cookstown in 1940 Joe Allen was making a fortune auctioning 'suckie' pigs once a week and donating a prize for the owner of the animals that made top price.
At Omagh, Roy Holmes was the man with the clout. He didn't have a pig mart but he monopolised the second-hand furniture sector. There was very little new furniture bought by wee farmers or tenants of cottier houses out in the country at any time, one glance at the run-down houses in the working class areas of Omagh town would have depressed anyone hoping to sell furniture.
Wartime rationing of furniture hit suppliers of new furniture, but auctioneers benefited, since prices of second-hand items went up, and more people attended auctions. They included pensioners, and idlers who just went to pass the time.
West Tyrone folk were no better and no worse at skulduggery than their peers elsewhere in Ulster, but the auctioneer who tried to slip in a bid of his own or the bidder who was just there to give things a 'gee-up' when bidding was slow, had no chance of escaping the eagle eyes of some of the 'professional' action attendees.
Many feuds originated in auction rooms. I would say women were the quickest to take umbrage if a neighbour outbid them for something they really fancied. The bête-noire was the 'dealer' from Belfast or some other town who picked up the bargains by some uncanny knack of putting in a bid at the crucial last call, when the greenhorn wasn't quick enough off his or her mark.
Were dealers smarter at catching the auctioneer's eye, or did he just happen to glance their way when the hammer was about to fall? Such debatable outcomes were talking points long after auctions ended, but other details such as who got what, how much they paid for it, whether they had any need for the item, who bid against them, etc. were endlessly debated in the closely-knit Omagh community and helped to brighten the hum-drum existence of working class people.
Omagh's leading auctioneer was Roy Holmes and he had Willie Porter as his assistant. Roy had a virtual monopoly in the area. Charlie Doherty and Paddy McAlinney conducted lettings of land and sales of small lots from time to time, but Holmes had all the bigger sales and his bigger arenas, like the Show grounds, were popular venues.
Roy's well-rehearsed patter enlivened sales. I particularly remember his habit of referring to a chamber pot as 'a relieving officer', which was the title of officials appointed by Boards of Guardians to dispense poor law out-door relief.
He was apt to regale his listeners with earthy stories, e.g. rehearsing verbatim how one purchaser of one of these essential items of bedroom furniture had described the size she needed, when she was asked at Crawford & Wilson's town centre store. 'Big enough to howl (hold) two's to morning'!
Charlie Doherty was a cabinetmaker, French polisher, and funeral director, who had a workshop at the bottom of Castle Street. He also traded in furniture, mostly second-hand, during the war. He was a most amiable and popular towns-man, much in demand for odd jobs. He also had a good business as an undertaker.
I recall commissioning Charlie on one occasion to bid for some items, which Roy Holmes was auctioning at the Show grounds. Roy had his back to a low wall and Charlie was beyond that, with no hope of catching the auctioneer's eye when the first of the lots that I wanted was put up for sale. I squirmed with frustration as the bidding progressed and the hammer was about to fall in favour of the third party.
I couldn't reach Charlie, so in desperation I started bidding. Charlie's reaction was instant and frantic as he shook his fist and beckoned me to the wall. 'Will you shut your mouth' he growled. 'John McGale, that man you are bidding against, is bidding for you!' Leave it to Charlie! He was on the ball unbeknownst to me.
Another day Dessie Black had an auction in his town centre showrooms and I dropped in on my way to lunch. An antique silver sugar bowl went up and the bidding was nil. Dessie, whom I knew well, looked hard at me and so appealingly, that I placed a nominal bid. He knocked it down immediately.
Next day Paddy Laird accosted me. 'You got my wee sugar bowl' he wailed. It emerged that Paddy had hung around the auction room all forenoon waiting for it to be put up, and as soon as he nipped out for a bite to eat I strolled in and got the bargain. I still have it and it is now worth a lot more than I gave for it.
Rationing and the consequent shortages of both old and new furniture induced many professional people to join classes in woodwork at Omagh Technical School. Beds, tables, stools, cupboards and all kinds of items of furniture were turned out in that workshop and I even learned French polishing.
A chap called McGimpsey from Bangor was the instructor and one evening two attractive young ladies joined us. They set to work at the far end of the workshop near the door. One was a blonde. When McGimpsey came round to see how I was getting on, I asked him who was the fine looking blonde near the door. With a wide grin he responded, 'That's my wife'. That shook me, and I had hastily to murmur words of admiration and apology.
Pat Smyth, 2001
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