Where Have All the Boys Gone?(92)

“And I have fifty . . . sixty . . . seventy . . . one HUNDRED pounds . . . one hundred and twenty . . . fifty . . . one seven-five . . . one ninety . . . TWO HUNDRED pounds . . . two hundred and twenty . . . thirty . . . going for thirty . . . great foot massage . . . going once, going twice . . .” Mrs. McClockerty smashed a mallet onto a stool. “SOLD for two hundred and thirty pounds to number 119.”

Number 119 squealed with delight, revealing herself to be a tiny porcine brunette. In piggy hooves, she ran up to the stage, where Seamus attempted to pick her up and carry her off, failed, dropped his toga and finally grabbed her podgy fingers and ran out of the marquee, both of them giggling hysterically all the while.

Next was Willie the ghillie, at whom Louise wolf-whistled approvingly. Wisely, after promising to catch a pheasant as a skill, which didn’t rouse too much interest amongst the provincial ladies, he let his toga drop from his shoulders and revealed a set of pecs of which Justin Timberlake would have been proud. Bids multiplied accordingly.

“Not bidding, Louise?” said Katie slyly.

“I, uh, no . . . ha, no . . . I mean, I’m nearly skint and, let’s face it,” Louise swallowed hard, “probably fired.”

“Hmm,” said Katie. She’d forgotten about Louise’s job, though not, it seemed, as readily as Louise had.

A line of farmers were dispatched into the baying crowd of women, who were getting increasingly worked up, screeching themselves into a frenzy, when little Lachlan turned up, wearing a pillowcase and promising a place to rest their pint glasses. The money was heading well north of five hundred quid, and Katie was almost allowing herself to think of the next thing they’d do with the money: lawyers’ fees and advertisements in newspapers. Not that she’d be here, of course, she told herself sternly. She’d be far away.

Laird Kennedy did not look at his best, even wearing two sheets in the manner of a Roman Emperor. It ill behoved his ancient lineage to be marching up and down in his bedclothes in front of hundreds of, by now, near hysterical women. He cleared his throat in front of the mike and didn’t seem quite his normal bombastic self.

“Uh . . . Well . . . um, this is my house.”

“TWO GRAND!” screamed a high-pitched female voice from the crowd, unable even to wait to put her number up. Chaos kicked off.

“It’s not getting a bit dangerous back there do you think?” said Olivia, twisting her head around as the bidding went up at a ferocious rate.

“It’s all good,” said Katie. “All cash for us. I tell you what, though, I wouldn’t particularly want to be following this.”

Kennedy went, eventually, for an absolutely eye-popping amount of cash. The room craned to watch the tall, imperious-looking woman in the expensive jewellery come forward to claim her prize. Katie was close enough to the podium to hear her hiss, “What’s your title?” to him, then she turned around and smiled bountifully to the cheering crowd when he answered, “Laird.”

The woman waved royally.

“Can you have children?” Kennedy asked her sotto voce.

The room seemed to take a huge breather after this. There was a very definite sense that nobody was going to make more than ten grand, and that they’d just seen the peak of the boys being auctioned off. There was much flouncing off to the toilet and the bar, and the chatter of women just talking amongst themselves rose commensurately.

“AHEM!” said Mrs. McClockerty, but nobody paid much notice as she welcomed the next toga-clad victim on stage. It was Harry.

“Harry Barr!” yelled Mrs McClockerty, face beaming with maternal pride. “No need for him to introduce himself, I can tell you he’s the best of the lot here, and if you take him and don’t treat him right, ah can tell you right now, you’re going to have ME to answer to.” She gestured at herself fiercely. Harry’s face burned even hotter. “I’m telling you, he’s the best one here, so get betting you ENGLISH BITCHES!”

Like a curtain, a complete silence dropped over the room.

Katie, Louise, and Olivia covered their faces with their hands.

Mrs. McClockerty just stood, glowering, as an agitated murmuring started up in the corner of the marquee. Several people got up and strode out, the rest discussed the insult in shocked tones, which was fair enough, Katie thought, given that they’d come up here and given good money of their own accord, and really didn’t need to be called bitches for the privilege.

Harry stood there, stock-still on the podium, looking as though he was about to be hanged by the neck until dead, and as if he would actually rather welcome the experience.

Mrs. McClockerty still didn’t seem to realise anything was the least bit the matter. She stared around the room crossly. “WELL??? ANYONE???”

Katie sneaked a look over her shoulder. Row after row of women was sitting sullenly, arms crossed, completely different from the baying masses only a few seconds before. She looked at Harry again. Oh, this was just awful. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off the floor. Only the tips of his ears were showing, glowing bright pink. A terrible silence was hanging in the air.

Katie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stood up out of her seat. In her clearest voice, she shouted, “One hundred pounds!”

Harry’s head shot up, and he looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“ONE HUNDRED POUNDS!” Mrs. McClockerty was shrieking, but Katie hardly heard her. She and Harry were staring straight at each other, and, oddly, it felt as if there was nobody else in the room. Almost unwittingly, she found herself moving a step towards him. Likewise, almost in slow motion, Harry stretched out his hand towards her.