Book Buying in Ballymena

Derek Rowlinson

Much of the book stock I bought as a professional second-hand bookseller was acquired from ‘call-outs’ to houses around the country, and some areas proved more fruitful than others.

The territory of the Ballymena Scot was generally not a happy hunting ground for me. No matter how good a price I offered for the books it was apparently never quite enough, and I invariably left empty-handed. On one call near Kells, an old farmer met me at the farmhouse and took me along a little lane to his sister’s house, which was situated in some beautifully tree-lined surroundings. He explained on the way how she had been a great lover of books, but recent circumstances had necessitated her being admitted to a home.

On entering the front door I was confronted by shelves of books lining the vestibule walls, and I immediately set to work in earnest; but every time I lifted a book for closer examination, the farmer was peering right over my shoulder asking, “Is thon a guid yin?” (Is that a good one?) — in other words, was it worth anything. This continued into the living room and all round the ground floor until I’d completed my assessment there.

“There’s mair abin,” he announced at that point, meaning that there were more to be seen upstairs. Thankfully he let me go up alone, so I was able to look at those books without interference, but the upshot was that I concluded you would have struggled to assemble a more worthless collection of printed matter if you’d been trying. He intercepted me on the way back downstairs and asked me straight out what I’d offer him for them.

“Nothing,” I said bluntly.

He smiled as though he understood this to be part of my bargaining strategy. “Awa’ wi’ ye,” he said. “Whit’s tha best ye can dae?”

“Nothing,” I repeated. “In fact, you’d have to pay me to take them away.”

At first he was unsure of how to take this, but when it finally registered with him that I was perfectly serious, his whole mien changed instantly. Once he realised there was no haggling to be done, the man visibly relaxed and invited me back to the farmhouse for a cup of tea and a bite to eat, where he and his wife chatted merrily with me for some time.

“Your sister must have been some reader in her day,” I said to him as I sipped my tea.

“Ah, the poor craytur,” he answered. “She cudnae read wan wird, no yin.” (She couldn’t read a word, not one). “She wusnae a’ there,” he explained, tapping his right temple with his finger, “but ye cudnae cum tae tha hoose wi’oot a book in yer haun, if ye wanted tae please her.”