The Book of Fame Read Online Free Page A
hats and the women in sun bonnets. We sunk back in our seats, eyes averted to the coach upholstery.
Christ! They were coming to see us! We closed our eyes and silently prayed that we wouldn’t make fools of ourselves.
Entering the ground we tried not to look but couldn’t help ourselves. In every direction you saw people. The stand was full, and the area behind the bike track; between there and the rows of houses people stood five, six, seven deep while up on the roofline solitary figures clung to chimney pots.
At 3 pm we walk out in single file, Glasgow pulling his headgear on. O’Sullivan trips on a clod of mud and reddens with embarrassment. Billy Wallace’s eyes dart to all corners of the field; he locates the posts, takes a couple of backward steps then jogs back. Billy Stead notes the roll of the turf and where at one corner it slopes away on the grandstand side of the ground. Gallaher bends down to pick up a clod of mud and throws it away. Steve Casey underarms a pebble. Jimmy Hunter wipes away a nervous yawn. In the short time that it takes usto walk out to the middle we look for a dozen diversions.
Then a crow flew across the ground and every one of us looked up to follow its flight. Our eyes swam in the blue skies. The sunny day was nothing like what we’d been told to expect at this time of year. George Gillett wore a tweed hat at fullback.
Our first points on English soil came within three minutes of the start. Fred clears from a scrum to Billy Stead, a sweet transfer to Jimmy Hunter. Jimmy runs hard at the defensive line; the Devon men try to wrap him up but Jimmy’s legs keep pumping and that’s when we first saw the alarm on the faces of the Devon players. You saw the Devon men back on their heels, hands in the air. Jimmy was supposed to fall over. Every other player they wrapped up falls over. They weren’t used to Jimmy’s civil disobedience. But a horse wouldn’t have stopped Jimmy. Behind his maddening release of energy were six weeks at sea, hours of shipboard training, hours spent imagining such a moment as this, through ice storms and tropical heat. Jimmy spins free, as easy as passing through a revolving door and goes over near the posts for Billy Wallace to convert. That was just the beginning. George Smith crossed for four tries. Carbine got three. George Gillett went over for a try with one hand holding on to the brim of his sun hat. We scored twelve tries in all and were up by fifty points before Devon answered with a penalty goal.
The ease with which we did it surprised everyone, the crowd, the newspapermen, ourselves included. We heard later that several London newspapers came out the following day with the wrong score. The telegraph operator transcribing the dots to letters had ‘corrected’ the 55–4 scoreline to read in favour of the English County champions.
Later that afternoon in the chandeliered light of a hotel in Exeter we rose with the Devon men to toast the King and sing our national anthems. We were so happy and with the champagne glowing in our cheeks we belted out a haka that had the ashtrays and champagne flutes bouncing on the tabletops.
Outside the hotel a huge cheer went up. Thousands stood in the dark where earlier in the day we’d passed unnoticed. They wanted to shake our hands. They slapped our backs. They seemed to know us or want to know us. We shook their hands. ‘God bless,’ they said. God bless. We smiled with uncertainty, wondering if this was the right thing to do.
They were so appreciative and we were so grateful.
News of what had happened at the County Ground had reached Newton Abbot around six that evening. The stationmaster was first to hear. He’d tipped his cap and shaken hands with Jimmy Duncan earlier in the day. He wrote down the score on a scrap of paper and sent one of his assistants off with it to the innkeeper. Within a short time the news had passed along the doors, from house to house. Now it was just after eleven at night, and
Christ! They were coming to see us! We closed our eyes and silently prayed that we wouldn’t make fools of ourselves.
Entering the ground we tried not to look but couldn’t help ourselves. In every direction you saw people. The stand was full, and the area behind the bike track; between there and the rows of houses people stood five, six, seven deep while up on the roofline solitary figures clung to chimney pots.
At 3 pm we walk out in single file, Glasgow pulling his headgear on. O’Sullivan trips on a clod of mud and reddens with embarrassment. Billy Wallace’s eyes dart to all corners of the field; he locates the posts, takes a couple of backward steps then jogs back. Billy Stead notes the roll of the turf and where at one corner it slopes away on the grandstand side of the ground. Gallaher bends down to pick up a clod of mud and throws it away. Steve Casey underarms a pebble. Jimmy Hunter wipes away a nervous yawn. In the short time that it takes usto walk out to the middle we look for a dozen diversions.
Then a crow flew across the ground and every one of us looked up to follow its flight. Our eyes swam in the blue skies. The sunny day was nothing like what we’d been told to expect at this time of year. George Gillett wore a tweed hat at fullback.
Our first points on English soil came within three minutes of the start. Fred clears from a scrum to Billy Stead, a sweet transfer to Jimmy Hunter. Jimmy runs hard at the defensive line; the Devon men try to wrap him up but Jimmy’s legs keep pumping and that’s when we first saw the alarm on the faces of the Devon players. You saw the Devon men back on their heels, hands in the air. Jimmy was supposed to fall over. Every other player they wrapped up falls over. They weren’t used to Jimmy’s civil disobedience. But a horse wouldn’t have stopped Jimmy. Behind his maddening release of energy were six weeks at sea, hours of shipboard training, hours spent imagining such a moment as this, through ice storms and tropical heat. Jimmy spins free, as easy as passing through a revolving door and goes over near the posts for Billy Wallace to convert. That was just the beginning. George Smith crossed for four tries. Carbine got three. George Gillett went over for a try with one hand holding on to the brim of his sun hat. We scored twelve tries in all and were up by fifty points before Devon answered with a penalty goal.
The ease with which we did it surprised everyone, the crowd, the newspapermen, ourselves included. We heard later that several London newspapers came out the following day with the wrong score. The telegraph operator transcribing the dots to letters had ‘corrected’ the 55–4 scoreline to read in favour of the English County champions.
Later that afternoon in the chandeliered light of a hotel in Exeter we rose with the Devon men to toast the King and sing our national anthems. We were so happy and with the champagne glowing in our cheeks we belted out a haka that had the ashtrays and champagne flutes bouncing on the tabletops.
Outside the hotel a huge cheer went up. Thousands stood in the dark where earlier in the day we’d passed unnoticed. They wanted to shake our hands. They slapped our backs. They seemed to know us or want to know us. We shook their hands. ‘God bless,’ they said. God bless. We smiled with uncertainty, wondering if this was the right thing to do.
They were so appreciative and we were so grateful.
News of what had happened at the County Ground had reached Newton Abbot around six that evening. The stationmaster was first to hear. He’d tipped his cap and shaken hands with Jimmy Duncan earlier in the day. He wrote down the score on a scrap of paper and sent one of his assistants off with it to the innkeeper. Within a short time the news had passed along the doors, from house to house. Now it was just after eleven at night, and
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