Free The Book of Fame by Lloyd Jones

stiff and raw from the ground at Inverleith. After lunch we rode in drays out to the Forth Bridge but could not see anything for the fog. The freezing conditions sent us back to the hotel. That evening we spread ourselves before a blazing fire and rubbed away our aches and pains with a special lotion—
Eucalyptus
 … 60 parts
Whisky
 … 30 parts
Hartshorn
 … 10 parts
    Mister Dixon’s diary
    ‘Glasgow. Again the Scots snubbed us. No show from their officials. People from Queen’s Park Soccer Club made up for it. Laid on professional trainers who poured hot baths and rubbed the boys down after the game. Only 10,000 in the crowd to see us beat the West of Scotland 22–nil. Heavy ground and a cold wind. Tries to Freddy Roberts, ‘Dunk’ and Smithy. That evening the Queen’s Park officials put on a musical evening, and later, escorted us down to the train station. Arrived late in the evening at Ardossan and boarded the ferry to Belfast.’
    A black night crossing. We lay in our bunks smoking and talking, and drifted off to thoughts of home. Nothing specific, or sometimes specific—
    The dog, for example
    or a favourite chair
    a bed from childhood
    a favourite pipe
    eyes tearing at the memory
    of the world-can-wait smell of bacon fat
    popping in the skillet.
    High in the hills a fresh wind
    that faint smell of deer.
    The walk to the window that precedes
    the sharing of indelicate news—
    someone’s death
    a shotgun marriage—
    and looking out at the back yard with its chore list:
    this work-in-progress
    that keeps its own time, manages its own routine
    has never been to Europe or anywhere else
    but the back yard
    and wants to know only those stories
    it has seen and heard for itself.
    We woke in Belfast and in the dark boarded a train to Dublin. From the station we swung round Dublin’s streets in a dozen ‘jaunting cars’ and at the Imperial Hotel picked our way through a large crowd. The hotel manager had set aside a large room and the hundreds who’d welcomed us outside now swarmed through the doors. Cards of introduction were pressed on us. Simon Mynott took a card advertising window-cleaners from a short man with a shining earnest face. ‘Have you winders down dere in New Zealand, son?’ A poet who hired out his best lines for headstones pressed a card on Mona Thompson and said, ‘I try to get to know the individual …’
    Breakfast was a long time coming.
    That night we attended the Theatre Royal with the Irish team; as the teams entered the audience stood on their seats and cheered and cheered until they were hoarse.
    Friday night we lay under our covers, pinching fleas and listening to the rain.
    Saturday morning. We pulled back our curtains to fog in the windows. Dave Gallaher didn’t show up to breakfast. He banged up his leg in Scotland and it had got worse. Jimmy Duncan decided Dave should stayback at the hotel. It meant bringing George Gillett in from fullback to occupy Dave’s wing forward role and moving Billy Wallace to fullback. We didn’t have another fit three-quarter, and so, glancing around the breakfast room, Jimmy Duncan’s eye fell on Simon Mynott. ‘Can you spare a moment, son …?’ Simon brings his teacup down the table and Jimmy breaks the news to him. Simon says, ‘But I’ve never played wing,’ and Jimmy says, ‘Then it’ll be a whole new experience, won’t it?’ He and Billy Stead drew a pattern of wing play on a table napkin and McGregor told him to run up and down a hallway to get used to the idea of the winger’s lines of attack.
    With Dave out of action, Billy Stead took over the captaincy and we ran out as follows—

    Drizzle continued to fall.
    A huge punt sent the ball over the grandstand into a Dublin back yard. Another ball was found but this one exploded after a scrum collapse. Waiting for a third ball to arrive we mingled with the Irish players. The Irish fullback Landers jogged upfield to chat with Billy Wallace. Billy Stead and the Irish half