The Book of Fame by Lloyd Jones

droned—
    solid ice over a football field (at Inverleith)
    A large wave slapped the porthole and a memory of the Pacific storm tore through us. Into that dark pause Mister Dixon spoke, surprising us all with a list of his own—
    shouting Spaniards selling raisins from their rowboats (in Tenerife) the spume of a whale off the coast of Uruguay
    Freddy Roberts’s dive from the upper deck of the
Rimutaka
into the clear water of Santa Cruz harbour (Tenerife)
    Then he said—‘The look on Emma’s face in the window when we said “goodbye” at the wharf,’ and no one had the instant reply we would have hoped for.
    None of us could think what to say. No one could guess at this new thing
    that revealed itself in the face of Mister Dixon’s wife.
    It was an uneasy moment. Then George Tyler spoke up. George said he’d seen a cabbage tree growing out of a rowboat.
    ‘Where might that have been, George?’ It was Mister Dixon, and we silently congratulated George on disengaging him from that mysterious look on his wife’s face.
    ‘The platform at Saltash Station,’ said George. ‘It was as we came through …’
    ‘Pennycomequick.’ That was from Seeling. He spoke slowly, careful to place the emphasis so we were in no doubt where the humour lay. Then, to ward off Mister Dixon he added, ‘That’s the name of the station near Plymouth. Pennycomequick.’
    Booth laughed but shut up at once when he realised he was alone.
    Jimmy Duncan rolled off his bunk and stood up; once there seemed to not know what to do with himself.
    Then someone said ‘Sleep’ and off we trailed to our dreams.
    A cold and dirty London day
    We smoked our pipes and gazed at the windows
    An inordinate amount of yawning
    The click of billiard balls
    The horsey neigh of Dave Gallaher appraising his poker hand.
    Our ‘lazy day’ before the match against England.
    On match days we had our special routines
    Some liked to go out for a brisk walk
    Gallaher to find a beggar to tip for luck
    Freddy Roberts to find a wall to throw a ball against
    Massa Johnston liked to lie in a deep bath and look up at the ceiling cracks
    Jimmy Hunter drank one pot of tea after another and peed nervously Simon Mynott pretended to chew in public even though there was nothing in his mouth
    O’Sullivan lay on the floorboards of his room
    Fats Newton and Bill Corbett swept the remains of breakfast from the plates of those too nervous to eat onto their own plates
    Mister Dixon checked the team tobacco tin was full
    Billy Stead and George Nicholson set up shop in the corner of the hotel kitchen or rooftop, whatever availed itself, and laid out their trade instruments—pliers, new laces, Nugget, Dubbin, sprigs, some gut thread and needles of varying length and width. At their feet, a sea of boots in matching pairs, left and right toes appealing to them.
    We left the hotel in Aldersgate Road at 10 am to avoid the traffic. An hour later we were wandering across a heavy and boggy Crystal Palace field.
    Some of the boys shuffled off to the pavilion to look at the Egyptian and Ottoman displays. Jimmy Hunter and Billy Wallace sat in the stand, Billy’s eye noting the goal line at both ends, the angle of the posts, placing the ball here and there in his mind’s eye.
    A line of impoverished-looking trees stand on three sides of the ground. They are different from the stricken ones Jimmy Hunter’s seen in cleared land around Taranaki. There the trees left standing are white as bone and bear the shape of surrender. The trees around Crystal Palace have simply shed their leaves and in the dull light the sooty branches look drawn against the sky, as if they’ve never known a decent wind toblow through them. And as Jimmy’s looking, he sees the branches move. He doesn’t say anything to Billy Wallace; doesn’t want to interrupt his flow. Now, squinting into the distance, he can make out a number of small figures crawling along the branches. One at a time, like a bead of water off a sill,