As afternoon faded to evening, the crowd packed into the courtyard of the Three Sisters pub in Edinburgh’s Old Town and stared at its big screen with a mounting sense of disbelief.
Scotland, apparent no-hopers before the Rugby World Cup, were on the brink of a place in the tournament’s semi- finals.
Each penalty point was roared to the heavens. Each try was met with near hysteria. And when centre Mark Bennett ran in under the posts in the 73rd minute, the noise from 300 people squeezed into this little corner of the Cowgate might have echoed as far as Twickenham.
The expectation was almost too much to bear. In the few tense minutes that followed, who would have thought such a large crowd could be so intense, so focused, so, well, quiet?
“Four minutes . . . no three minutes — I can hardly look,” one burly man shouted out, to no one in particular, as the clock counted down. Some of his friends pulled their replica shirts over their faces to avoid the tension as the last seconds of the quarter-final melted away.
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But then came the fateful fumble from the Scotland forwards at a line-out deep in “home” territory. Craig Joubert, the South African referee, awarded a penalty.
High on the screen above the head of the crowd, Bernard Foley, a clean-limbed stand-off stepped forward to take the ball. Earlier he hadn’t been able to hit “a bull’s backside with a banjo”, a man in a T-shirt had roared in delight. Now, with unerring accuracy, Foley proceeded to bisect the posts and kick his side’s final, decisive points. The small groups of Aussies around the courtyard were jumping like dolphins.
Ninety seconds later, the ball was in the stands and the Scots had lost. After fizzing like champagne, the atmosphere in the gathering gloom of the courtyard was as flat as a bad pint of IPA.
“No way!” exploded Damon Little, 18, unable to make further coherent comment. Grown men simply stared at each other, speechless in defeat; a few seemed on the brink of tears. Others raged against Joubert and the baffling certainty he brought to the fumblings of that final line-out.
This being Scotland, some remained phlegmatic about what had seemed beforehand to be an inevitable defeat.
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Jamie McKenzie, from Edinburgh, admitted that he was “gutted”, but could cope. “To be honest I came here expecting to lose by 30 points,” he admitted, “but we took it to them right to the end.”
Australians, nauseatingly confident before the game of victory, were chastened. Deb Mawson, of Woy Woy near Sydney, had set up a little corner of the Outback by the bar. By the end of this nerve- jangling game, her laugh was one of relief, not triumph.
“I couldn’t watch for the last 20 minutes, I really thought we had lost it. But I can’t believe it. All my friends at home have been watching and calling and texting me — it’s so great.”
The first few minutes of the game appeared to set the scene for a drubbing, with Australia racing into an early lead. But by the end of the first quarter the Scottish team — and the pub crowd — were exhibiting an exuberant style, the players upping the tempo of the game while the masses congregated in the underbelly of the city roared their approval.
Chants of “Scotland! Scotland! Scotland!” echoed across the street as their team went in with a half-time lead.
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Mr Little was daring to dream. He said: “After the first ten minutes I thought Australia were dominant. But now Scotland have got back in — I reckon it will be about 32–28.”
Before the game, the home fans mingling in the courtyard were distinctly muted in their optimism for their side.
Leighann Dudley, 36, a bagpiper who played to the crowd before kick off, quietly admitted that though her heart belonged to Scotland, she predicted an Aussie win.
Stewart McIver, proved to have the gift of the seer, predicting a last-minute drama after a heroic push in the second half. Mr McIver smiled: “It wouldn’t be Scottish heroism without some tragedy.”
At the end of the game, his smile had vanished.
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Additional reporting by Joe Stenson