The Making of Minty Malone

‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.

‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’

‘That’s nice.’

We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and fall on their swings.

‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.

She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’

‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.

‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men were hunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.

‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.

‘– hors-jeu!’

‘– c’est nul!’

‘– veux-tu?!’

‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.

‘Aah! Putain!’

‘Espèce de con!’

‘Especially that one, there.’

‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’

‘Bof!’ said his opponent. ‘Alors …’

‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes!’

‘D’accord, d’accord! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.

A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.

‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.

‘Vous voulez jouer?’

‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘Would you like to play?’

‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said.

‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.

‘You play with them,’ I said to her.

‘Not without you.’

‘Go on. I’ll watch.’

‘No, no – we’ll both play.’

‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’

‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’

‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?

‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.

Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.

‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.

‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’

‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone, by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was already at the table, partnering the French boy, whose name was Pierre.

‘Do you want to be forward?’ Joe enquired.

‘What?’

‘Centre forward?’

‘Oh. No, I prefer to defend.’

‘Right. No spinning, OK?’ I looked blank. ‘No spinning the rods,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s cheating.’ I nodded. ‘And no bananas.’

‘I don’t even know what they are.’

‘It means putting the new ball in with a spin so that it goes towards your own side. Not done.’ I looked at the figurines. Twenty-two plastic men dressed in red or yellow jumpers stared vacantly on their metal rods. They looked as empty and lifeless as I felt.

We grasped the rods. Pierre put the money in, and the ball appeared. He placed it between the two centre forwards, whistled, and the game began. The ball reeled and ricocheted around the pitch as Pierre and Joe competed for possession, then it came to my half-back. I stopped it dead, then kicked it forward to Joe. The tension was unbearable as he hooked the player’s feet round the back of the ball, lifted the rod, and then – bang! He’d shot it straight into the goal. ‘Great team work, Minty,’ he said. ‘Fantastic!’ I smiled and blushed with pride, and despite myself I could feel my spirits begin to lift. Two minutes later, Pierre equalised. It was my fault. It was perfectly saveable, but I didn’t move my goalie fast enough. I felt like David Seaman when England lost the penalty shoot-out to Argentina in the World Cup.