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He was a math teacher in a neighbouring town, so she felt he should have known better, but nonetheless he repeatedly made a spectacle of himself: had it been Ryan, Mary would have been ashamed, and would have asked him either to change his behaviour, or cease attending the games. She wondered what the math teacher thought he looked like – maybe he thought he came over as encouraging – and whether he was aware of the reputation he had created for himself.

Then there were the ones who watched in silence, arms folded, their stern expressions saying I disapprove of some aspect of this, but I’m not the kind of person who makes a fuss. However, since I want my disapproval to be public, I’m going to make sure it’s obvious. There were the ones who muttered to themselves, eyebrows raised, letting it be known they could coach better or referee more judiciously or select a more balanced, successful team. There were the ones who were only interested in their own kid, who didn’t care about the result or who played well as long as their offspring was doing OK. These ones were silent the entire time, until their child did something, however mediocre, at which they erupted in an acclamation of their offspring’s contribution. And there were the ones – Byron was the epitome of this – who knew it was unseemly to show they cared but cared more than anyone else, who were so intensely competitive that it hurt them when another player outshone their child. You could tell them from their clenched smiles when someone else’s did something noteworthy.

At the games they could not hide the truth of who they were. In other areas of life they did so successfully, but not when it came to watching their kids on a sports field. On those occasions the curtain slipped and the jealous or anxious or mean-spirited truth of who they really were was on full display.

As for Mary – well, she just showed up to watch. At least she thought she did. She didn’t care how Otis or Sally performed – well, she cared a bit – but in general she was not really even paying attention. She wondered whether people thought that was an act, too, whether they thought that inside she was a seething mass of rage and angst. She wasn’t; as long as Otis or Sally seemed happy, she was fine with whatever happened. Maybe she should be more invested, more pushy. Perhaps that was the way to build a successful child, but she found that she hated even the thought that that was what she was doing. Building a child? It sounded so cold, so mechanical. What about loving a child? Wasn’t that what she was doing? And what was a successful child anyway? One who went to an expensive college and got a high-paying job? She just wanted her kids to be good citizens, kind and well-balanced people with lots of friends and a loving family. She wanted them to be happy.

In fact, not even happy. Content would do. Or just not unhappy. Pain-free. That was what she wanted.

That didn’t mean they could do whatever they wanted, though. It certainly didn’t mean Sally would be hanging out with Dylan, however happy she thought it would make her. Although if she truly loved Dylan – no, Mary pushed away the thought. She did not want to open the door to that possibility.

It wasn’t only individuals whose true selves came out on the sideline. The town too revealed itself. Barrow was mixed, socially: there were the professors at Hardy College and their families, the doctors and lawyers and insurance executives who had moved there as the town slowly gentrified, the wealthy retirees who loved the warm summers and access to the ocean and small-town amenities and who headed south to their Floridian condos when the snows arrived, but there were also the families who had been in Barrow for generations, the lobstermen and nurses and tradesmen, as well as the people who lived in the trailer parks that, although hidden behind walls or screened by trees, surrounded the town. That mix was reflected on the field: slightly scruffy uniforms, no names on the back, the games played on a field that was only infrequently mowed. Barrow was in the middle: to the people who came from the post-industrial mill towns up north they were posh; to those from Portland and its commuter satellites, with their brand-new uniforms and coaches in town-branded sweatpants and jackets, they were members of the lower orders.

It made you realize that the place you grew up in was hugely determinative of the life you would have, of the views you would hold, of the way you would cast your vote, and of what you would expect from life. If you grew up in a wealthy town, where everyone went to college and drove there in a brand-new Audi given to them by their adoring parents, then that was what you would seek to recreate when your turn came. If you grew up in Barrow, where summer weekends were spent fishing or hiking or swimming in the ocean and lakes and rivers, and winter weekends were spent skiing or snow-shoeing or skating on now-frozen lakes and rivers, then you would seek out those things.

And it wasn’t only the place: it was the people around you. The friends you had from childhood through high school would be friends for life. Others would come: from college or the workplace, or the parents you met at your kids’ playgroups, but none would be quite the same as the friendships you had with the people you grew up with. Those friendships were more than just relationships: they were part of the environment that had shaped you. You had grown with those people, your contours fitting themselves to theirs.

Mary had spent her childhood here, and many of her friends were still around. It was a source of great comfort. Without them she would have felt bereft in some way. It was different for Ryan. He had moved here as an adult, not long before they met, and, even though he had made friends with many of his peers, it was not quite the same. He was a little apart from them, forever a newcomer, because friendships you made as an adult were never the same. They couldn’t be. You had limited time for them. There were other priorities – kids, career, your ageing parents – so it was hard to invest in new friendships. Perhaps it changed when you were retired and the kids were gone and you were able to set off on the last chapter of your life joined at the hip with some new companions.

Mary glanced along the touchline to see Ryan walking towards her. She waved, and he walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek.

‘How’s the game going?’

‘They’re winning,’ Mary said.

‘Score?’

‘Four–one.’

Ryan pursed his lips in approval. ‘Four–one, against Yarmouth? We’ll take that. I wish I’d seen more of it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Can’t be long left?’

The referee blew his whistle, and a chorus of cheers came from the Barrow players on the other touchline. Mary watched the post-match formalities: handshakes, the team huddling to congratulate each other.

She took Ryan’s hand. ‘Shall we go? Otis will want to stay to watch JV.’

Ryan nodded, then glanced up the touchline. ‘Sounds good. Although you may have company.’

Mary followed his gaze. Rona was walking towards them.

‘How did the game go?’ she said. ‘I was caught up in something, or I would have loved to watch.’

This, Mary knew, was as far from the truth as it was possible to be. She hadn’t been caught up in something; there was no way Rona would have watched the varsity team if Faulkner was not in it; it was too public a reminder of his having missed out.

‘They won,’ Ryan said. ‘Played really well. Forkie plays next, right, in the JV team?’

Ryan was looking at Rona with an expression of honest interest, but behind it Mary saw a hint of something more mischievous. Was this deliberate? Was he rubbing in the fact that her son was not playing? Mary hoped not.

‘Is Byron here?’ she asked.

‘He’s parking the car.’ Rona turned to look over her shoulder. ‘In fact he’s on his way over now.’

Byron sauntered over to them. He was wearing a pair of canvas work pants splattered with paint and a Biggie Smalls T-shirt. Mary was pretty sure he had never painted anything in his life, which would suggest he had bought a pair of pre-spattered work pants.

‘Yo,’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘Wassup?’

Ryan smirked. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘How are you, Byron?’

This was a deliberate attempt to highlight, by being more formal than the occasion called for, Byron’s ridiculous use of teen slang. Mary glanced at Ryan, her eyebrows raised in warning.