Ben remembered Ms Oxenford’s role in persuading his dad to let him play, reminding Gordon of the benefits team sports could provide during the difficult teenage years. ‘It’s so hard to get them to participate in anything at this age,’ she’d said, ‘you should be grateful that he’s giving you the problem of wanting to play. We don’t often get parents so … determined to stop their teenagers doing sport.’ Ms Oxenford had gone to school with Dad at Bluebird High. After that meeting Dad said to Ben, ‘Amazing that she’s so pro-sport now, after what those jocks did to her.’ He wouldn’t tell Ben what he meant, but Ben had always been grateful to Ms Oxenford for swinging the argument. He would thank her publicly when he made the Australian team.

‘Let’s go home,’ his mother said, setting off towards The Lodge.

Behind him, Ben heard the conversation restart in a calmer tenor. They were making arrangements to ‘discuss this further’.

‘What was that about?’ he asked.

‘Nothing to do with you.’

They continued in silence. Ben felt uneasy about the conversation he had interrupted, uncomfortable about the hot cricket bat in his bag, unhappy about his dad’s lack of money, and unvirtuous about the fact that he hadn’t visited his grandmother in hospital this week; but always, these days, he felt awkward with his mum.

‘How’s things, anyway?’

They were crossing the vacant lot behind the fire station. A public right-of-way ran through the lot, where the community had begun a herb and vegetable garden. Ben’s mum, after brooding for a few minutes on whatever had been discussed back there on Fishman, stopped at the garden.

‘Wait, what?’

Unlike Gordon, Kelly didn’t repeat herself for Ben. He heard what she said, it just took time to sink in. She loved him and, in the circumstances, indulged him, but she had her limits.

‘Good,’ Ben said.

Kelly bent down to the corten retaining wall separating the herb and vegetable beds by produce and ‘owner’. The community gardeners had initially staked twee painted signs such as give peas a chance and don’t stop beleafing, but more recently the messages had become a more tersely proprietorial meg + jane or pete + liz, and the council had put up an explanatory notice saying visitors were welcome to ‘enjoy’ the garden, meaning look but don’t pick.

Ben watched his mother pluck some sprigs of rosemary, dill, coriander and parsley.

‘Mum, you can’t do that.’

‘I’m cooking pasta tonight. Wouldn’t you like some fresh flavours?’

‘It’s against the spirit.’

Kelly considered him for a moment. ‘It’s a community space, right?’

‘Wait, what?’

‘It can only be a true community space if the produce belongs to the community.’

Ben wished his mother wasn’t so smart. He hated getting into philosophical arguments with her.

‘The signs,’ he said helplessly.