When we arrived, half an hour before the performance was due to start, there was already a queue lined up along the wooden porch that ran the length of the pre-school building, spilling out onto the shallow steps alongside the ramp. They were mainly mums, with a few dads and grandparents, all huddled in their anoraks and hats and scarves. Mark, who had taken the morning off work, was the only one there in a suit and overcoat.

He did not look best impressed. ‘Looks like we should have got here even earlier,’ he grumbled.

‘We should still be able to get seats. I hadn’t realised it was going to be quite so popular.’

Mark looked round at the Portakabin that housed the pre-school, and the outdoor play area with its old tyres to sit on and faded plastic ride-on toys. The fence that separated the pre-school play area from the neighbouring primary school playground was decorated with hangings crafted from old CDs that the children had covered with glitter and stick-on jewels. To my eyes, it looked cheerful and friendly. But it seemed that wasn’t how it appeared to Mark.

‘I do wonder if this is really the best we can do for her,’ he said, not quite quietly enough for only me to hear. ‘We need to help her get on, not hold her back. Especially now, while she’s so little. The brain is just like a sponge at that age, soaking everything in. We need to make sure she’s in the right environment.’

The dad who was ahead of us in the queue, who was scrawny but tough-looking and had the air of being up for a fight, turned round to give us a brief, baleful stare.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ I hissed at Mark, ‘if you’re going to criticise the place, keep your voice down. Can’t we talk about it later?’

Mark had the grace to look a little sheepish.

‘It’s just, you know… I want the best for her.’

‘I know. Me too.’

And then, as if there was no point talking to me at all if we couldn’t discuss what was really on his mind, he got out his phone and gave that all his attention instead.

One of the mums I sometimes chatted to joined the lengthening queue, spotted me and waved. I waved back and hoped she wouldn’t see me with Mark engrossed by his phone and assume we had a terrible marriage. Anyway, it was just as well she was too far back in the queue for me to need to try to introduce her, because I couldn’t remember her name. I thought of her as Lydia’s mum, and probably she thought of me as Daisy’s mum. This was how it was, for all of us: inside the school gates, we belonged to our children.

Mark put his phone away, turned to me and said, ‘Have you got the tickets?’

I fished the two copies of the show programme that had been sent home in advance out of my handbag and held them out to him. He took one, opened it, briefly scanned it, and then folded it and stuffed it in his pocket without comment.