little. . .â I grabbed him by his jumper and pinned him against the wall. He was gasping and clawing at my wrists and his feet were six inches off the ground.
âStop it! Stop that at once!â yelled my mother coming out from the kitchen. I let go and he dropped to the floor, slumped against the wall and the skirting board. I just stood there. I looked at Mum and I looked down at Peter. They both looked terrified. Terrified of me.
My mother darted forward and pulled the boy away to the other side of the room shielding him from me like I was a rabid dog. Now she looked angry.
âWhat do you think youâre doing?â she shouted. âHeâs a boy! Heâs just a boy!â
âYou didnât hear him.â I muttered. âYou didnât hear what he was saying!â
â Heâs just a boy! â she yelled again.
My mother turned her back on me and comforted Peter, who stared out from behind her arm in absolute terror. I turned on my heels and left the room; left the house and the garden, walked up over the back fields to Hunterâs Hill.
I sat on the fence that borders the copse. What was happening to me? I looked down at my hands. I felt ashamed of myself. The whole thing with Lenny, the constant tension, the exhaustion â it was getting to me far more than Iâd realized.
I looked up. Housemartins hunted for insects around the oaks and beeches. Iâd never noticed before how much like fighters they were as they wheeled about together. It looked like a dogfight up there.
Two land girls were walking across the meadow below, talking and giggling. A farmer was feeding his horse in the shade of a huge ash tree. Suddenly Dad was standing next to me.
âLook Dad, Iâm sorry about Peter. I was an ass, Iâm sorry. But you should have heard what he said. . .â
âI think I can guess,â said Dad. âHis father is a Fascist, a Mosley supporter. By rights he ought to be in prison. Peter is just parroting his fatherâs prejudices.â
âEven so. How can you let him get away with that?â
âLook, do you think I only treat people I like?â said Dad. âThereâd be fewer people round here if that was true, I can tell you. We donât get to choose who needs our help.â
âI suppose not.â I said with a shrug.
âAnd Iâve got news for you, son. Youâre in the same boat.â
âHow do you mean?â I asked.
âYouâre fighting for everyone, not just the people you know; not just the people you like. You donât get to choose, either.â He grinned at me. âItâs a pain isnât it?â
âYes it is,â I said, grinning back.
âAnd youâll apologize to Peter, wonât you?â he said.
âYes, I suppose so,â I said.
âGood lad. Shall we head back?â
âIâll follow you down. I just want a few minutes.â Dad nodded and walked off down the hill.
My mother was standing in the kitchen washing up some cups and saucers. She didnât look round when I came to the door.
âIâm sorry, Mum,â I said.
âSo am I, dear,â she said. She turned to face me with a weak smile.
âJust a bit tense at the moment,â I said. âThings getting me down a bit.â
âThen why wonât you talk to me about them?â
âYouâd only worry,â I said.
âI worry anyway,â she said. âTalk to me.â
So I filled her in about Lenny. She wanted to cry, I could tell, but she stopped herself. When Iâd finished she came over and kissed me on the cheek like she used to do when I was a little boy.
âHowâs Peter?â I asked.
âA little bruised. A little frightened. Heâll be all right. But heâs not as tough as heâd like to seem. This is hard for him.â
âThat doesnât give him the right toââ
âNo,â she