Free Battle of Britain by Chris Priestley

little. . .” 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.
    â€œStop it! Stop that at once!” 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.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. “He’s a boy! He’s just a boy!”
    â€œYou didn’t hear him.” I muttered. “You didn’t hear what he was saying!”
    â€œ He’s just a boy! ” 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 Hunter’s 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 – it was getting to me far more than I’d realized.
    I looked up. Housemartins hunted for insects around the oaks and beeches. I’d 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.
    â€œLook Dad, I’m sorry about Peter. I was an ass, I’m sorry. But you should have heard what he said. . .”
    â€œI think I can guess,” said Dad. “His father is a Fascist, a Mosley supporter. By rights he ought to be in prison. Peter is just parroting his father’s prejudices.”
    â€œEven so. How can you let him get away with that?”
    â€œLook, do you think I only treat people I like?” said Dad. “There’d be fewer people round here if that was true, I can tell you. We don’t get to choose who needs our help.”
    â€œI suppose not.” I said with a shrug.
    â€œAnd I’ve got news for you, son. You’re in the same boat.”
    â€œHow do you mean?” I asked.
    â€œYou’re fighting for everyone, not just the people you know; not just the people you like. You don’t get to choose, either.” He grinned at me. “It’s a pain isn’t it?”
    â€œYes it is,” I said, grinning back.
    â€œAnd you’ll apologize to Peter, won’t you?” he said.
    â€œYes, I suppose so,” I said.
    â€œGood lad. Shall we head back?”
    â€œI’ll follow you down. I just want a few minutes.” Dad nodded and walked off down the hill.
    My mother was standing in the kitchen washing up some cups and saucers. She didn’t look round when I came to the door.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mum,” I said.
    â€œSo am I, dear,” she said. She turned to face me with a weak smile.
    â€œJust a bit tense at the moment,” I said. “Things getting me down a bit.”
    â€œThen why won’t you talk to me about them?”
    â€œYou’d only worry,” I said.
    â€œI worry anyway,” she said. “Talk to me.”
    So I filled her in about Lenny. She wanted to cry, I could tell, but she stopped herself. When I’d finished she came over and kissed me on the cheek like she used to do when I was a little boy.
    â€œHow’s Peter?” I asked.
    â€œA little bruised. A little frightened. He’ll be all right. But he’s not as tough as he’d like to seem. This is hard for him.”
    â€œThat doesn’t give him the right to—”
    â€œNo,” she