Free Stories We Could Tell by Tony Parsons

How could anyone know so little? ‘He was on a
horse
, Dad. He was a cop on a
horse.’
Leon waited. He wanted some acknowledgement from his father. A bit of credit, that wouldn’t have gone amiss. Some small nod of recognition that Leon had done a good thing by going to Lewisham and standing up to the racists. But the old man just exhaled with frustration.
    ‘Why do you want to get mixed up in all that? A bunch of bower boys waving the flag, and another bunch of bower boys throwing bricks at them. What does that solve?’
    Leon’s face reddened with anger. ‘You should understand. You of all people. They’re
Fascists
, Dad. They have to be stopped. Isn’t that what
you
did in the war?’
    The old man raised his eyebrows. He almost smiled, and Leon blushed. He wished he could stop doing that.
    ‘Is that what you think it was like at Monte Cassino? A punch-up on Lewisham High Street? What a lot you have to learn, my boy.’
    This
is why I left home, Leon thought, his eyes pricking with tears. The constant belittling. The just-not-fucking-getting-it. The never being good enough. The being told that I know nothing.
    ‘I don’t care what you think,’ Leon said, knowing he cared desperately. ‘And why did you come? Why?’
    ‘Your mother asked me to,’ said the old man, and Leon felt that twinge of hurt. So it wasn’t his
dad
that was worried about him. It was
her
. His mother. ‘Your mother doesn’t get it. All your advantages and you end up living with a bunch of dossers.’
    ‘Listen to you,’ Leon said, mocking him now. ‘The great enlightened liberal – sneering at the homeless.’
    ‘I’m not sneering. I’m just – I’m just happy to see you.’
    ‘Can you keep your voice down, please?’ Leon said, indicating the sleeping girls, trying to show the old man that he was on his territory now. ‘They’ve been up all night.’
    His father peered at the girls as if noticing them for the first time.
    ‘Who are they?’ he said, keeping his voice down. There was a natural curiosity about him, and Leon thought perhaps that was why he was such a good journalist.
    ‘Someone found them sleeping in the photo booth at Euston. They’ve come down from Glasgow.’
    He wanted his dad to understand. He wanted him to see that these were Leon’s battles – fighting racism, finding a roof for the homeless, confronting injustice – and they were just as important as the battles that his father had fought.
    But the old man just shook his head sadly, as if it was insane for children to be sleeping in photo booths, and it infuriated Leon.
    ‘Dad, do you know what happens to most of the homeless kids who sleep in railway stations? They end up selling their bodies within a week.’
    ‘They might be homeless, but you’re not, are you, Leon?’ He looked from the sleeping girls to his son. ‘You’re just playing at it.’
    Leon was having trouble controlling his heart, his breathing, his temper. He was at that point in a young man’s life when every word from his father’s mouth enraged him.
    ‘I’m playing at nothing,’ Leon said. ‘They can’t leave good housingempty. We’re not going to stand for it any more. The homeless are fighting back.’
    ‘But you
choose
to be homeless, Leon. Where’s the sense in that? You give up your home for a slum. You give up your education for some music paper.’
    Here we go, Leon thought. As if writing think pieces about the cod war is morally superior. As if sitting on your fanny and getting a degree somehow validates your existence.
    ‘I’ve got a friend called Terry. His parents think he’s done very well for himself by getting a job on a music paper.’
    ‘I am sure Terry didn’t have your advantages. I’m sure Terry wasn’t at the London School of Economics until he dropped out in his first year. How can you throw all that away? Your grandfather was a taxi driver from Hackney. Do you know what he would have given for the chances you’ve had?’
    The taxi