CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peter ran down the stairs to find Charlie sitting at the kitchen table with a big gash in his head, blood trickling down his face and grazed knees. He didn’t seem too upset by his run-in with the concrete garden path, but Mae was a mess. She always did overreact, and he had told her several times not to do so in front of their son. He didn’t want him growing up to be a ‘pansy,’ as he put it. There wasn’t much chance of that. Charlie was as tough as old boots. He was as tough as old boots or knew better than to show any emotion in front of his father; one or the other.
‘Oh dear, another bop to the head, young man. How have you managed that? Who were you at battle with? The Romans? A German soldier? An alien?’
Peter wet a cloth, knelt next to his son, and began to mop his
