“You’re not anything special, you fool!”
The boy cowered at his father’s feet, flinching from the raised fist.
“Just because you can play the damn guitar does not mean that you should play it. DO you understand me?”
The boy nodded.
“Did you say something?”
For a moment the boy cowered lower, expecting a blow from the fist that was suspended above him, like a weight ready to fall. Then realising he was being givern a chance stammered;
“Y-y-y Yes Sir, I understand.”
The fist came a little lower, but more slowly than a blow and the boy stared intently, watching to see the fingers relax and the fist once more becoming a hand.
“Good. All right then. Now get yourself off to bed. Brush your teeth, young man, and I don’t want to hear any music coming from your room, that radio is for the news and nothing else.”
The boy scrambled to his feet and was gone before he could change his mind.
The man turned to look at the guitar that had caught his son attempting to play, and muttered under his breath;
“Where did you come from, eh?”