Malcolm and Anne

This is a very short story written for a creative writing class, which I very much enjoy.

At this point in his life, Malcolm had learned to be neither seen nor heard, and as two long, sturdy pairs of legs passed in front of him, he put this into practice. He ducked into an archway which led to a dark, decrepit alley and kept his nose out of their business. The same did not go for his ears, however. It was a common occurrence for a beggar in these streets to “overhear” an important discussion of business which may or may not given the details, be of some monetary value to a rival businessman or politician. As this was common, eavesdropping became the unofficial employment of the unemployed in Westborough, a town somewhere to the northwest of London and the southeast of Merseyside in England.
The legs were now past him, but Malcolm noted there to be something rather odd about this pair, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. So he followed them, all the way to the end of the street, taking mental notes of them as he did. The two of them were dressed in the same style of suit, but different colors, for one was a grey business suit and the other was a dark grey business suit. Malcolm shook his head, resigning to the fact that all the men who lived in this city grew up to be the same exact person: a pencil-pushing, sleep-inducing banker, or lawyer, or some sort of “businessman”, as the term was widely used in a vague sort of generalization. They all wore the same suit, but occasionally in a different shade of grey, and they all had the same slicked-back hair and the same dimpled smile and the same confident showman’s voice.
Unfortunately, Malcolm’s thoughts had distracted him and now the two men were long gone, around a corner or across a street, probably blocks away by now. With a sigh, he headed home, where he trudged in the door and grunted off his shoes the same way he saw his father did after a long day of work. His father was a businessman too, and needed no description.
“Who’s that? Is that you, Charles?” came a sweet voice, better fit for humming and whistling to bird-songs than talking. Malcolm’s mother, Anne, appeared from behind a corner with a tattered oven mitt on one hand and an apron tied snugly to her front. Anne smiled at her son, which was the only greeting he needed. Anne’s voice like honey and starlet smile were in perfect contrast to her cooking, which to her dismay did not please her husband and child. She persevered, nonetheless, trying new recipes daily and improvising the ingredients (most of what she required in her “Exquisite French Cooking for the English Wife” cookbook was more expensive than affordable, and thus she was obligated to substitute for cheaper supermarket ingredients).
Malcolm approached the scratched wooden dinner table mechanically, sat down and crossed his arms on the surface before him. He sighed.
“Now what is it, honey?” said Anne, who did not look up from her witch’s brew on the stove. “I swear, it’s this bloody stove that causes so much trouble! And this, this...” she searched for the right word, stomping the floor with one foot when she found it, “Forsaken! Cookbook!”
This broke the frown upon Malcolm’s face, as was her intention (maybe), and he laughed fully with his baby teeth, of which nearly half were loose and ready to be removed to make room for the next stage of dental development, though he would never let his father help him do it. He stood up and went to his mother who, despite having both hands and one foot full (pulling down the door to the stove), returned the hug he gave her around her left leg and hip.
Thirty minutes passed with Malcolm sitting at the dinner table, apprehending the meal to come, which would almost certainly end up being a third of a loaf of bread and some over-cooked potatoes with a glass of milk to wash it down. Malcolm had always thought that perhaps the reason he never tanned was because most of what he ate was the color white. Finally, the food was brought to the table: a burnt piece of fish and some green sticks with fuzzy hair at the end, which to Malcolm smelled rather repulsive. He didn’t bother to ask what the vegetables were, not wanting to offend his mother in case they were not in fact supposed to turn out green. Together he and his mother ate, laughing and talking and enjoying the meal whilst completely ignoring their plates, as was the tradition in the household.
“Try some of the fish, Malcolm, it’s not dangerous I promise!”
Slowly and carefully, Malcolm picked up a bite of the fish and put it in his mouth, chewing as if it were indeed some type of saliva-triggered explosive. It was no such thing, indeed it was not the best fish in the world, perhaps a bit chewy, but it did have the reviving quality of not forcing him to regurgitate or be resuscitated.
“Now if only your father were here,” Anne sighed, “The one meal I get almost right and he’s not even home to enj-”
Anne was interrupted by three knocks on the front door, heavy and resounding throughout the house. Malcolm flinched, his immediate reaction was to hide, but he didn’t know why. He stayed calm and continued to eat the fish, and waited on his mother to return. She had gone to open the door and greeted whoever it was in a polite “Anne” way, and all Malcolm saw of the knocker was that he wore a trenchcoat and a big hat; not a regular businessman. As intrigued as he was, he stayed out of it, preparing to question his mother when she returned to her seat.
When she did, all was not as expected. She had tears in her eyes and was using her flower-decorated apron to dry them, but it was to no avail. Malcolm ran to her lap and held her face in his hands, his face carrying the look of worry and dread.
“What is it, mum? C’mon tell me what’s wrong” he said hurriedly.
She sniffed greatly, preparing the words which would stay in his head for many, many years:
“It’s your father...”