Chapter Text
The house was dark and empty when Malcolm finally arrived home. Through the windows, the streetlights covered everything in a soft orange hue and cast long shadows across the hallway. He locked the door behind him and slipped off his shoes, leaving them in a pile. He tossed his jacket over the bannister – he would be wearing it again in a few hours, there was no point in putting anything away properly.
The smell of cooking lingered in the air, something with onions and rosemary. He made his way through the front room and into the kitchen, flicking on the undercabinet lights which filled the space with a warm off-white glow. The dishwasher hummed quietly in the corner and there was a pile of plates and glasses drying next to the sink. A note, scrawled across a flyer about bin collection days changing and what it means for you, sat on the countertop.
Leftovers are in the fridge, kids helped cook – S x
He smiled, tossing the note in the bin. He put the dishes away in the cupboard, giving them a cursory wipe with a tea towel, and wiped down the surface to get rid of any residual water – as chaotic as his organisation was, he couldn’t stand actual mess. The fridge, slightly impractically placed in the hallway (it was the only place that it would fit, it was so huge, and at the time of remodelling somehow the lines of the design became more important than practicality) contained a plate of spaghetti covered in a creamy red sauce and little else. He was reminded, again, how much he needed to go shopping. Or order shopping, his sister was always on at him to just get it delivered.
It saves the hassle, Malc.
Privately, he detested the idea of ordering online; having someone else know exactly what you eat in a given week, have them pick it out, make substitutes for you? No thanks. He didn’t want a stranger knowing how many satsumas and packets of space raiders he ate each week. It was an embarrassing enough amount already without some random spotty twenty year old judging him for it. He had promised his sister he would try it out, however, and he figured he would have to do so at least once just to keep her happy.
He popped the pasta in the microwave and briefly pulled his phone out to check his emails. Nothing had arrived in the last ten minutes that couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He leant against the counter and watched the plate spin behind the glass door, letting his brain quieten down for a moment. For once, there was no urgent matter needing attending, no crisis. Just a quiet, empty house. He ran a hand across his face and sighed. It was moments like this that he felt all of his fifty years, in his bones and his back and his fingers. How was it that he could go to sleep one night, young and fit and on top of the world, and by the next morning he was grey-haired and aching? When had that happened?
The microwave dinged loudly, returning his wandering mind to the present. He pulled a fork from the drawer, slamming it closed with his hip, and carried the steaming plate to the couch. The heat seared his fingers and he dropped it on the coffee table with a loud thunk.
He flicked the corner lamp on and blew gently on his fingertips, seeing the scattered colouring books and pens and for god sake, Amy’s left her fucking clarinet book again, covering the wooden table. He gathered everything into a rough pile, dropping it on the cabinet under the TV to deal with later. As he did so, a small slip of paper fell from one of the books and floated to the floor, slipping under the coffee table. Malcolm debate whether it was worth picking it up before sighing and crouching down – knees clicking, old – to find it. If the cleaner found it she would only throw it in the bin – she was efficient but not very sentimental.
He grasped the paper between two fingers and stood, holding it under the light to examine what was on it.
A drawing, definitely by Amy, Callum didn’t have nearly enough patience or artistic ability (not his fault, he was only six, perhaps it would come, although Malcolm had his doubts), of four people and a horse in a field with a tree and a smiling sun in the corner. Garish colours excluded, he had to admit, it was surprisingly good for a nine year old – he knew exactly what it depicted as soon as he saw it.
He had taken the kids and his sister to one of those family farms; the ones where the kids could pet the animals and learn about how to take care of them and play on some monolithic wooden playground. It had been a rare break from ministers and politics and catastrofucks (he loved that word, stole it from Jamie as soon as he heard it). Amy had been completely enamoured with this huge brown horse – its head was the size of a spaniel and its feet looked like they could crush heads – as soon as she saw it. Wouldn’t leave it alone, even when it was time for lunch. She took her sandwiches and sat on the verge next to the fence to eat, feeding the horse bit of grass. He remembered her giggling every time its nose rubbed against her palm. He, frankly, thought it was a terrifying beast. It looked dumb as doorposts and had curled its lips up at one point, revealing ginormous yellow teeth. It wasn’t something Malcolm had particularly wanted to get close to.
As is the way with kids, however, Amy came tearing up to them, demanding a family photo with the colossus and who was he to say no?
He found himself standing as near as he dared, camera in the hands of some stranger telling him to move in a bit more, just a bit more. He had shuffled, unwillingly, closer to the horse which stood with its head drooping over the fence for Amy to pet. He had cautiously rested a hand across its neck, the coarse black mane thicker and bouncier than he imagined.
Cheese! They had called more than enough times for a good picture before the stranger handed the camera back to his sister. The horse snorted, raising its head quickly to full height and startling him, he jumped out the way so fast he bumped into his nephew and knocked him into the grass. Amy giggled profusely and began chanting Uncle Malc is sca-red, Uncle Malc is sca-red.
To his disappointment, Callum jumped up to join in, the wee traitor, uninjured and covered in grass stains. Malcolm had found himself momentarily embarrassed – heat rushing to his cheeks – before grinning widely and telling them that if they carried on like that there’d be no ice-creams later.
His sister had chided him, smacking him lightly on the arm, and they had left the huge dumb creature behind to explore the rest of the farm.
Malcolm felt himself smiling at the drawing in his hands. It had been a good day.
He turned the paper over, seeing a title written in purple glitter pen in the bottom corner:
Callum, Mum, me and Uncle Malc meet the BFG.
The letters looped together in wiggly cursive – something he was frankly surprised was still taught in schools.
He walked back to the kitchen and fumbled in the junk drawer for some blue tack. Carefully, he affixed the drawing to his wall, next to all the other drawing and cards and newspaper clippings he kept of his family. They were growing up far, far too quickly for his liking. He could still remember holding Amy for the first time, so tiny and red and screaming blue murder.
He dropped into the couch and lifted the plate from the coffee table, twirling a mouthful of spaghetti around the fork. As he took his first mouthful he figured, actually, maybe he didn’t mind the kids growing up, especially if this was how they cooked. If they carried on like this, they’d be Michelin starred chefs by their late teens. He stretched out along the couch and flicked the TV on, letting himself be lulled into relaxation by the BBC 24 hour news channel.