In Touch
Mornings for Margaret Atwood always began in precisely the same pattern. She’d boil water in her battered old kettle, then add two spoonfuls of loose tea to her round-bellied teapot the one shed cherished ever since her children were small and the world felt as if it was all still ahead. While the water simmered, shed flick on the kitchen radio and half-listen to the morning news. The announcers’ voices were more familiar to her than most faces.
A clock with bright yellow hands hung on the wall above her telephone. The hands ticked along as faithfully as ever, but the ring of the landline beneath the clock had grown rare. In days past it would rattle cheerfully each evening: friends calling to discuss the latest soap episode or reminisce about ailments and garden weather. Now, her friends were either unwell, living closer to their children in other towns, or, sadly, gone altogether. The heavy phone still rested in its corner, its receiver fitting comfortably in her palm like an old friend. Margaret would sometimes stroke it as she passed, as if checking whether this way of connecting with the world was still alive.
Her children contacted each other by mobile, she knew whenever they visited, their hands were never free of those glowing devices. Her son could fall silent mid-conversation, gaze slipping onto the glowing screen, mutter Just a second, and tap away at the glass. Her granddaughter, a thin slip of a girl with a neat braid and the quick fingers of a pianist, seemed almost fused to her phone: friends, games, lessons, music, all lived inside it.
Margaret herself had a little mobile a clunky old thing with buttons bought the first time shed ended up in hospital with high blood pressure.
So we can always get hold of you, her son had said then.
The device, nestled in its grey case on the hallway shelf, was rarely remembered. Often it would be buried at the bottom of her bag under handkerchiefs and supermarket receipts. The phone only rang now and then, and when it did, shed often fumble with the buttons, missing the call, then berate herself for her slowness.
She turned seventy-five that day. The number seemed foreign to her. Inside, she still felt a good ten years younger, maybe even fifteen. But the date in her passport, alas, did not lie. Her morning rolled along its usual routine: tea, radio, a brief set of stretches for her creaky joints, as shown by the GP at the surgery. Afterwards she set a salad ready, made the evening before, and placed a pie on the table. The children had promised to come by at two.
It still amused her that birthdays were now discussed not over the phone but in something her son called a group chat. Once hed explained:
We sort everything out in the family chat, Mum. Ill show you one day.
He never had. For her, the word chat belonged to another world, where people lived in tiny boxes and spoke with written words.
They swept in at two. First, grandson Tom tumbled into the hallway, backpack and headphones in tow; then quietly, granddaughter Alice slipped in behind. Her son and daughter-in-law entered last, weighed down by bags. The flat was all at once crowded and bustling. It smelled of bakery pastries, daughter-in-law’s perfume, and a sharp, fresh scent Margaret couldnt quite place.
Mum, happy birthday, her son said, giving her a brisk, tight hug as if he had somewhere else still to be.
Gifts piled on the table. Flowers found their way into a vase. Alice immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password. Her son, frowning, dug around his pocket for the scrap of paper and began dictating a muddle of numbers and letters that left Margarets head spinning.
Gran, why arent you in the chat? Tom asked, slipping off his trainers and heading into the kitchen. Thats where everything happens.
What on earth would I do there? she demurred, nudging the plate of pie toward him. The mobile I have is plenty for me.
Mum, the daughter-in-law interjected, thats sort of why we She glanced at her husband. Well, we have a present for you.
Her son reached into a carrier and presented a neat white box, crisp and glossy with a glinting design. A ripple of anxiety went through Margaret; she already knew what it would be.
A smartphone, he announced, as one would a diagnosis. A good one not the fanciest, but solid. Camera, internet, the works.
What would I want that for? she tried to keep her voice steady.
Mum, its obvious. Now we can video call, you can see us, and join the family chat. We share photos, updates everythings online these days. Booking with the GP, checking accounts You were just complaining about the lines at the surgery.
Ill manage, she began, then saw the resigned sigh her son tried to hide.
Mum, it’ll give us peace of mind. If anything happens, you can message. Or we can. No more waiting for you to find that old thing and figure out which button means answer.
He smiled, meaning to soften the matter, but Margaret felt a sting figure out which button. As if she were good for nothing else.
All right, she said, lowering her gaze to the box. If it means that much to you.
They opened the box together, almost as if unwrapping toys for the children long ago only the children were grown now, and she sat in their midst, less the hostess of the occasion than a pupil at examination. From inside they drew a slim, black rectangle. It felt cold and slippery in her hand. The screen was blank not a button in sight.
Its all touch, explained Tom. You just use your finger. Like this.
He slid his finger across the glass, and the screen lit up in a riot of bright icons. Margaret jumped slightly, instinctively wary of this clever gadget, expecting demands for passwords or who knew what sort of foreign code.
Dont worry, Alice said suddenly, her tone softer than usual. Well set it all up. Just dont press anything on your own yet, all right? Until we explain.
Strangely, those words hurt most of all Dont press anything. As though she might break the porcelain, as though she were a child.
After lunch, the family moved to the sitting room. Her son sat with her on the sofa, the phone placed carefully in her lap.
Now, look, he began. Heres the power button you hold it down. Screen comes up. Then you unlock it by swiping your finger. Like this.
He moved too quickly. Button, screen, lock. The words rushed by her ears as if he were speaking another language.
Wait, she pleaded. One step at a time, please. Or Ill forget everything.
Nonsense, you wont forget. Its easy, youll get used to it, he replied.
She nodded, though she knew it would not come easily. She needed time time to admit that the world now lived inside these glass rectangles, and she was meant to squeeze herself into that world too.
By evening, her phone was programmed with the numbers of her children, grandchildren, neighbour Mrs Valentine, and the district nurse. Her son installed a messaging app, made her an account, put her in the family group, and set the text large enough so she wouldnt squint.
Look, heres our chat. We all write here. He typed a quick message; it appeared onscreen. Soon another popped up from her daughter-in-law: Hooray, Mums here! And from Alice, a scatter of multi-coloured smiley faces.
But how do I? she asked. How do I reply?
Just tap here, her son jabbed the message box. It brings up the keyboard. Type. Or you can send a voice message. Press the microphone and talk.
She tried. Her fingers shook. Instead of thank you, she wrote tnank yu. Her son laughed, the others joined in; Alice sent another twist of emojis.
Thats all right, he said, noticing her discomfort. Everyone gets it wrong at first.
She nodded, still stung by shame. As if shed failed a childs spelling test.
When theyd left, the flat shrank back to its usual quiet. On the table sat the half-eaten pie, flowers in a vase, and that white smartphone box. The device itself lay nearby, face down. Gently, she turned it over. The screen was black. She pressed the side button, as shown. The display bloomed softly: a photo Alice had set for her last years Christmas, the whole family together. She caught sight of herself from the side in a blue dress, brow lifted, uncertain even then if she belonged in the line-up.
She slid a finger across the screen, unlocking it. A wild scattering of new icons. Phone, messages, camera, and mysteries beyond that. She remembered her sons words: Dont press anything extra. But how to know what was extra?
In the end, Margaret put the mobile gently back on the table and went to wash up. Let it settle. Let it get used to the flat.
Next morning she woke earlier than usual. Her first thought was the new phone. There it was, still like a visitor. Yesterdays nerves had ebbed a little after all, it was only an object, and shed learned once to use the microwave, though shed worried it would explode.
She made tea, sat down, and drew the phone nearer. Switched it on. Her palms grew damp again, as that Christmas photo returned. She swiped. More icons. At last, she found the green phone symbol that, at least, was familiar and tapped it.
A list of contacts appeared: son, daughter-in-law, Alice, Tom, Mrs Valentine. She tapped her sons name. The phone buzzed; bars marched across the screen. She raised it to her ear as she would the landline, and waited.
Hello? Mum? Everything all right? her sons voice, a touch surprised.
Alls well, she replied, a strange pride rising in her. Just testing. It worked.
There you go, he laughed. Told you. Well done, Mum. Only, phone me in the app next time, its cheaper.
How do I do that? she faltered.
Later, Ill show you. Im at work now.
She hung up, pressing the red icon, her pulse hammering as if shed walked up a hill. But a gentle warmth grew inside. She had called, of her own accord. Asked no ones help.
A couple of hours later, the phone chirped. Its light winked at her. A message: Alice: Gran, how are you? Beneath, a small window where she could reply.
She gazed at the little box for ages, then pressed it. The keyboard appeared. The letters were small but readable. She pecked at them with trembling fingers. F missed it. Typed s. Erased. Tried again. Ten minutes to write: All well. Having tea. The well was bungled, but she decided not to fuss. Sent.
Almost at once, Alice replied: Wow! You wrote that yourself? And a pink heart.
She caught herself smiling. Shed done it. Her words, in their chat alongside everyone elses.
Later, Mrs Valentine popped by with a jar of jam.
So, I hear youve got one of those what dyou call em clever phones, she quipped, unfastening her sensible shoes at the door.
Smartphone, Margaret corrected, the word sitting oddly in her mouth for her age, though she said it with secret satisfaction.
And? Doesnt bite? her neighbour grinned.
No, just beeps at me, Margaret sighed. Its all so different. No buttons to speak of.
My grandson tries to convince me, too. Says you cant do anything these days without one. Still, I say, perhaps its too late for me. Let them play in their own internet world.
Too late the words jabbed sharply. Margaret had often thought the same. But now that shiny object on her sideboard felt as if it answered, Not too late. Give it a go.
A few days later her son called: hed booked her GP appointment online. She was startled.
Hows that then?
Through the surgery website. You could try as well your login and password are on the note in the drawer under the phone.
Indeed, a neat paper waited there numbers and letters. She held it as one might a doctors prescription: understandable, but mysterious.
The next day, she gathered her courage. Turned on the phone, found the browser icon her son had shown. Tapped, and a white page appeared. She typed in the address from the paper. Each character a struggle. Twice she went wrong. Finally, the site loaded blue and white bands, a few strange buttons.
Enter username, she read aloud. Password.
The username she managed, the password was harder letters and numbers, the fiddly on-screen keys vanishing, popping up again. Once she mistyped and lost it all, muttering softly, surprised by her irritation.
Eventually, she put the phone down and reached for the landline. Called her son.
I cant do it, she said flatly. These wretched passwords its torture.
Dont fret, Mum, he soothed. Ill pop round and show you again soon.
Youre always showing me, and then you go and I have to manage alone, she surprised herself by saying.
There was a pause.
I know, he said at last. Im just busy with work. Lets get Tom round he explains it better than I do.
She agreed and hung up with a heavy heart. It seemed she could do nothing by herself; she felt a burden, always waiting for another explanation.
Tom came that evening, skipped off his trainers, and dropped onto the sofa beside her.
Lets see, Gran, show me whats up.
Margaret opened the website again, showed the screen.
Its all so complicated, she admitted. These words, these buttons. Im worried Ill press the wrong one and break it.
Theres not much you can break, Tom shrugged. Worst, youll log out. Well get you back in.
His fingers flew across the screen; he explained where things lived, how to change the keyboard, how to find GP appointments.
Look, heres yours if you cant come, press here to cancel.
And if I cancel by accident?
You just book again easy.
She nodded. For him easy. For her, a wholly different matter.
When he left, she sat for a while with the phone in hand, feeling as if the little screen was testing her: logins, passwords, connection error messages. Her world, once simple make a call, arrange a visit, show up now called for fluency in keys and unfamiliar terms.
A week on, there was a hiccup with her GP appointment. She woke dreary, head heavy, blood pressure misbehaving. She remembered her visit to the doctor was soon and wanted to check the time. Switched on the phone, navigated to the surgery site as Tom had shown her. No appointment under her name.
Her heart dropped. She scrolled up, down. Empty. Yesterday she hadnt touched a thing. Or had she? She recalled clicking cancel the night before, just to see how it worked. Had she pressed it by mistake?
Panic prickled. Without an appointment, shed have to queue at the surgery stuffy, crowded, coughs all around. She was already feeling faint. She nearly rang her son, then imagined him at work, frowning at his screen and muttering, Sorry, my mums stuck with her phone again. Shame coloured her cheeks.
Taking a deep breath, she composed herself. Should she ring Tom? But hed classes at university and she hated to ask. Instead, she looked at the black rectangle. Both problem and solution. She calmly opened the website. Logged in. Fingers still trembling, but careful.
No bookings were shown. She closed her eyes, inhaled, tapped Book appointment. A list of doctors appeared; she chose her GP, then the earliest date available a bit later than hoped, but not too bad. Tapped Confirm, and waited.
A message flashed: Appointment confirmed. Her name, date, time. She reread it twice. A flutter of relief swelled in her chest. Shed done it herself no son, no grandson.
To double-check, she took another step. Opened her messages, found the surgery nurses contact that her son had saved for her. She braced herself, then held the microphone icon.
Hello, its Margaret Atwood, she said crisply. Im having some trouble with my blood pressure. Booked in for a check-up the morning after next. If you have a chance, please make sure Im on the list.
She sent the message. Soon the nurse replied with a clear, bolded text: YES, YOURE IN THE SYSTEM. IF YOU FEEL WORSE, CALL STRAIGHT AWAY.
The tension ebbed. Appointment sorted, nurse informed. All via that little screen.
That evening, she typed into the family group: Booked GP myself online. The spelling was off, but she let it pass. The meaning was clear.
Alice replied first: Blimey! Youre better than me. Then her daughter-in-law: Mum, youre brilliant. Im so proud. Lastly, her son: See, told you youd manage.
She read their messages, feeling something relax inside. She hadnt slipped into their whirlwind of memes and constant banter, but there was a thread now stretching between her and them. She could tug it and get a reply.
After a calm GP visit, she decided to try something else. Alice had once described how she and her friends swapped endless photos of food, pets, bits of life. Margaret had scoffed then, privately wishing she had a window into their day too, instead of just her radio and the garden view.
One sunny afternoon, with light glinting off her kitchen jars of seedlings, Margaret fetched her new phone and clicked on the camera. Her kitchen appeared, framed on the screen. She edged the lens toward her seedlings and pressed the shutter. A quiet snap, and there it was: a slightly blurred but cheerful picture of green shoots pushing up through soil, a stripe of sunlight on the table. She gazed at it for a while, sensing those sprouts were like herself, reaching for light despite the heavy earth.
She sent the photo to the family chat, typing, My tomatoes are coming up. And pressed send.
Replies bounced back swiftly. Alice sent a picture of her own room, books everywhere. Her daughter-in-law posted a salad and wrote, Learning from you. Her son a selfie at his office desk: Mums got tomatoes, Ive got accounts. Whose days better?
Margaret laughed aloud, the kitchen no longer feeling empty. She imagined all of them with her, each in their own corner of England, but somehow gathered at her table.
Not everything was smooth, of course. Once she accidentally sent a voice note to the whole group, accidentally recording herself grumbling at the telly and commenting on the news. Her grandchildren howled with laughter, her son wrote, Mum, you should have your own show. She felt foolish for a moment, then joined in. Why not? At least it was a living voice.
Another time, she mixed up chats and posted a question about deleting photos to the whole family. Tom patiently replied step by step; Alice wrote, I dont know either; her daughter-in-law sent a meme: Mum, youre our icon of progress.
She still mixed up buttons, remained wary of updates Update your system, her phone would nag, and it always sounded suspicious, as if someone wanted to upend the little bit shed just mastered.
But the fear grew less each day. She learned to check bus schedules herself, and see the weather not just from BBC radio but on her screen. Once she found a recipe online for a pie much like her mother used to bake. It took a fuss of searching, but when the familiar ingredients appeared, her eyes prickled.
She didnt tell anyone, just baked the pie and sent a photo to the chat. She wrote, Remembered my mums recipe. Back came hearts, exclamation marks, requests for the recipe. She took a picture of the hand-written scrap and sent it too.
At some point, she realised she rarely glanced at the landline now. It still hung on its wall hook, but was just one cord to the world among others not her only one. Now she had a new thread: invisible, but strong.
One evening, as dusk crept over the rooftops and neighbours’ lighted windows glowed against the night, she sat in her chair rereading old chat messages: her sons updates from work, Alices selfies with friends, Toms jokes, her daughter-in-laws practical stories. Mixed among them were her shy photos of tomatoes, an audio recipe, a query about medication.
She realised she no longer felt like a mere observer. She didnt always understand Alices slang or decorate her replies with cheerful faces as the others did. But they read her words. They answered her questions. They liked her photos, as Alice called it.
The phone beeped softly. A new message: from Alice. Gran, Ive got an algebra test tomorrow can I ring you afterwards to moan?
Margaret smiled, replying slowly, concentrating not to err: Call anytime. Im here for you. Then, she sent it.
She placed the phone down beside her empty teacup. The room was quiet, but no longer lonely. Through wires, walls, and distance, she now had calls and messages waiting a gentle thread leading to those she loved.
She hadnt become part of the kids scene, as Tom put it, but shed found her nook in the world of screens.
She finished her tea, rose, flicked the kitchen light off, and, pausing by the door, glanced at the quiet black rectangle resting on the table. She knew, if ever she wished, she could reach out and touch it and connect with her own.
And, just now, that was enough.
