“No One to Really Talk To: A Heartwarming Story of Nina’s Search for Old Friends, Bittersweet Memories of School Days, and an Unexpected Call That Rekindles the Joy of Life”

Author Wanda MirandaReading 8 minViews 5

No one to talk to. A Diary Entry

Mum, what are you saying? How can you say youve got no one to talk to? I ring you twice a day, my daughter sighed, tiredly.

No, Emma, darling, its not that, not at all, I replied, letting out a heavy sigh. Its just that there really isnt anyone left, you know, friends my own age. Someone from my time.

Mum, dont start. Youve still got your old school friend, Judith. And youre so modernyou look younger than most mums I know. Whats got into you? my daughter protested, a bit upset.

You know Judiths got asthma. She can barely speak on the phone without having a coughing fit, and she lives all the way on the other side of London. We used to be a trio, I told you beforethe three of us. But our dear Marys been gone for years now. Yesterday Anne from next door popped round. I offered her a cup of teashes a lovely woman, always popping in. She dashed back and brought some sconesshed baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. Shes at least fifteen years younger than me, but with her, her childhood, her schooldays, its like a completely different world.

What I desperately want is to talk to someone who remembers things as I do, who lived through it with me, I said, knowing full well my daughter wouldnt truly understand. Shes still young. Her time is now, just outside her window. Shes not gripped by memories yet. Emmas a darling, so caringits not about her.

Mum, Ive got tickets for Tuesdaythe evening at the Proms. Remember you said you fancied going? And enough mopingput on your maroon dress, you look absolutely gorgeous in it!

All right, love, Im fine. I dont know whats got into me. Sleep well, well talk tomorrow. Try and get a good nights restyoure always exhausted, I said gently, eager to change the subject.

Yes, Mum. Good night, Emma said, ending the call.

I sat in silence, looking out on the shimmering city lights.

Year eleven, spring. So many plans, as if it were only yesterday. Judith had a crush on Tom Baker in our class. But Tom liked me. Hed call our house of an evening, invite me for walks. But I only ever saw him as a friendwhy give him false hope?

Tom left for National Service. Came back, got married. He lived in old Judiths building. Back then, there were only home telephones. The number I tapped it in from memory. There was a long pause, then someone picked up. Some rustling, then a quiet mans voice:

Hello, Im listening.

Is it too late to ring? Why did I call? Maybe Tom doesnt remember me, or perhaps its not even him

Good evening, I said, my voice a bit hoarse with nerves.

More rustling, then suddenly, that astonished tone:

Nina? Is that really you? Of course its you. Id know that voice anywhere. How on earth did you find me? I wasnt even meant to be near the phone

Tommy, you recognised me! My heart swelled with joyful nostalgia. It had been years since anyone called me just Ninait was always Mum, Granny, or Mrs Thompson. Well, except Judith.

But just Ninathat sounded lovely, like spring, as though all those years had melted away.

How are you, Nina? Im truly glad to hear your voice. Those words made me so happy. Id feared he wouldnt remember, or that my call would be intrusive.

Remember year eleven? That time you and Barry rowed usme and Juditharound the boating lake? Barry blistered his hands and tried to hide it. Afterwards we sat by the Thames and had ice cream, and the bands were playing, Toms voice was soft and dreamy.

Of course I remember, I laughed, feeling lighter. And that class camping tripcouldnt even get the tin of beans open, we were starving!

Oh yes, Tom chuckled, Barry managed it in the end, then it was songs on the guitar by the fire. I tried learning guitar because of that.

And did you? Did you learn? My voice rang with the youth of old memories. Tom brought those days rushing back, every detail brighter.

Hows life now? Tom asked, then answered himself, Well, just by your voice I can tell youre happy. Children, grandchildren, right? And youre still writing poems? I remember those! Melt into the night, wake at dawn You always were full of life!

You were always radiant, Nina. Being near you, youd warm the coldest heart. Your familys luckysuch a mum and granny, its a treasure.

Oh, stop it, Tom, you old flatterer! My times passed, really

He laughed, interrupting: Oh, nonsense. I can feel your spark through the receiverburning hot! I dont believe for a second youve lost your zest. Your times far from over. Nina, live your lifeenjoy it. The sun shines for you.

The breeze moves the clouds for you.

Birds sing just for you!

Tom, youre still the old romantic! But what about you? Ive done all the talking Before I finished, I heard more rustling, a click, and the line went dead.

I held the phone, tempted to ring back, but it was too latebest not. Maybe another time.

What a wonderful chat wed hadso many memories A sudden ring made me jump. My granddaughter.

Yes, Molly, Im still up. What did your mum say? No, Im in a splendid mood. Were off to the concert. Will you pop in tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then.

buoyed by the conversation, I went to bed with a smile. A flood of plans filled my head! Drifting off, new lines of poetry tumbled through my mind

The next morning, I decided to visit Judith. Just a few stops on the tramIm hardly on my last legs yet.

Judith was thrilled: At last! Youve been promising for ages. Oh my, you brought an apricot tart? My favourite! Come on, spill the beans, she said, then coughed, but waved it aside. Ive got a new inhaler, feeling loads better. Lets put the kettle on. Nina, youre looking younger than everwhats your secret?

Ive no idea, fifth youth maybe! I laughed, cutting the tart, Last night I rang Tom Baker by accident. You rememberyour year eleven crush? He started reminiscing and I remembered things I had long forgotten. Whats the matter, Judith? Youve gone quietis it a coughing fit?

She was pale, staring at me in silence, then whispered:

Nina you didnt know Tom passed away last year? And he didnt even live in that flat anymore. He moved out ages ago.

What? That cant be Who did I speak to then? He remembered all the little details of our youth. My spirits were so low before I spoke to himand afterwards, I felt alive again. How is that possible?

But that was really himI know his voice. He said the most lovely thing: The sun shines for you. The breeze moves the clouds for you. The birds sing just for you!

Judith shook her headit was clear she didnt quite believe my story. Then she said, Nina, I cant explain it, but that sounded exactly like Tomhis words, his style. He adored you. Maybe he wanted to reach outwherever he is. Seems like he succeeded. I havent seen you this bright in ages.

One day, someone might gather all the pieces of your battered heartand youll finally remember what its like to be simply happy.

Today, I realised that sometimes what we need most is just a living memory from our pastto remind us were still very much alive and our story isnt over yet.

A Grandson’s Request: An English Family Story “Gran, I’ve got a big favour to ask—I really need some money.” A lot of money. It was evening when Paul came to see her, and it was clear he was nervous. Normally, he’d pop round to see Mrs. Lily Thompson twice a week. If she needed anything from the shops or wanted help with the bins, he was always there. He’d fixed her old sofa once, too—good as new. He was always so calm and reliable. But now, he was on edge. Lily Thompson always worried—you never know what’s going on these days! “Paul, may I ask what you need the money for? And how much is ‘a lot’?” Lily tensed inwardly. Paul was her eldest grandson. A good and kind lad. He’d finished school last year, working now and studying part-time. His parents had never mentioned anything worrying about him. So why did he need so much money? “I can’t say right now, Gran, but I promise I’ll pay you back—in instalments, if that’s alright,” Paul hesitated. “You know I only have my pension to get by… How much do you need?” “Two thousand pounds.” “Why not ask your parents?” Lily asked, already knowing what Paul would say. Her son-in-law was strict and believed Paul should handle his own affairs for his age, and not get involved in things he shouldn’t. “They won’t help.” Was he in some kind of trouble? Would things get worse if she lent him the money? But if she refused, would Paul suffer more? Lily looked at him anxiously. “Gran, it’s nothing bad, honestly,” Paul picked up on her worry. “I promise to pay you back in three months. Don’t you trust me?” Maybe she should give him the money. Even if he couldn’t pay it back. There had to be someone he could rely on in the world. She did have emergency savings. Perhaps this *was* the emergency. Paul had come to her. No need to think about her funeral just yet—if it came to that, they’d take care of it. The living mattered most. She needed to trust her family. They say if you lend money, you should be prepared not to see it again. Young people are such a mystery these days. But Paul had never let her down. “Alright, I’ll lend you the money for three months as you asked. But would it be better for your parents to know?” “Gran, you know how much I love you. I always keep my promises. But if you can’t, I’ll try for a loan from the bank—I do have a job.” The next morning, Lily went to the bank, withdrew the money, and handed it to Paul. He beamed, kissed her, and said, “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best. I’ll pay you back—I promise.” And with that, he was off. Lily made herself a cup of tea and reflected. How many times in her life had she been desperate for money and found someone to help? Now everyone was out for themselves. Tough times, indeed. A week later, Paul came by in high spirits. “Gran, here’s the first payment—I got some money upfront. Could I bring someone with me when I visit tomorrow?” “Of course, pop in. I’ll bake your favourite poppy seed cake,” Lily smiled. Maybe she’d finally get to the bottom of this. She wanted to be sure Paul was alright. The next evening, Paul arrived with a slim, shy girl. “Gran, this is Ellie—my girlfriend. Ellie, this is my wonderful Gran, Mrs. Lily Thompson.” Ellie smiled sweetly. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you ever so much!” “Come in, dear, it’s lovely to meet you,” Lily breathed a sigh of relief—she liked her straight away. They all sat down for tea and cake. “Gran,” Paul began, “I couldn’t say before. Ellie was terribly worried—her mum had a sudden health crisis, and they had no one to help. Ellie’s quite superstitious and made me promise not to say anything. But it’s okay now—her mum had the operation and the prognosis is good,” he said, squeezing Ellie’s hand. “Thank you so much. You’re so kind. I’m ever so grateful,” Ellie said, dabbing at her eyes. “There now, it’s all over, Ellie,” Paul stood up. “Gran, we’d best be off—getting late.” “Goodnight, dears—look after one another,” Lily called, giving them her blessing as they left. Her grandson was growing up—a good lad. She’d been right to trust him. It wasn’t just about the money. It brought them closer. Two months later, Paul repaid every penny and told her, “You won’t believe it, Gran—the doctor said we’d made it just in time. If you hadn’t helped, things could have turned out badly. Thank you, Gran. I didn’t know what to do for Ellie, and now I know—there’ll always be someone to help in tough moments. I’d do anything for you. You’re simply the best!” Lily mussed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “Off you go, and bring Ellie to visit—I’ll be delighted.” “Of course,” Paul hugged her. As Lily closed the door behind them, she recalled something her own gran used to say: “Always help your own—here in England, that’s how it’s done. If you’re there for your family, they’ll stand by you, too. Never forget it.”

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.