You know, mornings for Margaret Edwards were always the same. Kettle on the hob, two spoonfuls of loose tea into her squat, battered teapotthe one shed cherished since the kids were little and everything seemed possible. While the water boiled, shed flick on the radio in the kitchen and half-listen to the news. The voices of those presenters were more familiar to her than half the faces she met.
The yellow-handed clock on the wall ticked on reliably, but the old landline phone beneath it only rang now and then. It used to burst into life nearly every eveningold friends ringing to gossip about EastEnders or their troublesome blood pressure. Now, the old friends were either unwell, moved to different corners of the country to be closer to children, or, sadly, just werent around anymore. The phone sat in its corner, chunky, its receiver fitting comfortably in her palm. Sometimes, as she walked by, shed stroke it, just to check if this relic of connection still remembered how to come alive.
Her kids all called on their mobiles. Or, well, she knew they called each otherwhenever they visited, their phones were glued to their hands. Her son would often, mid-conversation, fall silent, eyes fixed to his screen, mumble a quick hang on, and then begin frantically tapping away. And her granddaughterthin as a rail with a long ponytailhad essentially fused with her phone. Friends, lessons, games, musicher entire world was on there.
Margaret had a little old-fashioned mobile, with real buttons. Her son bought it the first time shed landed in hospital with high blood pressure.
To make sure we can always get through, hed told her.
The thing lived in a tired grey case on the hallway shelf. Sometimes shed forget to charge it. Sometimes it would end up buried in her handbag beneath shopping receipts and headscarves. And whenever it did ring, more often than not, shed miss the right button and scold herself for being so slow.
The day she turned seventy-five, that number felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Inside, she still felt a decade or so youngermaybe even fifteen years. But theres no lying to your passport. Her birthday started like every other day: tea, radio, a few joint exercises the GP had shown her at the surgery. Then she fetched the salad she’d made the night before out of the fridge and set a shop pie on the table. The kids had promised to come round at two.
She still found it strange, that nowadays birthdays got discussed not over the phone, but in some so-called chat. Her son once said:
We sort everything in the family group, me and Emma. Ill show you sometime.
But he never did. The word chat sounded to her like something from another world, where people lived in tiny boxes and spoke in letters, not voices.
They arrived at two on the dot. First, her grandson Ben burst in, rucksack and headphones in tow. Then, quietly, slipped in her granddaughter Sophie, and last came her son and his wife Emma, arms full of bags. The house suddenly shrank and filled with laughter and chatter. The smells of pastry from the bakery, Emma’s perfume, and a whiff of something new and lively she couldn’t quite put her finger on swept in with them.
Mum, happy birthday! her son said as he gave her a quick, firm hug, already half-looking towards his next task.
Presents were piled up on the table, flowers dropped in a vase. Sophie immediately asked for the WiFi password. Her son grimaced, produced a tatty scrap of paper from his pocket, and started reciting a string of numbers and letters that made Margarets head spin.
Gran, why arent you in the group chat? Ben called out as he tugged off his trainers and wandered into the kitchen. Thats where all the fun happens!
Oh, Ive no need for that nonsense, she said, nudging a plate of pie towards him. This old mobile is more than enough for me.
Mum, Emma chimed in, with that bright, breezy confidence she brought to every topic, thats why, actually Weve got a gift for you.
Her son pulled a neat, shiny white box out of a bag. Margaret’s stomach gave a nervous fluttershe had a fair idea what was inside.
A smartphone, he announced, as if handing down a diagnosis. Nothing fancy, but its a decent one. Camera, internet, the whole lot.
What on earth do I need that for? she managed, trying to keep her voice even.
Oh Mum, so we can properly video call you! Emma explained, rapid-fire. Weve a family group for photos and news. Plus, everythings online nowfrom booking GP appointments to paying your bills. You said yourself you cant stand those NHS waiting queues.
Ill muddle through, dont worry she started, but her son gave that quiet, patient sigh.
Mum, seriously. Itd set our minds at ease. If ever you need us, you can message. No fiddling round with that old mobile, trying to find the green call button.
He tried to soften it with a gentle smile. Still, she felt an awful prick of embarrassment. Trying to remember the green button. As if she was already past it.
All right, she conceded, eyes dropping to the box, if its what you really want.
They opened it up together, almost like years ago opening kids presentsonly now the children were all grown, and she was the one in the spotlight, feeling more like a rookie on exam day than the reason for the celebration. The smartphone emerged, black, slim, cold and slippery. No obvious buttons at all.
Everything’s touch now, Ben explained. See? You swipe like this.
His finger slid across the glass; the screen burst into a riot of colourful icons. Margaret jumped a littleit seemed like some cunning trick, just waiting for her to mess up by pressing the wrong thing.
Dont worry, Sophie said, unexpectedly gentle. Well sort all the settings. Just dont tap anything yourself for now, okay? At least until we explain.
Somehow, that stung more than anythingdont tap anything yourself. Just as youd tell a child who might break something precious.
After lunch, the family crowded into the sitting room. Her son took the sofa beside her, smartphone in hand, and set it on her lap.
Right, look, he began briskly. Thiss the on button, you hold that. Screen lights up; theres your lock screen. To unlock, swipe your finger. Simple!
He was so fast with it that Margaret felt her thoughts tumble into each other: button, swipe, lock screenit sounded like a foreign tongue.
Wait, she interrupted, lets go step by step. Otherwise Ill forget.
You wont forget, he brushed her off, its a doddle. Just needs getting used to.
She nodded, though privately she knew it would take time. Time to come to terms with the world now squeezed into these rectangles, and her need to squeeze herself in as well.
By evening, all her important contacts were in the phone: her kids, grandkids, her friend Mabel from next door, and the GP. Her son installed a messaging app, made her a profile, dropped her in the family group chat, and set the font nice and big.
Look, thiss the family chat, he demonstrated. We type here. See? Ill send a quick message.
His fingers rattled over the keyboard; moments later she saw his own message appear on the screen, soon joined by one from Emma: Hooray, Mums here! and then Sophies explosion of emojis.
And how do I? she asked. How do I send something?
Just tap here, her son pointed, keyboard pops up. You type. Or, if youd rather, send a voice messagepress the mic.
She gave it a go. Her fingers shook. Instead of thank you, she mistyped thnak yo. Her son laughed; so did Emma. Sophie giggled and spammed more emojis.
No worries, her son reassured, seeing her tense up, everyone fumbles at first.
She nodded, though a flush crept up her cheeks. Like failing the simplest test.
When they all left, the house fell just as quiet as before. Crumbs from the pie, flowers in the vase, and the white smartphone box were left on the table. The phone itself lay face-down beside it. Margaret gingerly turned it over. The dark screen reflected her back. She pressed the side buttonsoft light flared. On the screen was a photo Sophie had used for the lock screen: the whole family at last years Christmas. There she was on the side, blue dress, one eyebrow arched as if even then shed doubted her place in the picture.
She tried a swipe, just as the kids had shown her. Rows of colourful icons appeared. Everything looked strangecamera, message, phone. She remembered her son: Dont press anything extra. But how to tell what counted as extra, she wondered.
She set the phone back down, cleaned up the dishes, and decided to let it restlet it settle into the flat, while she did the same.
The next morning, Margaret woke earlier than usual. Her first thought was the new phone, still sitting on the side table, oddly foreign. Yesterdays fear had faded a tad. After all, it was only a gadget, and gadgets could be learned. Shed mastered the microwave once, despite being certain it would explode.
Tea made, she sat at the kitchen table and pulled the smartphone closer. Power on, palms sticky with nerves. Once again, the family Christmas photo flashed up. She swiped. Icons. There, a green phone symbolat least something familiar. She pressed it.
Up came her contacts: son, daughter-in-law, Sophie, Ben, Mabel, and the GP. She picked her son, tapped, and waited as the phone buzzed and flashed.
Hello? her son’s voice on the other end, faintly incredulous. Mum? Everything OK?
All fine, she replied, feeling almost ridiculous with pride, just wanted to check it worked.
There you go! he chuckled. See, not so scary. Only, do the calls through the chat next timeit wont use up your minutes.
How do I do that? she hesitated.
Ill show you latergot to dash, Im at work.
She hung upor rather, clicked the red phone button. Her heart hammered, but she felt a warm glow. Shed managed it, no help.
Two hours later, her first ping!a family group chat message. The screen lit up: Sophie: Gran, how are you? Below was a little blank box for a reply.
She stared at it for ages, then, slowly, tapped. The keyboard appeared. Tiny letters but just about readable. She pecked out, one finger at a time, All good. Having tea. She muddled the spelling, but it would do. Sent it off.
A reply appeared momentarily: Wow! Did you type that all by yourself? Sophie.
It made her smile, unprompted. Shed done it. Her words had joined theirs.
Later, Mabel from next door came in with a pot of jam.
So, I hear the youngsters got you one of those, what is it those smart telephones, she teased, slipping off her shoes.
A smartphone, Margaret corrected. It still sounded a bit much for someone her age, but she liked how it rolled off her tongue.
So, does it bite? Mabel grinned.
Not yetjust beeps at me, Margaret sighed, No proper buttons, though.
My grandson keeps trying to talk me into one as well. Everyones online now, apparently. But at my age, whats the point? I let them get on with it.
Thats it, isnt it? Margaret thought. But as she looked at her little black rectangle, it seemed to whisper the opposite: its not too late. At least give it a shot.
A couple days later, her son ranghed booked her in with her GP through the internet.
How can you do that online? she asked, genuinely puzzled.
On the NHS site, Mum. All your stuffs there. You can try it yourselftheyre your login details, left in your drawer, he explained.
She found the bit of paper, neat rows of letters and numbers. Like a doctors prescriptionintelligible, but awkward to use.
Next morning, feeling bold, she powered up the phone, found the browser Ben had pointed out, and typed in the NHS address letter by letter. It took forever, her clumsy thumbs making mistakes. Twice she deleted the lot and muttered a few cross words under her breath.
Finally, the blue and white website loaded up. Enter login. Enter password. Login, she managed. The passwordnumbers, letters, capitalsa right pain. The keyboard kept switching modes, vanishing and reappearing. She got so frustrated she gave up and picked up the landline.
I cant do it, she told her son. These passwordshonestly!
Mum, dont fret, he said, Ill pop round after work and show you again.
Youre always popping round and showing me, she blurted before shed thought it through. Then you go, and Im back to square one.
A silence hung for a second.
I know, Mum, he said softly. Its just, Im rushed off my feet. Ill bring Ben. Hes better than me at explaining.
She agreed, but after hanging up she felt heavy-hearted, helplessa burden to be shown things again and again.
That evening, Ben came by. Plonked himself down beside her on the sofa.
Come on, Gran, show me whats not working.
She tried to show him. Its all so complicated, she confessed. All these words, all these buttonsIm afraid I’ll break it.
You cant break anything, Ben assured her. Worst that happens, you get logged out, just means logging in again. No disaster.
He explained slowlyish, patiently, hands flying over the screen, showing her where to tap, how to switch things, how to check GP appointments.
See? he said. Theres your booking. If you cant make it, you just cancel here.
What if I cancel by mistake? she asked.
Well, youd just book again, he shrugged, no big deal.
Easy for him to say, she thought. Not so simple for her.
After he left, she sat for a long time with the phone resting on her knees, feeling like this tiny machine was testing her mettle. Logins, passwords, connection errorthe world that used to be simple: call, arrange, turn up now expected her to scroll and press and understand.
A week later, it happened. She woke with a thumping head and wobbly legsher blood pressure was playing up. Her appointment was in two days, so she decided to check the time. She did as Ben had shown herlogged on, checked her records, and her name wasnt there.
Her heart sank. She scrolled and scrolled. No booking. She was certain she hadnt messed with anything. Or had she? She remembered last night trying to check what the cancel button did, then putting the phone away, thinking better of it.
Her thoughts whirled. No appointment meant queuing at the surgery, surrounded by coughs and shouts and stale air. She felt panic prickle beneath her ribs.
Her first instinct was to ring her sonbut hed said this was his busiest week. She pictured him sighing tragically to his colleagues, Sorry, Mums lost with the phone again. Mortified, she put the phone down.
She sat. Took some deep breaths. Then she thought of Benbut hed be at college. Besides, she really didnt want to keep roping them all in.
She stared at the phone. This little black rectangle was the causeand the answer. With trembling hands, she logged on again, found the Book Appointment button, and forced herself through the steps. Doctor: tick. Date: soonest possible, three days time. Press confirm. Wait.
After a few seconds, the message: Appointment booked. Her name, date, time beneath it. She checked it twice for good measure. A bit lighter insideshed done it. Herself.
Just to be sure, she went into the messenger app and found the GP chat her son had helped her set up. Heart thudding, she managed a short voice message: Hello, this is Margaret Edwards. My blood pressures playing up a bit. Ive booked in for Friday morningif youre free, could you have a look?
A couple of minutes later, a reply: Got it, Margaret. See you Friday. If anything gets worse, ring me straight away.
She could almost feel the relief physically. Booking sorted, doctor informed. All through this silly little rectangle.
That evening, she typed into the family group: Booked my own GP. Online! Slight spelling mistake, but left itit was the meaning that counted.
Sophie was first to reply: Legend! Youre better at this than me! Then Emma: Im so proud of you, and finally her son: Told you you could do it!
Reading those, something brightened inside her. Not that she was part of their constant chatter and memes, but now there was a thread between her and them. She could tug that thread, and someone would answer.
After a smooth check-up, she decided it was time to learn something new. Sophie had mentioned once, half-laughing, how she and her friends shared silly snaps of food, pets, and everyday nothingness. It had struck Margaret as daft. But a small, secret envy had prickled: their day was always shared, hers just radio and a view of the garden.
One sunny morning, tulip shoots shining on her windowsill, she braved the camera. The screen showed her kitchen, framed by the lens. She edged the phone closer, pressed the big round button, andclick. The picture was a bit fuzzy, but you could see the green leaves bursting through the soil and the sunlight striping the formica.
She attached it in the family group, and after a moments thought, typed: My tomatoes coming through. Sent.
Replies came in almost instantly. Sophie sent a picture of her desk piled with textbooks. Emma sent a bowl of salad: Learning from you! Her son sent a selfie in his dreary office, tired but grinning: Mums got tomatoes, Ive got reports. Whos got the better life?
She found herself chuckling aloud. The kitchen felt less empty. It was like they were all there with her, each in their city, but still close.
Sure, things went wrong too. Once she accidentally sent a voice message in the group, thinking it was just to Sophie, and all you could hear was her muttering at BBC Breakfast. The kids roared with laughter; her son teased, Mum, you could run your own podcast. Embarrassed, she found herself laughing alongat least it was her voice, alive and well.
Other times, she sent messages to the wrong personone time, she asked in the whole group, How do I delete a photo? and received a how-to from Ben, an Ive no clue either! from Sophie, and a meme from Emma saying, Mum, youre smashing it.
She still made mistakes, got thrown by updates, suspiciously eyed warnings like system update available. As if someone was about to change everything shed just got right.
But bit by bit, the fear faded. She found she could look up bus times, check the weather, or even search for an old cake recipe her mum used to make. She snapped a photo of the results, wrote, Remembered how Granny did it, and sent it. Instantly hearts, exclamation marks, and requests for the recipe flew in. She photographed her scribbled notes and sent those too.
At some point, she realised she wasnt glancing at her landline so often. It still hung there, but it wasnt the only thread tying her to the world. Now she had anotherunseen, but just as strong.
One evening, with dusk falling and the lights coming on in the houses across the street, she sat in her chair, scanning the family chat: sons work photos, Sophies selfies with her pals, Bens quick jokes, Emmas cheerful updates. And threading among them, her own less awkward comments: a photo of tomatoes, a recipe, a question about medicine.
It dawned on her she wasnt an outsider pressed up against the glass. She still missed half the in-jokes, couldnt do emojis like they could, but her replies got read, her questions answered, her pictures likedso Sophie said.
Her phone quietly pinged. A new message from Sophie: Gran, Ive got a maths exam tomorrowcan I call you after and moan about it?
She smiled, replying slowly, careful not to misspell: Always. Im here to listen. And sent it.
She put the phone beside her tea on the table. The room was quiet, but it didnt feel lonely. Somewhere out there, someone was waiting to ring or message. Margaret hadnt joined the youth crowd, as Ben would say, but shed carved out her cosy nook in this world of screens.
She finished her tea, got up, turned off the kitchen light, and glanced back, almost by habit, at the phone. That little black rectangle sat there quietly, but she knew she could reach out at any timeand her family would be on the other end.
And, for now, that was more than enough.
