No Preaching
Sasha received the letter via WhatsApp, as a photo of squared notebook paper. Blue biro, tidy italic, a signature at the bottom: Your Granddad, Colin. There was also a short message from Mum: He does it this way now. If you dont want to reply, thats fine.
Sasha zoomed in on the photo to make sense of the lines.
Sasha, hello.
Writing from my kitchen. Ive made a new friendthe glucose monitor. It gets grumpy every morning if theres too much toast. The doctor says I should get out more, but where would I go? All my lot are at the cemetery, and youre off in London. So, Ive decided to take walks down memory lane instead.
Today, for example, I remembered how, in 79, the lads and I unloaded cargo at the local railway station. The pay was peanuts, but you could slip away with a couple of crates of apples. The crates were wooden, with big metal staples on the sides. The apples were tart, green, but it still felt like a feast. Wed eat them right there, perched on bags of cement. Hands filthy, nails black with dust, and your teeth crunched on the grit. Still tasted good.
Why am I telling you this? No reason, really. It just popped into my head. Dont worry, Im not about to start lecturing you on how to live. Youve got your life, Ive got my blood tests.
If you fancy, let me know what your weathers like, and how your exams are going.
Your Granddad, Colin.
Sasha snorted. Glucose monitor, blood tests. At the bottom, a WhatsApp note: Sent one hour ago. Hed already tried calling Mumshe didnt pick up. Meant this really was how things are now.
He scrolled back in the chat. Last messages from Granddad were a year ago: swift voice notes wishing him happy birthday, and one Hows university? Sasha had replied with an emoji, then vanished.
He stared at the photo of the squared page for a while, then opened the reply box.
Hi Granddad. Weathers a balmy three degrees and drizzly. Exams soon. Apples go for £1.80 a kilo now. Apple situations dire.
Sasha.
He hesitated, deleted Sasha, and left it as simply, Your Grandson, Sasha. Sent.
A few days later, Mum forwarded another photo.
Sasha, good afternoon.
Got your letter, read it three times. Thought Id give you a proper reply. Our weathers much the same as yours, but without your trendy puddles. Snow in the morning, slush by lunch, icy crust come evening. Nearly gone flying a couple of times, so maybe my times not quite up yet.
Since were on apples, let me tell you about my first real job. I was twenty, started work on the factory floor, making bits for lifts. It was noisy, things crashed about all day, and the air was thick with dust. My overalls were grey, never truly clean, however hard you scrubbed. Fingers always ragged, nails oily. Still, I was chuffed to have a work pass and walk through the gates like a proper grown-up.
The best bit wasnt the wage, but lunch. In the canteen, youd get a hefty bowl of soup, and if you were early, an extra slice of bread. Wed plonk down together at one table and say absolutely nothing. Not that there was nothing to talk aboutno one had energy to move their lips. A spoon felt heavier than a spanner.
Youre probably sat with your laptop thinking all this sounds like something from the British Museum. Well, I look back and wonder: was I happy, or just too busy to notice?
What else do you get up to besides revising? Got a job? Or do your lot only dream up start-ups these days?
Granddad Colin.
Sasha read that one standing in the queue for a kebab. Round him, people were bickering, a radio blasted adverts. He caught himself re-reading the bit about the canteen soup and heavy bowls.
He typed his reply there and then, leaning on the counter.
Hi Granddad.
I do a bit of courier work. Take around food, sometimes documents. No work pass, just a glitchy app. I eat at work now and thennot pinching anything, just cant get home for a meal. Grab whatevers cheapest, eat on a staircase or in a mates van. Quietly.
Cant say if Im happy. Dont get round to thinking much.
But soup in the canteen sounds pretty decent.
Your Grandson, Sasha.
He almost added something about start-ups, but decided it would be too much. Let Granddad fill in the blanks.
The next letter was unexpectedly short.
Sasha, hi.
Courier work, thats serious stuff. I now picture you very differently. Not just a lad at a computer, but a person in trainers, always dashing somewhere.
Since you mentioned jobs, heres a story: I did a stint in constructionbetween factory shifts, when money was tight. We lugged bricks up five flights on rickety wooden ladders. Dust got everywherenose, ears, eyes. Come evening, when I took off my boots, half the building site fell out. Your Gran muttered Id ruined her new flooring.
The oddest bit? I dont remember the exhaustion, just this: there was a bloke called Staneveryone called him Stan the Man. He always turned up first and perched on an upturned bucket, peeling spuds with a penknife. Threw them in an old pot hed brought from home. Come lunch, hed plonk the pot on the burnerthe whole floor smelled of boiled potatoes. Wed all eat with our hands, dash some salt over them from a twist of paper. Couldnt think of anything tastier.
Now I sit in my kitchen and stare at a bag of supermarket spuds, thinking theyre not what they used to be. Maybe its not the potatoesmaybe its my age.
What do you eat when youre knackered? Not takeawayproperly, I mean.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha didnt reply right away. He tried to work out what properly meant. He remembered last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, nipping into the 24-hour Tesco for some budget ravioli, cooking them in the shared halls crusty old pansomeone else had boiled sausages in it earlier. Ravioli fell apart, water went cloudy, but he ate standing by the windowno table to sit at.
Two days later, he wrote back.
Hi Granddad.
When Im done in, I usually fry eggs. Two or three, sometimes with bacon. Our frying pans a horror show but does the job. No Stan the Man here, but Ive got a housemate who burns everything and swears at the smoke alarm.
You write a lot about food. Were you hungry then, or now?
Your Grandson, Sasha.
He hit send and instantly regretted the last bitsounded a bit harsh. Too late to change it.
The reply came quicker than usual.
Sasha.
Fair question about being hungry. Back then, I was young and always starving. And not just for soup and potatoes. I wanted a motorbike, new shoes, a room of my own so I didnt have to listen to Dads coughing at night. Wanted to be respected. To walk into a shop and not count out coins. To have girls look my way, not just stare past me.
These days, I eat welldoctor moans its too much. Maybe I write about food because its something I can touch and remember. The taste of soup is easier to describe than the feeling of shame.
Since you asked, Ill tell you a story. No moral at the end, promise.
I was twenty-three. Already seeing your future Gran, but we were rocky. At the factory, they asked for volunteers to work up northbig money, enough to save for a car in a couple of years. I was dead keen. Dreamt of coming back, splashing out on a new Ford, taking her for spins round the city.
But this bityour Gran said she wouldnt go. Her mum was ill, job here, mates. Said she couldnt hack the darkness and cold. And I told her she was holding me back. Said if she loved me, shed support me. I put it more bluntlywont quote myself.
So, I went alone. After six months, we stopped writing. Came back after two years, with a car and a full pocket. Shed married someone else by then. I went round telling everyone shed betrayed me. That Id gone up north for her, and she
Truth is, I picked money and machines over a person. Spent years pretending that was the only right call.
So, thats the size of my appetite.
You asked how I felt. At the time, I felt important, right. Then spent years acting like I felt nothing.
Dont feel obliged to reply if you dont want to. I know youve got grown-up things to do.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha read it several timesthe word shame snagged in his mind like a thistle. He realised he was skimming the letter for an explanation, but Granddad wasnt offering him one.
He typed Do you regret it?, deleted it. Wrote, What if youd stayed?, deleted that too. Finally sent something else altogether.
Hi Granddad.
Thanks for sharing that. I dont know what to say. In the family, people talk about Gran like shes always just been Gran, never a person with choices.
Im not judging. I recently chose work over someone, too. Had a girlfriend. Got the courier gig and started racking up the best shifts. Was always out, chasing jobs. She was upset we never saw each other, said I was always on my phone or tired or touchy. I kept sayingjust hang in, things will get better.
She said she was done waiting. I said, Thats your problem. Said it harsher, but wont repeat myself.
Looking back, when I get home to an empty room and microwave my eggs, I think maybe I picked money and Deliveroo runs over people, and pretend it was for the best.
Guess it runs in the family.
Sasha.
This time, Granddads letter wasnt on squared paper, but lined. Mum explained via voicemail: hed run out of the other notebook.
Sasha.
Runs in the family, you say. We do love blaming our ancestors. Drink too much? Granddad did as well. Shout? Because grandma was strict. Really, though, its still your own choice every single time. Sometimes, admitting thats so scary, its just easier to pretend its inherited.
When I came back down from the north, thought it would be a fresh start. A car, a room in a bedsit, a bit in the bank. But come evening, Id sit on my bed and not know what to do with myself. Old mates had moved on, new boss at the factory, only dust and a beaten-up radio at home.
Once, I drove to the street where your un-Gran used to live. Stood across the road, staring at the house. One window lit, the other dark. Waited until I froze. Eventually, saw her coming out with a buggy, bloke by her side. He took her arm, they chatted, laughed. I hid behind a tree like some daft schoolboy. Watched until they vanished round the corner.
Thats when I realised, for the first time, nobody betrayed me. She chose her own path, I chose mine. Took me about ten years to admit that.
You said you picked work over your girlfriend. Maybe it wasnt just work. Maybe you picked yourself. Maybe, for now, its more important to pay off the debts than go on dates. Not good or bad. Just facts.
You know whats annoying? We so rarely just say, Sorry, but this matters more to me than you right now. Instead, we dress it up, and then everyone sulks.
Not telling you to go running back to her, mindI honestly dont know if you should. Maybe, some day, youll be outside someone elses window and realise you could have just said how you really felt.
Your old Granddad, Colin.
Sasha sat on the windowsill in his hall corridor, phone warming his palm. Outside, cars skimmed through puddles, someone smoked by the entrance. Thumping bass came from the next room.
He thought about what to reply. Remembered standing outside his exs window after she stopped answering his callswatching curtains and lamplight, thinking shed spot him, wave. She never did.
He wrote:
Hi Granddad.
Ive stood under windows too. Hid when I saw her coming outwith some bloke, backpack on his shoulder, her shopping bag on her arm. They were laughing. Felt like Id been erased. But reading your letter, maybe I walked out of her life, too.
You said it took you ten years to figure it out. Hope I get there quicker.
Not going to run after her. I just might stop pretending I dont care.
Your Grandson, Sasha.
The next letter was about something else.
Sasha.
You once asked about money. I didnt know where to start. Thought Id try now.
In our clan, moneys always been like the weather. Only ever mentioned when its dire, or theres a windfall. When your dad was little, he once asked what I earned. Id just picked up a bit of overtimefelt well-off. Told him the amount. He gaped: Crikey, Dad, youre loaded! I laughed, said it was peanuts.
A few years later I got made redundant. Wages halved. He asked again, and I told him. Why so little? he said. Are you not working as hard? I lost my rag, snapped that he didnt understand and should be happy with what he got. Truth was, he was just trying to work out numbers.
Years looking back, I reckon that was the moment he learned never to ask me about money. He grew up, never brought it up again. Just worked little jobs, humped boxes, fixed peoples bikes. I always thought hed just understand by magic how tight things were.
Dont want to mess it up with you, too. So Ill be straight. Pensions modest, but covers food and pills. Wont be buying a car again, dont need one. Only saving for new teeth nowthe old ones cant keep up.
You managing? Dont worry, Im not about to send you a tenner and a load of socks, I just want to know youre not starving or sleeping on the floor.
If its awkward to answer, just say fine, Ill get it.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha felt something tighten in his chest. He remembered asking his own dad about money as a child, only to get jokes or an irritable Maybe youll find out someday. Hed grown up with the idea that money talk was shameful.
He stared at the message a while, then typed:
Hi Granddad.
Im not starving or on the floor. Ive got a real bedeven with a mattress, not the best, but it works. I pay my own rent, as agreed with Dad. Sometimes fall behind, but they havent kicked me out yet.
I get enough to eat as long as I dont splurge. When its tight, I take extra shiftsend up walking round like a zombie for a while afterwards. But thats my own choice.
Feels odd you can ask, and I cant ask you back, like Do you have enough, Granddad? But you already answered.
Honestly, it would be easier if you just said Im fine, cheers and left it at that. But I get thats because in our family, grown-ups keep everything to themselves.
Thanks for telling me about the money, anyway.
Sasha.
He fiddled with his phone, then added:
If you ever want to get something and your pension wont cover it, say so. I cant promise Ill sort it, but Ill want to know.
He sent it before he could change his mind.
Granddads reply was the most wobblyletters lurching, lines drifting.
Sasha.
Saw your message about if youre ever short. First, I wanted to say I need nothing. Im fine, old and only after a steady supply of tea and tablets. Then thought about jokingif I really fancy something, Ill ask for a new motorbike.
But then, I realised Ive spent my life pretending to be tough. Ended up an old codger, scared of asking his grandson for a favour.
Soif theres ever really something important that I cant afford, Ill do my best to admit it matters. But for now, Ive got tea, bread, my pills, and your letters. Not being dramaticjust listing.
You know, I always thought we had nothing in common. You with your gadgets and all that, me with my wireless. But now I read your letters seems we both hate asking for help, both pretend not to care, when really we do.
Since were on honesty, Ill tell you something you never hear in families. Not sure what youll make of this.
When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. Just landed a new job, got a room in a flat, thought things were about to get easy. Then a babycrying, nappies, sleepless nights. Home from a night shift, hed start bawling his head off. Id lose it. Once, when he wouldnt stop, I chucked his bottle against the wall. Smashed, milk everywhere. Your Gran cried, the baby bawledI just stood there thinking I wanted to walk out and never come back.
I didnt leave. But spent years pretending it was just a bad moment. Truth is, I nearly packed it in. And if I had, you wouldnt be reading this now.
Dont know why Im telling you thismaybe just so you know your Granddads not a saint or example, just a regular bloke who sometimes wanted to disappear.
If this puts you off writing, Ill understand.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha read, feeling alternately cold and flushed. The Granddad in his mind had always seemed like a cosy blanket and Christmas tangerinesnow coloured in with starker lines: a worn-out man in a flat, crying infant, milk pooling on the floor.
He remembered last summer, temping at a childrens camp, when hed shouted at a boy who wouldnt stop whinging. Had grabbed him harder than he should. The lad burst into tears. Sasha hadnt slept all night, convinced hed make a rubbish father.
He stared at the blank message box. His fingers typed, Youre not a monster. Deleted it. Then, I love you anyway. Erased, embarrassed by the word.
In the end, he sent:
Hi Granddad.
Im not going to stop writing. I really dont know what youre supposed to say to things like that. In our family, this stuffs never mentionedthe shouting, the wanting to run. People either clam up or crack jokes.
Last summer at camp, there was a boy who kept crying for home. I lost it and yelled so much I scared myself. Spent the rest of the night thinking Im a terrible person who should never have kids.
What you said doesnt make me think less of youit makes you real.
I dont know if I could ever be that honest with my own kid, if I have one. Maybe I can at least try not to pretend Im always right.
Thanks for staying.
Sasha.
He pressed send and, for the first time, caught himself waiting for a reply not out of politeness, but because he truly wanted one.
The reply took two days. This time, Mum didnt send a photo, just a note: Hes figured out voice notes nowdont be alarmed. I copied it down.
A picture appeared of a lined page.
Sasha.
Read your letterI reckon youre braver than I was at your age. You actually admit youre scared. Back then I pretended I was unbreakable and ended up breaking the furniture.
No idea if youll be a good dadand you dont know either. Only find out by doing. But the fact you even ask yourselfthe fact you carecounts for a lot.
You said I seem real to you. Thats probably the nicest thing anyones called me. Usually its stubborn, grumpy, set in my ways. No ones said real for a long time.
Since were being honest, let me ask: if you get fed up with my ramblings, just say. I can write lessor just birthdays if you prefer. I dont want to drown you in all my old stories.
Andif you ever want to pop round, just because, youre always welcome. Got a spare stool and a clean mug. CleanI checked.
Your Granddad, Colin.
Sasha grinned at the mug bit. He pictured the kitchen: the stool, glucose monitor by the kettle, bag of potatoes by the radiator.
He snapped a photo of his own hall kitchen: sink stacked with washing up, the horror frying pan, box of eggs, kettle, two mugsone chipped. A jar of forks on the windowsill.
He sent Granddad the picture, adding:
Hi Granddad.
This is my kitchen. Two stools, plenty of mugs. If you ever just want to turn up, Ill be in. Well, almost home.
You dont bore me. Sometimes I dont know what to say, but it doesnt mean I dont read.
If you fancy, next time write about something thats not work or food. Something youve never told anyonenot because youre ashamed, just nobodys ever asked.
S.
He pressed send, and realised hed just asked a question no adult in his family had ever been asked.
Phone down on the table, screen dim. On the hob, eggs sizzled. In the next room, someone laughed.
Sasha turned his eggs over, cut the gas and sat on his stool, imagining his Granddad across from him, mug in hand, telling storiesnot on paper, but in person.
He didnt know if Granddad would ever actually visit, or what might happen next. But knowing there was someone he could send a photo of his messy kitchen and ask So, how about you? tothat made everything feel both lighter and somehow fuller.
He picked up the phone, checked the chat and its photossquared, lined, his own S.s. Then put it down, face up, so he wouldnt miss anything if a new message popped up.
His eggs had gone cold, but he ate them all the same, slowly, as if sharing them with someone else.
Nobody ever quite typed the words love you, but it was there, unmistakably, between the lines. And, for now, that was more than enough.
