When the postman finally stopped climbing the stairwell and began leaving the newspapers and letters by the landing, Margaret Whitaker was first furious. In time she resigned herself. From then on her mornings began with a slow descent down the narrow stairs, her hand gripping the cool railings, and a glance into the old green postbox with its bent little door.
The box dated back to the 1980s, its paint peeling, the number 12 crooked on the side. It creaked every time it was opened, and Margaret often thought it would one day fall apart, leaving her without a way to receive Evelyns letters.
The letters arrived at irregular intervalssometimes after a week, sometimes after a monthbut they always came. A narrow envelope, a neat slanting hand, a faint scent of cheap perfume. Margaret would climb back up, set the kettle on the hob, sit at the kitchen table and peel the flap open along the seam, careful not to tear the paper.
Evelyn lived in another city, a thousand miles away in York. Once they had shared a single room in the medical school dormitory, cramming anatomy together and scraping the last bits from a tin of corned beef. Later Evelyn married, started a family; Margaret took a post at the local health centre, married late, had a daughter. Their lives drifted apart, yet they never truly separated. The letters kept a thin yet sturdy thread between them.
Evelyn wrote about her cottage, about a neighbour who kept planting the wrong tomatoes, about her son who could not bring himself to leave his perpetually complaining wife. She complained about blood pressure that jumps like a rabbit and the new tablets the doctor prescribed. Between the lines the old Evelyn shone throughwitty, stubborn, a touch sardonic.
Margaret replied in the evenings, when the house grew quiet. Her daughter lived elsewhere, her grandson visited on weekends. During the week she heard only the ticking clock, the hum of the lift in the hallway, and the rustle of her pen on paper. She described the health centre where she still worked parttime as a therapist, the neighbours who forever argued over parking spaces, and her grandson Tom, who had become an IT chap and could not explain anything clearly.
She loved the ritual itself: pulling a fresh sheet of paper, smoothing it, mentally drawing a line for the day or the week, deciding what to share with Evelyn and what to keep. A letter was a small evening tally. She wrote slowly, weighing each word as if she could hear Evelyn reading them aloud.
One afternoon Tom burst in with a box in his hands.
Gran, he said, pulling out a sleek new phone, enough with that old buttonpusher. Its the twentyfirst century now.
And Im still living in the nineteenth? Margaret retorted, but she took the phone. Thin, heavy, glassfronted, it felt frightening to hold. She feared she might drop it and lose Toms scholarship.
Its simple, Tom said, swiping the screen until bright squares lit up. This is a messenger. You can chat instantlytext, voice, pictures.
Why not stick with post? Margaret smiled, a spark of curiosity in her eyes.
Post is lovely when you get a postcard from the seaside. But now you could talk to Evelyn every day.
He already knew Evelyns name. Margaret sometimes read parts of her letters aloud to him. Tom chuckled, What a brilliant friend you have. He decided Evelyn too deserved a little happiness.
Only Evelyn, Margaret hesitated, doesnt use a phone. She still has an old pushbutton model.
Does she have grandchildren?
She has a granddaughter, Clare, a university student.
Thats it then, Tom said triumphantly. Write her a letter asking Clare to help. Ill get everything set up for you.
He placed the phone on the table, plugged it in, entered a few details. Margaret watched the screen glow, loading bars crawling across. She felt both foolish and excited.
That evening she sat at the table as usual, but now a silent phone lay beside the paper, its display showing the time and the weather. She took out Evelyns envelope, wrote the address neatly, and after a pause added at the bottom: Evelyn, Tom bought me a new phone. He says I can send letters through it now. If Clare is around, let her have a look. Maybe well learn together. Though Im an old cat.
She smiled, sealed the envelope, and the next day dropped it into the large communal postbox by the landingnot the little green box with the number, but the main one with a slot for letters.
Two weeks later Evelyns reply arrived: Youre a bit behind the times, love, but Im even further behind. Clare giggles, says anythings possible. She visited me last weekend, showed me how it works on her phone. So go on, Margaret, surprise me. Clare says when Im in town shell set everything up. She might even come herself. Imagine, Ill be texting you like the youngsters.
Margaret laughed, feeling the same mischievous spark Evelyn once had when she learned to ride her exhusbands motorbike.
A month later Tom returned, sat beside her and patiently demonstrated where to tap.
This is the chat, he said. Ill add myself first, well practice.
He typed a couple of lines. The phone chimed, the screen flickered. Margarets fingers trembled as she pressed the reply box and typed Hello. I see. She slipped, typing I vihu instead of I see. Tom burst out laughing, then quickly corrected it.
By evening she could open the chat, type a short phrase, and send it. Voice notes still frightened her, but Tom promised they could wait.
Evelyn appeared in the messenger at the start of autumn. A message from an unfamiliar number read: Margaret, its me. Evelyn. Clare set it up. Greetings from our little swamp.
Margaret stared at the words, feeling Evelyn suddenly very nearno longer a thousand kilometres away, but right there, beyond the landing.
She typed back: Evelyn! I see you, well, I read you. How are you? and sent it, holding her breath.
The reply came a minute laterunusual speed. Alive, dear. Blood pressure still misbehaving, but Im not scared. How are you? Is Tom still pestering you with his progress?
She laughed and wrote about Tom, the health centre, the neighbour who kept arguing with the housing office. Her fingers fumbled, letters sometimes formed odd words, but Evelyn understood. Occasionally Evelyn added a small yellow smiley face at the end of a line.
Thats a smiley, Tom explained, peering over her shoulder. It means a grin.
Margaret nodded, deciding to avoid them; they felt like a foreign language. Yet when Evelyn sent a particularly sharp joke, her hand reached for the tiny smiling face.
Their correspondence grew lively. In the mornings Margaret checked the phone as she once checked the postbox. At lunch, between appointments, she would sneak a glance at the screen for a new message from Evelyn. In the evenings they could exchange a dozen short lines.
The speed of the exchange was strangejoyful and unsettling at once. What once stretched over pages and weeks now fit into a couple of sentences. Before she knew it, she had already sent a reply.
One day Evelyn wrote: Can you imagine? My neighbour at the cottage is flirting again. A old fool, but his eyes still sparkle. He came yesterday with apples, saying lets have tea together. I told him my blood pressure wont let me worry.
Margaret frowned, remembering Evelyns loneliness and her sardonic comments about widowers looking for a free caretaker.
She typed: Watch out he doesnt sit on your neck. Youll never get rid of him. Theyre all the same. She sent it without rereading.
Evelyns reply was almost immediate: Thanks for thinking Im a hero among seventyyearold men. Ill manage myself, thank you.
Margaret felt a sting inside. She wanted to type Im just worried, but stopped. The screen glowed with Evelyns last line, no smiley.
Later that evening another message arrived: And really, you seem to enjoy me failing. So you can write to me in old age and never move a muscle.
Margarets heart raced. She put the phone down, walked to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea. The thought swirledwas she really delighted by Evelyns misfortunes? She had often stayed up half the night after Evelyns letters, fearing the worst.
She returned to the table, opened the chat, trembling fingers typing: Youre wrong. Im scared for you, and for myself. I fear Ill be left without you. Thats no excuse. Lets agree: you tell me everything, I think a minute before I write back.
She added a tiny smiling face at the end, after hunting through a sea of emojis. It felt foolish, yet lighter.
Evelyns reply was short: Agreed. A minute of thought is a revolution for you. Im proud. Keep writing, dont quit. And well chatter in the messenger about little things, like girls in a dorm hallway.
Margaret laughed aloud, hearing Evelyns familiar tone in her head.
That night she pulled a fresh envelope from a fresh pack, laid it on the table beside the phonetwo different ways of speaking to the same friend.
She wrote about the health centre where the chief doctor tried to force everyone to work weekends, only to be thwarted by the senior nurses revolt. She mentioned the neighbour downstairs finally finishing her renovation and stopping the leaky ceiling complaints. She even recounted a dream of their dormitory corridors in nightgowns.
When the letter was ready, she photographed it with the phone and sent the picture in the chat. Heres a spoiler. The rest will come by post, she wrote.
Evelyn replied quickly: Youre teasing. Now Ill expect both letters and envelopes. My heart cant take the suspense. She added: Clare says I could send a voice note, but Im shy. What if I say something foolish?
Margaret thought for a moment, then typed: Send whatever you like. If anything goes wrong, well pretend the line broke.
A few minutes later a voice note arrived. She pressed play.
Alright then, a familiar, slightly hoarse voice said, its me, Evelyn, the star of the airwaves. They say I almost died, but I think I just took a rest from all of you. Dont weep. Ill outlive you yet. I have plans. I need to settle that neighbours garden. Let someone at least look after me, not just doctors.
Margaret listened, feeling the tension of the past weeks melt away. Evelyn was alive, still stubborn, still funny.
She hit the microphone icon, heart pounding. Evelyn, she said, trying not to let her voice tremble, if you outlive me Ill never forgive you. And about the neighbour if he keeps bringing apples every day, tell me honestly. Ill come over and sort things out for both of you.
She released the button, fearing shed said too much, but it was too late. The message was sent.
A minute later Evelyn typed: I hear you, love. Its like were two schoolgirls, afraid of being abandoned, yet nobody has forgotten us. Even your grandson, who now tutors me on those little smiley faces.
She added another: Lets do this: when Im in hospital or feeling poorly, you write paper letters. Theyre slow but warm. When Im fine, we chat here, but not every five minutes, or Ill tire of you.
Margaret felt a calm settle inside. Simple rules. No midnight calls, no demand for instant replies, no lingering resentment if the other was busy. Yet knowing the other was out there, reading her words.
She wrote back: Deal. And if you ever want tea with anyone, dont ask my permission. I can only grumble. I cant live your life for you.
Evelyn answered with a winking smiley and: Now thats speech. Ill note it and listen when I start to slouch.
Autumn slipped into winter. Evelyn left the hospital, still complaining of weakness, disappearing for a day or two at a time. Margaret found herself no longer panicking at each silence. She recalled their pact, took a notebook, penned a paper letter, slipped it into the green box downstairs.
The phone rested nearby, another conduit to her friend. Sometimes they discussed the recipe for pickled gherkins, sometimes the news. One day Evelyn sent a picture of her neighbour: a silverhaired man in a knitted cap, a bag of apples in hand.
Heres the hero of our little saga, she captioned.
Margaret looked at the photo. The mans face was tired yet kind. She wrote: All right then. Just hope he isnt greedy.
Evelyn replied: Oh, who would say that. This is the woman who, fifty years ago, shared a tin of corned beef with me and counted who got which piece.
Margaret laughed, remembering the night in the dorm when they ate the last bits of that tin and talked about what life would be like at seventy.
Now they were both in their seventies, each in her own flat, with a phone and a stack of envelopes. The world had changed, but the thin thread between them remained as taut as ever.
One evening, as dusk settled over the courtyard and only a small lamp glowed under the kitchen cupboard, the phone vibrated softly. Margaret lifted it, reading a new message from Evelyn.
Margaret, Ive been thinking. If I ever go, dont rummage through my phone and read messages with the neighbour. Its only about apples and blood pressure. And seriously thank you for being there, even when weve annoyed each other.
Margaret stared at the words, then typed slowly: I wont snoop. And if Im gone first, dont read my old letters looking for where I was wrong. Just remember I loved you. Always did. I may tease, but its my job.
She sent it and felt a weight lift from her chest, as if both had finally spoken the things theyd kept hidden.
Evelyns reply came ten minutes later, a single word: Agreed.
Margaret set the phone aside, walked to the window. Street lamps flickered, a few late walkers hurried home. Below, the communal postbox loomed in the gloom. She knew she would again descend the stairs tomorrow with another envelope, and that at night she would glance at the tiny screen, waiting for a brief Where are you? or a longer, laughfilled voice note.
The world had grown more complicated. One could no longer hide behind the slowness of the post or the distance between towns. Words flew fast and sometimes cut deep. Yet support arrived just as quickly. A simple I feel blue today would be met within minutes by, Lets rant about the governmentit always helps.
She smiled, recalling the exchange, and returned to the table. A clean sheet of paper lay on the blotter, the phone beside it, its screen pulsing faintly. Margaret lifted her pen, then reached for the phone and typed a short line to Evelyn: Im writing you a letter. Dont peek.
The screen lit up instantly with a reply: Too late. I already know everything. Still waiting, for letters and for you.
She read those words and felt that in this blend of old and new, of rustling paper and digital beeps, there was something reliablelike the steps of a staircase they each climbed, sometimes stumbling, but always moving upward together.
She placed the date at the top of the paper, began the greeting, her hand steady. The phone rested quietly, its glow punctuating the room. In that flicker and in the even lines on the page lived their friendship, transformed yet as stubborn and lively as ever.
