Old letters
Since the postman stopped climbing the stairs and now leaves newspapers and envelopes by the entrance, Ethel Hart first complains. Then she accepts it. Now her morning begins with her slipping down the stairwell, gripping the cool handrail, and peering into the battered green postbox with its crooked number 12.
The box dates back to the eighties, its paint peeling, the number crooked. It creaks every time it opens, and Ethel always thinks it will finally fall apart, leaving her without a way to get Claras letters.
Claras letters arrive irregularlysometimes after a week, sometimes after a monthbut they do arrive. A narrow envelope, a neat slanted script, the faint scent of cheap perfume. Ethel climbs back up, puts the kettle on, sits at the kitchen table and tears the envelope open along the seam so as not to rip the paper.
Clara lives in another city, about a thousand kilometres away. Once they shared a dorm room at the medical school, cramming anatomy together and sharing a single tin of corned beef. Afterwards Clara marries, starts a family, while Ethel takes a job at a community health centre, marries later, has a daughter. They go their separate ways but never truly drift apart. The letters keep a thin yet sturdy thread between them.
Clara writes about her cottage, about a neighbour who keeps planting the wrong tomatoes, about her son who cant bring himself to leave his perpetually dissatisfied wife. She mentions her blood pressure jumping like a goat and the new pills the doctor prescribes. Between the lines her old self shines throughcheeky, stubborn, a touch sarcastic.
Ethel replies in the evenings, when the flat grows quiet. Her daughter lives elsewhere, her grandson visits on weekends. On weekdays the only sounds are the ticking clock, the hum of the lift down the corridor, and the rustle of her pen on paper. She talks about the health centre where she still does halftime therapy, about neighbours constantly bickering over parking, about her grandson, now a techie who cant explain anything clearly.
She loves the ritual: pulling out a fresh sheet, smoothing it, mentally mapping out the day or week, deciding what to tell Clara and what to keep to herself. Each letter feels like a small evening summary. She writes slowly, weighing each word as if she can hear Clara reading it.
One afternoon her grandson, James, appears with a box in his hands.
Gran, he says, pulling out a brandnew smartphone, enough of that old button phone. Its the twentyfirst century now.
What, am I still living in the nineteenth? Ethel snaps, but she takes the sleek, heavy, glasscovered device. Even holding it scares hershe fears dropping it and losing Jamess allowance.
Its simple. Look. James swipes the screen, and bright squares light up. This is a messenger. You can chat instantlytext, voice, pictures.
Why not just stick with mail? Ethel smiles, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Mail is lovely when you get a postcard from the seaside. But with this you could talk to Clara every day.
He already knows Clara. Ethel sometimes reads parts of her letters aloud to him. James chuckles, Youve got a cool friend. He decides Clara also deserves a little upgrade.
Only Clara, Ethel winces, choosing her words, doesnt use a phone. She still has an old button model.
Does she have any grandchildren?
She has a granddaughter, Lucy, a university student.
Great, James says triumphantly. Lets sort it out. You write her a letter asking Lucy to help, and Ill get everything set up here.
He plugs the phone into the socket, enters some details, and Ethel watches the screen glow, the loading bars marching across. She feels both foolish and excited.
That evening she sits at the table as usual, but now a silent phone rests beside the paper, displaying the time and weather. She pulls out Claras envelope, writes the address carefully, and, after a pause, adds at the bottom: Clara, James got me this new phone, says I can send letters through it. If Lucy is around, maybe she can have a look too. Maybe well both learn something. Though Im an old cat.
She smiles, rereads, seals the envelope and, the next day, drops it into the communal postbox by the entrancenot her green one, but the shared one with a slot for letters.
Two weeks later Clara replies: Youre old-fashioned, love, but Im even more behind. Lucy laughs, says anythings possible. She visited me this weekend, showed me on her phone how to do it. So go on, Ethel, surprise me. Lucy says shell set everything up when I get to her town, or shell come herself. Imagine, Ill be texting you like the youngsters.
Ethel laughs, feeling the same spark that once drove Clara to learn how to ride her exhusbands motorcycle.
A month later James returns, sits beside her, and patiently demonstrates where to tap.
This is the chat, he says. Ill add myself first, well practice.
He types a couple of sentences. The phone chirps, the screen flashes. Ethel flinches.
Dont worry, thats just a notification. Tap here.
She taps, sees the words Hello, Gran! This is a test. below a blank line.
Write your reply here, James prompts, pointing at the letters.
Her fingers tremble. She types slowly, Hello. I see. She types see wrong, it comes out sie. James laughs, then quickly corrects it, erasing and showing the right way.
By evening she can open the chat, type a short phrase, and send it. Voice messages still frighten her, but James assures her that will come later.
Clara pops up in the messenger early autumn. A new message from an unknown number reads: Ethel, its me. Clara. Lucy set it up. Greetings from our little swamp.
Ethel stares at the words, feeling Clara suddenly closeno longer a thousand kilometres away, but right there, beyond the wall.
She types back: Clara! I see you, well, I read you. How are you? and hits send, holding her breath.
A reply arrives in a minute. Its unusual to get a response so fast.
Im alive. Blood pressures acting up but Im not scared. How about you? Is James giving you a hard time with his progress?
She laughs, writes about James, the health centre, the neighbour who constantly argues with the landlord. Her fingers stumble, letters sometimes form odd words, but Clara understands. Occasionally Clara adds a funny little yellow smiley face at the end of a line.
Thats a smiley, James explains, peering over her shoulder. It means someones happy.
Ethel nods, deciding not to use them herselffeels like a foreign language. Yet when Clara sends a particularly sharp joke, her hand reaches for the tiny grin.
Their chat becomes lively. In the morning Ethel checks the phone like she used to check the postbox. At work she steals moments between appointments to glance at the screen, reading Claras latest note. By evening they can exchange a dozen quick messages.
The speed of the exchange feels oddjoyful and anxious at once. What once stretched over pages and weeks now fits into a few lines. Before she realises it, shes already sent another reply.
One day Clara writes: Can you believe it? My neighbour at the cottage is flirting again. Hes an old codger but his eyes still sparkle. He showed up yesterday with apples, saying lets have tea together. I told him my pressure wont let me get nervous.
Ethel frowns, remembering Claras loneliness and her sarcastic comments about widowers looking for a free caretaker.
She types: Make sure he doesnt sit on your neck. Youll never get away. Theyre all the same. Sends it without rereading.
Claras reply is almost instant: Thanks for thinking so highly of all men over seventy. Ill manage myself, thank you.
Ethel feels a sting inside. She wants to type: Im just worried, but stops. The screen glows, showing Claras last messageno smiley.
That evening another message arrives: You seem to enjoy me failing. You want me to keep writing to an old woman like you. Ethels face flushes. She puts the phone down, makes tea, and paces the kitchen, heart pounding. The thought of Claras health, the endless worries, swirl.
The next day at the health centre she works, but her mind keeps drifting back to those words. She wonders if shes being cruel.
Later the phone buzzes. Its James: Gran, how are you? Still using the phone? She replies briefly: All good at work. Ill call later.
Clara remains silent.
On the third day Ethel cant stand it and dials Claras number. She hears endless rings, no answer. She hangs up, tries againsame silence.
Maybe shes at the cottage with no signal, she tells herself, but anxiety only grows.
That night, just as she is about to write a long apology, a notification pops up: a new voice message.
She taps the triangle cautiously. A rustle, then a young womans voice.
Hello, Ethel, this is Lucy. Grandmother is in hospital. She had a heart attack. Shes in intensive care now but improving. I found your number in her phone. She asked me to tell you she isnt angry and will write as soon as she can. Sorry for the recording, Im between wards.
Lucys voice trembles, then cuts off.
Ethel sits motionless until the voice fades. She rises, opens a cupboard, pulls out an old envelope folder, grabs a fresh sheet, and sits at the table. Her hand writes automatically: Dear Clara.
She writes at length, explaining how scared she was when the messages stopped, how foolish their argument seemed, how no man is worth tearing a decadeslong friendship over, how shell be happy if Clara enjoys a cup of tea with anyone, even a neighbour. She omits her own fears, focusing on Claras wellbeing.
The envelope becomes thick. She seals it, writes the address, descends the stairs and drops it into the slot of the communal postbox.
The next day she sends Lucy a cautious message: Lucy, hello. Ive sent a letter to Grandma. How is she?
Lucy replies within hours: Shes better. Moved to a ward. Still weak but already complaining about the foodgood sign. I read your note to her. She listened, wept, called you stubborn but good. Shell write when shes stronger.
Ethel smiles through tears. Stubborn but goodalmost a compliment.
Days pass. She works, watches the news, occasionally calls her daughter. The phone sits nearby, a small window that no one yet looks through.
A week later a new message appears, this time from Clara.
Ethel, Im writing slowly, my hand shakes. Your progress almost killed me. Lucy says its a joke. I dont really believe her. But dont be angry. I lost my temper. Youre great, toogrouping all men under one brush. I just wanted to feel alive, not just an old woman with tablets. Do you get me?
Ethel rereads it several times, then types back:
I get you. I also sometimes want to feel more than a therapist and gran. Sorry for the advice. Im scared for you and for myself. I fear being left behind. Thats no excuse. Lets agree: you tell me everything you want, I think first, then writeat least a minutes pause.
She adds a shy smiley at the end, after hunting through dozens of icons.
Claras reply is brief: Agreed. A minute to think is revolutionary for you. Im proud. Keep sending letters, dont quit. And well chat in the messenger about the little things, like girls in the dorm hallway.
Ethel bursts out laughing, hearing Claras voice in her head, with that distinctive tone.
That evening she pulls a fresh envelope from the pack, places it on the table beside the phonetwo ways to talk to the same person.
She writes about the health centres chief trying to force everyone onto a weekend shift, the senior nurse leading a revolt, the downstairs neighbour finally finishing a renovation and stopping complaints about a leaking ceiling, and a dream of their dorm days sprinting down corridors in gowns.
When the letter is ready, she photographs it with the phone and sends the picture in the chat.
Heres a spoiler. The rest will come by post, she writes.
Clara replies almost instantly: Youre teasing. Now Ill expect both a letter and an envelope. My heart cant take that intrigue.
She adds: Lucy says I could send a voice note, but Im shy. What if I say the wrong thing?
Ethel thinks a moment, then types: Send whatever you want. If you need, we can pretend the connection broke.
A few minutes later a voice note arrives. Ethel taps it.
Alright, Claras slightly hoarse voice cracks, here I am, the radio star. They say I almost died, but I think I just rested, taking a break from all of you. Dont cry. Ill outlive you. I have plans. I need to sort out that neighbour. Maybe someone will finally look after me, not the doctors.
Ethel listens, feeling weeks of tension melt away. Clara is alive, still cheeky, still laughing.
She presses the microphone icon, her heart thudding.
Clara, she says, trying not to let her voice wobble, if you outlive me, I wont forgive you. And about the neighbour if he keeps bringing apples every day, tell me honestly. Ill come and sort things out for both of you.
She releases the button, uneasy about what shes said, but its too late. The message is sent.
Within a minute Clara replies in the chat: I hear you. It feels like were two schoolgirls, scared of being abandoned, yet neither of us has been forgotten. Even your grandson, who now teaches me how to use these little faces, remembers us.
Another message follows: Lets agree. When Im in hospital or feeling bad, you write paper letters. Theyre slow but warm. When Im fine, we gab in this messengerbut not every five minutes, or Ill tire of you.
Ethel feels a calm settle inside. Simple rules, clear and understood. No midnight calls, no demand for instant replies, no resentment if the other is busy. And knowing the other is out there, reading her words, brings comfort.
She writes back: Deal. And one more thingif you ever want to have tea with anyone, dont ask my permission. I can only grumble. I cant live for you.
Clara sends a winking smiley and a line: Now thats speech. Ill note it and listen when I start to falter.
Autumn slips into winter. Clara leaves the hospital, still complaining of weakness. She sometimes disappears for a day or two. Ethel no longer panics at every silence; she remembers their agreement, grabs a notebook, writes a paper letter, folds it, and drops it into the postbox down the hallway.
The phone rests nearby, another way to reach her friend. They exchange recipes for pickled cucumbers, discuss the news, and occasionally share photoslike a snapshot Clara sends of her neighbour, a silverhaired man in a knitted cap, apple bag in hand.
Heres the hero of our little saga, Clara captioned.
Ethel studies the picture, sees a tired yet kind face, and writes: Nothing much. Just hope he isnt greedy.
Clara replies: Oh, who would have thought? This is the woman who, fifty years ago, shared a tin of corned beef with me and counted the bites.
Ethel laughs, recalling that night in the dormitory, sitting on a cot, eating the tin together and dreaming about what life would be like at seventy. Now they are both in their seventies, each in her own flat, with a phone and a stack of envelopes. The world has changed, but the thread between them remains.
One evening, as darkness settles outside and a small lamp glows under the cupboard, the phone vibrates softly. A new message from Clara reads:
Ethel, Ive been thinking. If I ever go, dont dig through my phone and read my chats with the neighbour. Its only about apples and pressure. But seriously thank you for being there, even when we irritate each other. I love you.
Ethel stares at the words, then slowly types: I wont snoop. And if Im gone first, please dont read my old letters looking for where I was wrong. Just remember I loved you. And loved annoying youthats my job.
She sends it and feels a weight lift. The street outside is lit by streetlamps, a few late walkers hurrying home. Below the entrance, the postbox sits in the shadows. She knows tomorrow shell walk down with another envelope, and tonight shell gaze at the tiny screen, awaiting a quick where are you? or a long voice message.
The world feels a bit more complicated. You cant hide behind slow mail or distance. Words fly fast and sometimes sting, but support arrivesAnd as the winter wind whispered through the thin curtains, Ethel tucked the phone beside the kettle, smiled at the thought that friendshipwhether penned on paper or blinking on a screenwould keep them warm for the rest of their days.
