Without Instructions
Yesterday I got a message in my messenger app, but not as a regular textit was a photograph of a piece of lined notebook paper. Blue ink, neat slant to the writing, and at the bottom, the words: Your grandad, Colin. Mum had written, Hes like this now. If you dont want to reply, its fine.
I zoomed in on the photo, squinting at the rows.
Sasha, hello.
Writing to you from the kitchen. I have a new mate herea glucose meter. Shouts at me every morning if I have too much toast. The doctor told me to get out for walks, but where am I meant to wander when theyre all in the churchyard now and youre off in London. So I go for walks in my memory.
Today, for example, I remembered how in 79 me and the lads used to unload lorries at the station. Got paid pennies, but you could nick a couple of crates of apples. Wooden crates, heavy, with metal bands on the sides. Apples were always sharp, green, but it felt like a treat. Wed eat them right there sitting on the sacks of cement. Our hands grey with dust, nails filthy, gritting sand between our teeth. Still tasted brilliant.
No reason for telling you all this. Just what came to mind. Ive no business telling you how to live. Youve got your life, Ive got the NHS.
If you fancy, let me know what the weathers like and how exams are going.
Your grandad, Colin.
I smiledglucose meter, NHS. Underneath, the apps note: Sent an hour ago. Id tried phoning mum, but she hadnt picked up. So yes, he really was like this now.
I scrolled back through our chat. The last messages from Grandad were over a year agobirthday voice notes and one Hows uni? Id replied with a smiley and vanished.
Now I stared at the photo for a long while, then opened up the reply window.
Grandad, hi. The weathers three degrees and damp. Exams soon. Apples are now £1.20 a kilo. Apples are rubbish here too.
Sasha.
I thought for a bit, deleted my name, wrote simply, Grandson Sasha, and pressed send.
A few days later, Mum forwarded a new photo.
Sasha, afternoon.
Got your letter, read it three times. I thought Id write a proper reply. Weather here is the same as yours, but without your fancy puddles. Snow in the morning, water by lunch, ice by evening. Nearly gone flying a few times, but apparently not my time yet.
Since you brought up applesIll tell you about my first proper job. I was twenty when I got a spot in the factory. We were making lift parts. It was deafening, always banging and dust everywhere. I had special grey trousers that never came clean, no matter how hard I scrubbed. My fingers ached, nails always oily. But I was proud to have my own security pass, proud to walk through that checkpoint like a grown-up.
The best bit wasnt the wages, but lunch. In the canteen, youd get a soup in a heavy bowl, and if you were early, an extra slice of bread. Wed sit together and not say muchnot because we had nothing to say, but because we were knackered. Sometimes the spoon felt heavier than a spanner.
Youre probably sat at your laptop thinking this is ancient history. And Im sat here wonderingwas I happy, or just too busy to notice?
What do you get up to besides exams? Got a job? Or do you lot just do start-ups these days.
Grandad Colin.
I read this standing in line for a kebab. People around me were moaning, the radio blearing adverts overhead. I caught myself rereading the bit about soup and heavy bowls.
My reply was typed right there, leaning on the counter.
Grandad, hi.
Im working as a courier. Deliver food, sometimes documents. No security pass, just an app that always crashes. I sometimes eat on the job toonot stealing, just no time to get home. Grab something cheap, eat in the stairwell, or in a mates car. Also in silence.
Cant say if Im happy. I dont really have time to wonder.
That soup in the canteen actually sounds pretty nice.
Grandson Sasha.
I almost added something about startups, but decided it was too much to explain. Let him fill in the blanks.
The next letter came soon, oddly brief.
Sasha, hi.
Courierthats serious. I suddenly picture you differently. Not just a boy at the computer, but someone in trainers, always hurrying somewhere.
Since you talked about work, Ill tell you how I did a stint on building sites. Between shifts at the factory, when the wages werent enough. We dragged bricks up creaky wooden stairs to the fifth floor. Dust everywhere, nose, eyes, ears. Id get home, take off my boots, and leave half a sandbox on the kitchen lino. Your nan would scold me for wrecking the floor.
Funny thing is, I dont remember the fatigue, just one detail. There was an old chap, everyone called him Bill. Hed always turn up first, sit on an upturned bucket, peeling spuds with a penknife. Threw them into an ancient pan he brought from home. Lunch, hed stick that pan on a little hob, and the whole floor would smell of boiling potatoes. Wed eat with our hands, salt from a twisted bit of paper. Ive never tasted anything better.
Sitting here now with a bag of supermarket spuds, doesnt taste the same. Maybe its not the potatoesits just age.
What do you eat, when youre knackerednot delivery food, but properly.
Grandad Colin.
It took me ages to reply. What do you say to proper meals? The image that came to mind was last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, I bought a bag of frozen pies from the 24-hour shop and cooked them in the shared kitchen, in a battered pan someone had just used for beans. The filling leaked, water went grey, but I ate them all while standing by the window because there was no table.
After two days, I wrote:
Grandad, hi.
When Im knackered, I usually do eggs. Two or three, sometimes with sausage. Our frying pans knackered, but it works. No Bill here in halls, but my neighbour constantly burns things and swears blue murder.
You write a lot about foodwere you hungrier back then or now?
Grandson Sasha.
Sent it, then instantly regretted the last question. It sounded blunt. Too late to change it.
The answer came back quicker than usual.
Sasha.
Good question about hunger. I was young then, always hungry. Not just for foodfor motorbikes, new boots, a room of my own so I didnt have to listen to my dad coughing all night. Wanted respect, wanted to go in the shop without worrying about pennies. Wanted girls to notice, not just walk by.
Now, I eat fine. If anything, doctor says I eat too much. Maybe I write about food because its something you can remember by touch and taste. Easier to describe soup than shame.
Since you asked, heres a story. No moral to it, dont worry.
I was twenty-three. Already seeing your would-be nan, but things were wobbly. Factory called for a lad to join a crew up north. Decent wages, enough in a couple of years for a car. I got keen, imagined buying a Ford and cruising round town.
But there was a catch. Your nan said she wouldnt go. She had her mum, her job, her girls here. Said she couldnt bear the darkness and cold up north. I told her she was holding me back. Said if she loved me, shed support me. Was much ruder, of course, but I wont quote it.
In the end, I went alone. We drifted apart in six months. Came back two years later, with money, and a car. By then, shed married someone else. For ages, I told everyone shed betrayed me. That I did it all for her, and she
Truth is, I chose money and metal over a person. Spent a long time pretending it was the only right thing to do.
Thats what my appetite was like.
You asked what I felt. At the time, important and justified. Then spent years pretending I didnt feel anything at all.
Dont feel you have to reply. I know you havent time for old mens stories.
Grandad Colin.
I read it over and over. Shame stood out like a sharp fingernail. I realised I was looking for excuses in the lines, but Grandad didnt offer any.
I started a message, typed Do you regret it, then deleted it. Tried What if youd stayed, deleted that too. In the end, I sent something else completely.
Grandad, hi.
Thank you for writing that. I dont really know what to say. In our family, people talk about Nan as if shes always just been Nannever any other version.
Im not judging you. I did the same thing not long agochose work over a person. I had a girlfriend, about when I started as a courier; got the better shifts, worked all hours. She said we stopped seeing each other, I was always on my phone or snapping at her through tiredness. I told her to just stick it out, that things would get better.
She finally said she was tired of waiting. I told her it was her problem. Rude stuff, but wont quote it.
Now, when I get back to halls at eleven and crack eggs for dinner, I sometimes wonder if I didnt choose money and delivery jobs over a person. And pretend thats just fine.
Maybe it runs in the family.
Sasha.
Grandads next letter was lined paper instead of squared. Mum sent a voice note explaining hed run out of his old notebook.
Sasha.
You were right about it running in the family. In this family we blame everything on our lot. Drinksbecause Grandad drank. Shoutingbecause Grandma was strict. But really, you choose every time. Its just sometimes its easier to pretend its inherited.
When I got back from the North, I thought Id have a new life: a car, a room in the halls, money in my pocket. In the evenings, though, Id sit on my bed, not knowing what to do with myself. My friends had moved, the boss at work had changed, and all I had at home was dust and an old radio.
Once, I drove by the house where your would-be nan lived. Stood across the street, looking at her windows. Some were lit up, some dark. I stood there till my feet went numb. I saw her come out with a pram, a bloke holding her arm. They were talking, laughing. I ducked behind a tree, childish, watched until they turned the corner.
Thats when I realised she never betrayed me. I just chose my own way, and so did she. Took me ten years to admit that.
You said you chose work over a girl. Maybe you picked yourself, not the job. Maybe right now you really do need to rescue yourself from debt more than go to the cinema. Its not good or bad, just is.
The worst bit is were so rubbish at saying outright, this matters more to me right now than you. We come up with fancy words and everyone ends up hurt.
Im not saying you should go win her back. No idea if thats right. Maybe someday youll stand outside a strangers window and realise you could have been more honest.
Your old grandad, Colin.
I found myself sat on the corridor windowsill in halls, phone warm in my palm. Outside, cars skimmed puddles, someone smoked on the steps. Next room over, someones music pounded through the wall.
I thought a long time about what to say. I remembered standing outside my exs window when shed stopped picking up. Watching her curtains, the light, thinking maybe shed come over, look out, see me. She didnt.
I wrote:
Grandad, hi.
I stood under her window too. Hid when I saw her come out with some guy. He had a rucksack, she had shopping. They were laughing. I thought Id been erased. Now, after reading what you wrote, maybe I left on my own.
You said you figured this out after ten years. I hope I can do it faster.
No, Im not going after her. Ill just try to stop pretending I dont care.
Grandson Sasha.
The next letter was about something else.
Sasha.
You asked about money someday. I never answered because I didnt know where to start. Ill try now.
In our family, moneys like the weatheryou only mention it when its dire, or when theres suddenly loads. When your dad was little, he once asked me how much I earned. Id just got a side job, so for once, it was more than usual. I said the figure, he stared in disbelief: Wow, youre rich! I laughed and said it was nothing special.
A couple of years later I was laid off. Wages halved. He asked again, and when I told him the new number, he said, Why so little? Did you get worse at the job? I snapped at him, said he didnt understand, that he was ungrateful. He was only trying to piece the numbers together.
For years I remembered that talk, knowing it was then I taught him not to ask about money. He grew up and never questioned it again, just quietly did odd jobs, fixed peoples stuff. Id always thought he should guess how tough I had it.
I dont want to do that with you. So Ill be blunt. Pensions small, but it covers food and meds. Ill never save up for a car, but dont need one now. Im putting aside for new teeth insteadold ones are useless.
How are you getting onare you managing? Not that Im about to start wiring you cash and buying you socks! Just want to know youre not starving or sleeping on a floor.
If it feels awkward to answer, just say fine. Ill understand.
Grandad Colin.
Something tightened inside. I remembered asking Dad as a kid how much he earned, getting jokes or a grumpy Youll know one day. Grew up feeling money was shameful to mention.
I stared at the text a long while, then typed:
Grandad, hi.
No, Im not hungry or on the floor. Got a bedeven a mattress. Not great, but okay. I pay for my own hallsthe deal with Dad. Sometimes pay late, but no ones thrown me out.
Enough for food, as long as I dont waste it. When moneys tight, I take extra shifts, then walk round like a zombie. But thats my choice.
It feels weird you asking me, when I cant ask backlike Grandad, have you got enough? But youve already answered.
Honestly, itd almost be easier if youd just said Im fine and left it there. But I know thats because thats how Im used to adultsalways keeping things in.
Thanks for writing about money.
Sasha.
I fiddled with the phone and added a second message:
If you ever want to buy something and your pensions not enough, just tell me. I cant promise, but at least Id know.
Sent it quickly before changing my mind.
Grandads reply was the messiest yet. Scribbly lines wandering off the edge.
Sasha.
I read your message about if you need it. At first, I wanted to say I dont need anything, got it all, just give me my pills. I nearly joked Id ask you for a new motorbike if I got desperate.
Then I thought about how Ive spent my life acting the tough bloke who never needs help. And now Im an old chap scared to ask his grandson for the littlest thing.
So heres the deal. If I ever really need something I cant afford, Ill try not to pretend it doesnt matter. But right now, Ive got tea, bread, medicine, and your messages. Thats not trying to be poeticI just listed what I have.
You know, I used to think we were nothing alike. You with yourwhat are theyapps, and me with my wireless. Now I read your letters and see we have plenty in common. We both hate to ask. We both pretend we dont care, even when we do.
If were being honest, Ill tell you one more thingsomething my family never said out loud. Not sure what youll make of it.
When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. Id just started a new job, we had a room in shared housing, and I thought, now we’ll finally live properly. Then came the baby. Screaming, nappies, sleepless nights. Id finish a night shift, come home, and hed still be bawling. Id lose it. Once, when he wouldnt stop, I threw the bottle at the wall so hard it smashed. Milk everywhere. Your nan sobbing, the baby screaming, and I just stood there thinking I wanted to walk out and never come back.
But I stayed. For years, I pretended it was just a bad moment. But it was really the time I came closest to running away. And if I had, you wouldnt be reading these letters now.
I dont know why you need to hear this. Maybe just to understand your grandad isnt a hero or a role model. Just a person who sometimes wanted to chuck it all in.
If you want to stop writing after that, Ill understand.
Grandad Colin.
It made me feel sick and warm at the same time. The Grandad in my head had always been a soft old jumper and the smell of orange peel at Christmas. Suddenly I saw a worn-out man in a shared flat, a crying baby, milk on the floor.
I remembered last summer, working at a kids camp, shouting at a boy who wouldnt stop whinging, grabbing his arm too hard, seeing the fear in his eyes as he cried. I couldnt sleep that night, sure Id make a terrible dad.
I sat ages over the message window. Typed Youre not a monster. Deleted. Wrote I love you anyway. Deleted that too, embarrassed by the word.
In the end, I sent:
Grandad, hi.
I wont stop writing. I dont know what youre meant to say to this stuff. We dont talk that way in our familynot about shouting or wanting to run away. Either silence, or jokes.
Last summer I worked in a camp. There was this lad, always homesick, always crying. One day I snapped, shouted at him, scared myself. Lay awake all night thinking I was a terrible person, that I shouldnt have kids.
What you told me doesnt make you worse. It just makes you real.
I dont know if Ill ever be that honest with my kid, if I have one. But maybe at least Ill try not to act like Im always right.
Thank you for not leaving back then.
Sasha.
I pressed send and, for the first time, realised I was actually waiting for a replynot out of politeness, but because it mattered.
Two days later, one came. Mum said hed learnt how to record voice notes, but didnt want to scare me. Shed typed it up.
New photo, lines not squares.
Sasha.
I read your letter and thoughtyoure far braver than I was at your age. You at least admit when youre scared. I pretended nothing could touch me, then broke furniture.
I dont know if youll be a good father. Nobody knows, till it comes. But just asking yourself is something.
You said Im real to you. Thats honestly the best compliment anyones given me. Usually people call me stubborn or awkward. No ones called me real in ages.
Since were hereI wanted to ask, but felt silly. If you get tired of my stories, just say. I can write less often, or only on special occasions. I do worry about smothering you with the past.
And if you ever want to come by for no reason, Ill be here. Theres a clean mug and an empty stool. The mug is definitely cleanI checked.
Your grandad, Colin.
I grinned at the bit about the mug, pictured his kitchen: stool, glucose meter on the table, sack of potatoes by the radiator.
I took a picture of my shared kitchensink full of dishes, battered frying pan, eggs, kettle, two mugs (one chipped), a jar for forks on the windowsill.
I sent the photo with:
Grandad, hi.
This is my kitchen. Two stools, enough mugs. If you ever want to visit, Ill be here too. Well, almost home.
Youre not boring me. Sometimes I dont know what to say, but doesnt mean Im not reading.
If you fancy, tell me about something thats not work or food. Something you never told anyone beforenot because you were ashamed, just didnt have anyone to tell.
S.
Sent it, and realised Id just asked a question Id never considered asking an adult in our family before.
I set the phone down, screen went black. Eggs sizzled softly on the hob, laughter from the next room. I turned the eggs, switched off the gas, and sat on my stool, picturing my grandad on the opposite one, holding a mug and telling another storynot written, but aloud.
I had no idea if hed really visit, or what might happen next. But just knowing there was someone out there I could send a photo of my messy kitchen to, or ask how are you, made my chest feel peacefuland just a bit tight.
I looked at our chat historyall those photos and short replies. Turned the phone face down so I wouldnt miss the next notification.
The eggs went cold, but I ate them anyway, slowly, as if sharing with someone else.
There was never a straight-out I love you in the messages. But in between the lines, it was thereand for now, that was enough for us both.
