No One Left to Talk To: A Story of Family, Friendship, and the Echoes of Springtime Memories

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 3

Theres no one left to talk to.

Come on, Mum, how can you say that? her daughter replied, weariness in her voice. I ring you twice a day as it is.

Oh, darling Emma, I didnt mean like that, Anne Harrison sighed, her voice tinged with sadness. Its just I have no friends now, no one my own age. No one from my own time.

Mum, thats nonsense. Youve got your old school friend, Caroline, Emma retorted, a note of concern in her tone. And, honestly, youre so modern, you look at least a decade younger than you are. Mum, whats wrong?

You know Carolines got terrible asthma, Anne replied gently. She cant talk much on the phone without coughing, and she lives miles away, practically on the other side of London. We used to be a trio back in the day, remember? I used to tell you about us. But Janes long gone. Yesterday, Tanya from next door popped in for a chat. Shes a lovely lady, always checks in on me. She brought some scones shed baked for her lot, and told me all about her children and grandchildren. Shes nearly fifteen years my junior, though. Her childhood, her school yearsall so different from mine.

Annes eyes grew glassy as she confided in her daughter, knowing Emma couldnt truly understand. She was still so young. Her time was now, vibrant and bustling just outside her own window. She didnt feel that ache for the past just yet. Emma was a wonderful daughtercaring, diligent. This wasnt about her.

Mum, I booked us tickets for Tuesdayan evening of English ballads, your favourite. You said you wanted to go! Please, enough of this gloom. Put on your maroon dress, you know you dazzle in it!

All right, love. Everythings fine. I dont know whats come over me, honestly. Good night. Lets talk tomorrow. Try to get some decent sleep tonight, youre always worn out lately, Anne said, her voice softening as she changed the subject.

Night, Mum. Love you. Emma hung up, leaving Anne gazing into the soft glow of the city lights through her window.

She let her mind wanderto spring of her last year at school, brimming with plans and dreams. It felt so recent. Her friend Caroline had fancied Paul Malden from their form, but Paul always liked Anne. He would ring the house every evening and try to coax her for a walk. Shed only ever thought of him as a friend, never wanting to give him false hope.

Then Paul left for the army, and when he came back, he married someone else. Hed lived in Carolines old block. All those home phone numbers Anne dialled a familiar one on a whim, her heart fluttering. The tone rang long, then suddenly stopped. Rustling noises, and then a quiet male voice echoed through the receiver:

Hullo? Im listening.

Was it too late to call? Why had she rung him? Did Paul even remember her? Perhaps it wasnt him at all.

Good evening, Anne managed, her voice rough with nerves.

On the other side, a pause. More rustling. Then, amid the static, an astonished voice replied:

Anne? Its really you, isnt it? Of course it is. I could never forget your voice. How did you find me after all these years?

Paulblimey, you recognised me! Annes spirits soared, a flood of old memories washing over her. It had been years since anyone called her anything but Mum, or Granny, or simply Mrs. Harrison. Caroline was the rare exception.

But Annejust Annesounded joyous, like the first days of spring, as if all those years had melted away.

Anne, how have you been? Im so glad you called, Paul said warmly. Shed feared hed not remember, or that the call would be unwelcome.

Do you remember Upper Sixth? she asked, her laugh glowing with nostalgia. When you and Tom managed that old rowing boat on the Thames, taking Caroline and me along? You blistered your hands so badly, hiding them behind your back at the ice cream van later while the music played.

Of course I remember! Pauls voice softened with the memories. And our class camp-out in Epping Foreststruggling to open those tins for supper, all of us famished!

Thats it! laughed Anne, radiant again. Tom finally sorted it and then sang us songs by the fire. Did you ever learn to play that guitar, Paul?

Oh, I did! he answered, his voice alive. Took me long enough, though. Still a bit shaky on the chords.

Hows life? Anne asked, her voice brimming with a youthful tone. Children? Grandchildren? Are you still writing those poems? she teased. You used to say, Melt into the night, rise with the dawn!always so full of hope!

You were always a ray of sunshine, Anne, Paul replied. Anyone near you could feel it. Your children and grandchildren must be blessed, having a mum and gran like you. A real treasure.

Stop it, Paul, Ill start blushing! Anne protested, smiling to herself. Those days feel so far away now, my times passed

He interrupted, laughing, Stop that! You sound full of lifemy hands going numb holding the receiver! Honestly, Anne, the world hasnt moved on without you. Theres plenty of sun left for you yet. The breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. The birds are singing just for you!

You old romantic, Anne replied fondly, But what about you? Im doing all the talking Suddenly, the line crackled and went dead.

Anne sat, phone in hand, tempted to ring back but reluctanttoo late in the night. Maybe another time.

Their conversation had warmed her to her core. Shed remembered things she thought long forgotten. The sharp ring of the phone startled herAlice, her granddaughter.

Yes, Alice, Im awake. What did your mum say? No, Im not down in the dumps. Were off to a concert! Youll pop round tomorrow? Thats lovely. See you then, darling.

Anne went to bed glowing. Her mind brimmed with ideas, gently shaping new lines of poetry as she drifted to sleep.

The next morning, Anne decided to pay Caroline a visit. It was only a few stops on the tram after all; she wasnt some decrepit old thing yet.

Caroline was thrilled to see her. At last! she exclaimed. And youve brought apricot tartmy favourite! Now, tell me everything, she said, catching her breath and waving away any concern. Im fine, this new inhaler is doing wonders. Kettles onlets have a proper chinwag. You look differenttheres something changed. Spill!

I dont knowfifth youth, maybe, Anne said with a grin as she cut into the tart. Yesterday I accidentally rang Paul Malden. You rememberyour big crush in Upper Sixth? We reminisced for ages. He remembered everythingId nearly forgotten some bits myself. Whats wrong, Caroline? she paused, seeing her friend turn pale.

Caroline looked at her, stricken. Anne didnt you know? Paul passed away almost a year ago, and he moved from that flat ages back.

That cant be, Anne faltered. Who was I speaking to? He remembered all those details from our youth. I was feeling so low before our chat, but afterwardsits like I got my spark back. He really did sayThe sun shines for you, the breeze chases clouds for you, the birds sing for you!

Caroline shook her head, uncertain, but finally said softly: Anne, I dont know how to explain it. But that sounds just like him. Same warmth, same words. Paul always cared for you. Maybe maybe he just wanted to lift your spiritsfrom wherever he is now. Looks like he did. I havent seen you this alive in years.

One day, Caroline smiled, someone will piece your battered heart together again. And youll finally realiseyoure simply happy.Annes eyes brimmed, but she laughed through the tears, shaking her head in wonder. If that was Paul, she began, her voice wobbly, then perhaps the past isnt as far from us as it sometimes feels. Maybe we carry our people with us, all the way. She squeezed Carolines hand and felt the warmth of shared memories pulse between them.

Lets make a pact, Anne said, brightening. From now on, we find a new reason to laugh every single weekscones, songs, apricot tart, whatever it takes. If theres a little magic in the air, I say we let it in.

Caroline grinned, her eyes alive. Deal. Maybe well even find a new trio, for old times sake.

And as the kettle whistled and the slender light of morning slipped across the curtains, Anne realised that the ache of yesterday had softenednot vanished, but threaded with something lighter. Maybe the world had moved on, but it had carried her forward too, cradling her stories, her friends, all the unfaded music in her heart.

She poured tea, laughter filling the room, and outside, the city was waking. In Annes world, for the first time in a long while, the sun truly was shining just for her.

A Grandson’s Request: An English Family Story “Gran, I’ve got a big favour to ask—I really need some money.” A lot of money. It was evening when Paul came to see her, and it was clear he was nervous. Normally, he’d pop round to see Mrs. Lily Thompson twice a week. If she needed anything from the shops or wanted help with the bins, he was always there. He’d fixed her old sofa once, too—good as new. He was always so calm and reliable. But now, he was on edge. Lily Thompson always worried—you never know what’s going on these days! “Paul, may I ask what you need the money for? And how much is ‘a lot’?” Lily tensed inwardly. Paul was her eldest grandson. A good and kind lad. He’d finished school last year, working now and studying part-time. His parents had never mentioned anything worrying about him. So why did he need so much money? “I can’t say right now, Gran, but I promise I’ll pay you back—in instalments, if that’s alright,” Paul hesitated. “You know I only have my pension to get by… How much do you need?” “Two thousand pounds.” “Why not ask your parents?” Lily asked, already knowing what Paul would say. Her son-in-law was strict and believed Paul should handle his own affairs for his age, and not get involved in things he shouldn’t. “They won’t help.” Was he in some kind of trouble? Would things get worse if she lent him the money? But if she refused, would Paul suffer more? Lily looked at him anxiously. “Gran, it’s nothing bad, honestly,” Paul picked up on her worry. “I promise to pay you back in three months. Don’t you trust me?” Maybe she should give him the money. Even if he couldn’t pay it back. There had to be someone he could rely on in the world. She did have emergency savings. Perhaps this *was* the emergency. Paul had come to her. No need to think about her funeral just yet—if it came to that, they’d take care of it. The living mattered most. She needed to trust her family. They say if you lend money, you should be prepared not to see it again. Young people are such a mystery these days. But Paul had never let her down. “Alright, I’ll lend you the money for three months as you asked. But would it be better for your parents to know?” “Gran, you know how much I love you. I always keep my promises. But if you can’t, I’ll try for a loan from the bank—I do have a job.” The next morning, Lily went to the bank, withdrew the money, and handed it to Paul. He beamed, kissed her, and said, “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best. I’ll pay you back—I promise.” And with that, he was off. Lily made herself a cup of tea and reflected. How many times in her life had she been desperate for money and found someone to help? Now everyone was out for themselves. Tough times, indeed. A week later, Paul came by in high spirits. “Gran, here’s the first payment—I got some money upfront. Could I bring someone with me when I visit tomorrow?” “Of course, pop in. I’ll bake your favourite poppy seed cake,” Lily smiled. Maybe she’d finally get to the bottom of this. She wanted to be sure Paul was alright. The next evening, Paul arrived with a slim, shy girl. “Gran, this is Ellie—my girlfriend. Ellie, this is my wonderful Gran, Mrs. Lily Thompson.” Ellie smiled sweetly. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you ever so much!” “Come in, dear, it’s lovely to meet you,” Lily breathed a sigh of relief—she liked her straight away. They all sat down for tea and cake. “Gran,” Paul began, “I couldn’t say before. Ellie was terribly worried—her mum had a sudden health crisis, and they had no one to help. Ellie’s quite superstitious and made me promise not to say anything. But it’s okay now—her mum had the operation and the prognosis is good,” he said, squeezing Ellie’s hand. “Thank you so much. You’re so kind. I’m ever so grateful,” Ellie said, dabbing at her eyes. “There now, it’s all over, Ellie,” Paul stood up. “Gran, we’d best be off—getting late.” “Goodnight, dears—look after one another,” Lily called, giving them her blessing as they left. Her grandson was growing up—a good lad. She’d been right to trust him. It wasn’t just about the money. It brought them closer. Two months later, Paul repaid every penny and told her, “You won’t believe it, Gran—the doctor said we’d made it just in time. If you hadn’t helped, things could have turned out badly. Thank you, Gran. I didn’t know what to do for Ellie, and now I know—there’ll always be someone to help in tough moments. I’d do anything for you. You’re simply the best!” Lily mussed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “Off you go, and bring Ellie to visit—I’ll be delighted.” “Of course,” Paul hugged her. As Lily closed the door behind them, she recalled something her own gran used to say: “Always help your own—here in England, that’s how it’s done. If you’re there for your family, they’ll stand by you, too. Never forget it.”

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.