When the postman stopped climbing up to the flats and started leaving the papers and letters down at the groundfloor lobby, Margaret Harris first got a good rattle about it. Then she made peace with it. These days her mornings start with a slow walk down the stone staircase, gripping the coldhanded railings, and a quick peek into the battered green postbox with its crooked 12 nailed on the door.
The box is a relic from the seventies, paint peeling, the number halfscratched off. It always creaks when you pull it open, and Margaret keeps thinking itll finally give way and then where on earth will she find Gwens letters?
The letters show up irregularly sometimes after a week, sometimes after a month but they do arrive. A narrow envelope, a tidy slanted script, a faint whiff of cheap perfume. Margaret would climb back up, put the kettle on, sit at the kitchen table and slit the envelope along the seam so she wouldnt tear the paper.
Gwen lives in another city, about eight hundred miles away. Back in the day they shared a single room in the university halls of the medical school, cramming anatomy together and fighting over one tin of corned beef. Then Gwen got married, started a family, while Margaret took a job at the local health centre, married later, and had a daughter. They drifted apart geographically but never really drifted apart emotionally. Those letters kept a thin yet sturdy thread between them.
Gwen wrote about her cottage, about the neighbour who kept planting the wrong tomatoes, about her son who cant seem to quit his perpetually grumpy wife, about her blood pressure jumping like a springy goat, and about the new tablets the doctor gave her. Between the lines you could always smell the old Gwen cheeky, stubborn, a hint of sarcasm.
Margaret replied in the evenings when the flat grew quiet. Her daughter lived on her own, her grandson popped over at weekends. The weekdays were just the ticking clock, the hum of the lift in the hallway and the soft scratch of her pen on paper. Shed talk about the health centre where she was a parttime GP, about neighbours forever squabbling over parking, about her grandson, now a proper IT bloke, who never explained a thing.
She loved the ritual: pull out a clean sheet, smooth it flat, picture the day, pick out what to tell Gwen and what to keep to herself. A letter felt like a little evening summary. She wrote deliberately, chewing over each word as if she could hear Gwen reading it aloud.
One afternoon her grandson, Tommy, burst in with a box in his hands.
Gran, he said, pulling out a sleek new phone, enough with that old buttonphone. Its 2024, love.
Am I living in the nineteenth century now? Margaret laughed, but she took the glassslim device anyway. It felt heavy, fragile, like she might drop it and lose Tommys scholarship.
Its simple, look, Tommy swiped the screen, and bright squares lit up. This is a messenger. You can chat in a flash text, voice, pictures.
Why not just stick to mail? Margaret smirked, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Mails great when you get a postcard from the seaside, but this lets you talk to Gwen every day. He already knew about Gwen. Margaret sometimes read bits of her letters out loud to him. Tommy chuckled, Youve got a topnotch mate. He decided Gwen needed a bit of modern luck too.
Only, Margaret hesitated, Gwen doesnt use smartphones. She still has that ancient buttonphone.
Does she have any grandkids?
She does a granddaughter, Lucy. Shes at university.
Right, then. Lets sort this. You write Gwen a letter, ask Lucy to help her set it up, and Ill get everything ready here.
Tommy set the phone on the table, plugged it in, typed a few numbers. Margaret watched the screen glow, the loading bars racing. She felt both foolish and excited.
That evening she sat at the table as usual, but now a brandnew phone lay beside the paper, silently showing the time and weather. She slipped the envelope into her hand, wrote Gwens address neatly, and at the very end added: Gwen, Tommy got me this new phone, says I can send messages through it now. If Lucy can have a look too, maybe well learn together. Im an old cat, after all.
She smiled, sealed the envelope and, the next day, dropped it into the big communal postbox at the lobby not the little green one with the crooked number, but the main box with the slot for letters.
Two weeks later a reply came. Youre certainly behind the times, love, but Im even further back. Lucys giggling, says everythings possible. She visited me last weekend, showed me how it works on her phone. So go on, Margaret, surprise me. Lucy says shell set it up when Im in town. She might even come over herself. Imagine that, me sending you messages like the youngsters.
Margaret laughed out loud. Gwens letter still carried that same spark, the same daring shed had when they once learned to ride a motorbike together.
A month later Tommy dropped by again, sat next to her and patiently walked her through the app.
See, this is the chat. Ill add myself first, well practice. He typed a couple of lines, the phone pinged, the screen flared. Margarets heart jumped.
Dont worry, thats just a notification. Tap here.
She tapped, saw the words: Hi, Gran! This is a test. A blank line waited beneath.
Write your reply here, Tommy prompted, pointing at the keyboard.
Her fingers trembled. She typed slowly: Hi. I see. She slipped up see became sie. Tommy burst out laughing, then quickly corrected it.
By evening she could open the chat, punch out a short phrase, and hit send. Voice notes still freaked her out, but Tommy promised they could wait.
At the start of autumn, a new message popped up from an unknown number: Margaret, its me. Gwen. Lucy sorted it. Hello from our little bog. Margaret stared at the screen. It felt like Gwen was suddenly right there, not a thousand miles away but just beyond the hallway wall.
She typed back, Gwen! I can see you, well, read you. How are you? and hit send, holding her breath.
The reply came in a minute a speed shed never known from snailmail.
Im alive. Blood pressures a bit wild, but Im not scared. How are you? Is Tommy giving you a hard time with his tech? she wrote, chuckling.
Margaret answered about Tommy, the health centre, the neighbour who kept shouting about the parking space, and her grandson whod turned into a proper IT bloke. She loved the little ritual: pull a fresh sheet, line it up, decide what to share, what to hold back. The letter felt like a gentle evening wrapup. She wrote slowly, as if she could hear Gwens voice on the other end.
Tommy, peeking over his shoulder, explained the smiley face a yellow circle with a grin Thats a smiley, just like a little grin.
Margaret shook her head. Ill stick to my words, thank you. Yet sometimes, when Gwen sent a particularly sharp joke, Margarets hand drifted to the tiny icon.
Their chat became lively. In the mornings Margaret checked the phone like she used to check the postbox. At lunch, between appointments, shed sneak a glance at the screen to read Gwens latest. In the evenings they could trade a dozen quick messages.
The pace was odd joyful and a bit nervewracking. What used to stretch over weeks and pages now fit into a couple of lines. Before she knew it, Margaret had sent a whole paragraph before even realizing it.
One day Gwen wrote: Can you believe it? My neighbour at the cottage is flirting again. Old codger, but his eyes still sparkle. He showed up with apples, said lets have tea together. I told him my blood pressure wont let me get all worked up. Margaret frowned, remembering how Gwen once complained about loneliness and how shed tease the widowers who look for a free carer.
She typed back: Make sure he doesnt sit on your neck. Youll never get rid of him. Theyre all the same. She hit send without rereading.
Gwens reply was almost instant: Thanks for thinking Im the queen of men over seventy. Ill sort it myself, love. Margaret felt a sting, a tiny sting of being judged. She wanted to write, Im just worried, but stopped. The screen stayed quiet for a while, no smiley this time.
Later that night another message appeared: And honestly, you seem to enjoy it when I struggle. Its nice to have a penfriend in old age, even if were both a bit stubborn. Margarets cheeks flushed. She poured herself a cup of tea, the kettles whistle soothing. Her mind buzzed. Did she really take pleasure in Gwens woes?
She went back to the table, the phone glowing beside a fresh sheet of paper. Her fingers trembled as she typed: Youre not right. Im scared for you. Im scared Ill be left without you. Thats no excuse, though. Lets agree you tell me everything you want, Ill think a minute before I write. She added a tiny smiling icon after hunting through dozens.
Gwens answer was short: Agreed. A minute of thought is a revolution for you. Proud of you. Keep the letters coming, and well chat in the messenger for the little stuff. Like girls in the dorm hallway. Margaret laughed out loud, hearing Gwens unmistakable cadence in her head.
That evening she pulled a new envelope from a stack, placed the phone beside it. Two ways to talk to the same friend.
She wrote a letter about the health centres boss trying to force everyone onto weekend shifts, the senior nurse leading a tiny rebellion, the downstairs neighbour finally fixing the leaky ceiling, and a dream about their old dorm where theyd sprint down the corridor in nightgowns.
When she was done, she snapped a photo of the page with the phone and sent it in the chat. Heres a teaser. The rest will arrive by post, she wrote.
Gwen replied instantly: Youre teasing me. Now Ill expect both letters and envelopes. My heart cant take that suspense. She added: Lucy says I can send you 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 just pretend the line died. A few minutes later a voice note arrived. Gwens slightly hoarse but familiar voice floated out: Well, look at me, a bit of a radio star. They say I almost died, but I just rested. Dont cry, love. Ive got plans. I need to sort that neighbour out. Someones got to look after me, not just the doctors.
Margaret felt the tension of the past weeks melt away. Gwen was alive, cheeky as ever.
She pressed the mic button, heart pounding, and said, Gwen, if you outlive me I wont forgive you. And about the neighbour if he starts bringing apples every day, tell me straight. Ill come over and give both of you a proper talkingto. She let go of the button, a little scared shed said too much, but it was too late the message was already sent.
A minute later Gwen typed: I hear you. Were like two schoolgirls, scared someone will ditch us, but nobodys forgotten us yet. Even your grandson, whos now teaching me how to use these little faces. Then: Lets agree. When Im in hospital or feeling poorly, you write me paper letters slow, warm. When Im fine, we jabber in this messenger, but not every five minutes, or Ill tire you out.
Margaret felt a calm settle in. Simple rules. No midnight calls, no demand for instant replies, no grudges if the other is busy. Just knowing the other is there, reading your words.
She typed back: Deal. And if you ever want tea with anyone, dont ask my permission. I can only grumble. I cant live for you. Gwen sent back a winking smiley and a line: Thats the spirit. Ill jot it down for when I need a push.
Autumn slipped into winter. Gwen was discharged from the hospital, still a bit weak, often disappearing for a day or two. Margaret found herself not panicking at each silence. Shed remember their pact, pull out a notebook, write a paper letter, drop it down to the communal box.
The phone sat beside the notebook, another way to reach her mate. Sometimes they swapped picklejar recipes, sometimes news about the Royals. One day Gwen sent a photo of her neighbour a silverhaired man in a knitted hat, apples in hand. Heres the hero of our little drama, she captioned.
Margaret looked at the picture, thought, Just hope hes not greedy. Gwen replied: Oh, stop. Thats the woman who, fifty years ago, shared a tin of corned beef with me and counted how many pieces each of us got. Margaret burst into laughter, remembering that night in the dorm, hunched over a tin, planning what their seventies would look like.
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 that thread between them stayed as tight as ever.
One quiet evening, the kitchen lamp flickering under the cupboard, the phone buzzed gently. Gwens message read: Margaret, I was thinking. If I ever dont make it, dont go snooping through my messages with the neighbour. Its just apples and blood pressure. Seriously thanks for being there, even when were both a bit prickly. Margaret stared at the words, then typed slowly: I wont peek. And if Im gone first, dont read my old letters looking for blame. Just remember I loved you. Always. She hit send and felt a weight lift.
Gwen answered after a few minutes: Agreed. Margaret put the phone down, walked to the window. Outside, the street lamps glowed, a few late walkers hurrying home. Down the hallway, the communal postbox stared back in the dim light. She knew tomorrow shed still drop a letter in it, and that night shed still check the little screen for a quick where are you? or a longer voice note.
Life had gotten a bit more complicated. You cant hide behind slow mail or distance anymore. Words fly fast and sometimes cut. But help arrives just as fast. A quick feeling blue today? pops up and a reply follows within minutes: Lets rant about the government, that always helps. She smiled, thought of the endless backandforth, and went back to the table. A fresh sheet of paper lay ready, the phone humming softly beside it. Margaret picked up her pen, then reached for the phone and typed a short line to Gwen: Writing you a letter. Dont snoop.
On the screen, Gwens reply blinked: Too late. I already know everything. Still waiting, both letters and you.
Margaret read those words and felt, in the mix of old paper rustle and digital beep, something steady. Like the staircase they both climbed, sometimes tripping, sometimes steady, always leading them forward together.
She penned the date at the top of the page, the first line of greeting, and let her hand move confidently. The phone lay quietly, its screen flashing now and then. In that soft glow and the neat lines on paper lived their friendship new forms, old heart, stubborn as ever.
