Old Letters
When the postman stopped climbing the stairs and began dropping newspapers and envelopes in the hallway, Mrs. Anne Smith first raged, then gave in. From then on her mornings began with a descent down the stonetreaded stairwell, fingers gripping the cool railings, and a peek into the battered green postbox with its warped lid.
The box dated back to the early eighties, its paint flaking, the crooked number 12 barely legible. It moaned when opened, and Anne imagined the day it would finally give way, leaving her without a way to reach Margaret Hargreaves.
The letters arrived at irregular intervalssometimes a week, sometimes a monthbut they always came: a narrow envelope, a slanted, tidy script, the faint scent of cheap perfume. Anne would climb back up, set the kettle on the stove, sit at the table and slit the envelope along the seam, careful not to tear the paper.
Margaret lived in another town, about six hundred miles away. Once they had shared a single dormitory room at the medical school, cramming anatomy together and fighting over the last tin of corned beef. Later Margaret married and started a family, while Anne took a job at the local health centre, married late, and raised a daughter. They drifted apart but never truly separated; the letters kept a thin yet sturdy thread between them.
Margaret wrote about her garden cottage, about the neighbour who kept planting the wrong tomatoes, about her son who could not bring himself to leave his perpetually dissatisfied wife, about blood pressure that bounced like a goat, and about new tablets the doctor had prescribed. Between the lines the old Margaret slipped throughwitty, stubborn, a touch sarcastic.
Anne replied in the evening, when the flat fell quiet. Her daughter lived elsewhere, her grandson visited on weekends. Weekdays were filled only with the ticking clock, the hum of the lift in the wall, and the rustle of her pen across paper. She spoke of the health centre where she still worked parttime as a therapist, of neighbours forever squabbling over parking, of her grandson, now an IT bloke who could barely explain anything.
She loved the ritual: pulling a fresh sheet, smoothing it, mentally drawing a line for the day or week, deciding what to tell Margaret and what to keep. Each letter was a small evening reckoning. She wrote unhurriedly, lingering on every word as if she could hear Margaret reading aloud.
One afternoon her grandson, Sam, appeared with a box in his hands.
Gran, he said, pulling out a sleek new phone, time to ditch that old buttoncell. Were in the twentyfirst century now.
What, am I still living in the nineteenth? Anne retorted, but she took the thin, heavy, glass device. It felt frightening to simply hold it; she imagined dropping it and losing Sams allowance forever.
Its simple, Sam said, swiping the screen until bright squares flickered alive. This is a messenger. You can text instantlyvoice, pictures, anything.
Why not just use the post? Anne smiled, curiosity flashing in her eyes.
The post is lovely when you get a postcard from Brighton, but with this you can chat with Margaret every day.
Sam already knew Margaret. Anne sometimes read fragments of her letters aloud to him. He would grin, Youve got a great friend, and, as if by instinct, decided Margaret should also be upgraded.
Only Margaret, Anne hesitated, doesnt use a phone. She has an old button model.
Does she have grandchildren?
Yes, a granddaughterLucy, a university student.
Right, Sam said triumphantly. Lets sort it out. Write Margaret a letter asking Lucy to help, and Ill set everything up for you.
He placed the phone on the table, plugged it in, entered a few details. Anne watched the screen glow, loading bars racing, feeling both foolish and exhilarated.
That evening she sat at the table as usual, but now a silent phone lay beside the paper, its display showing time and weather. She pulled out Margarets envelope, addressed it carefully, and, after a pause, added: Margaret, Sam bought me a new phone. He says we can send letters through it now. If Lucy can help, let her have a look. Maybe well both learn something. Im an old cat, after all.
She smiled, sealed the envelope, and the next day dropped it into the communal postbox at the hallway not her green box, but the larger one with a slot for letters.
Two weeks later Margaret wrote back: Youre behind the times, love, but Im even further behind. Lucy laughed, said anythings possible. She came over this weekend, showed me on her phone how to do it. So go on, Anne, surprise me. Lucy promised to set me up as soon as I get to town, maybe even herself. Imagine me texting like the youngsters.
Anne chuckled, feeling the same spark Margaret once had when they learned to ride a motorbike owned by her exhusband.
A month later Sam returned, sat beside her and patiently demonstrated where to tap.
Heres the chat, he said, lets add ourselves first and practice.
He typed a couple of lines. The phone chimed, the screen flared, and Annes heart leapt.
Dont be scared. Its just a notification. Tap here, Sam instructed.
She pressed, seeing the words: Hi, Gran! This is a test. A blank line awaited her reply.
Write back here, Sam prompted, pointing at the letters.
Her fingers trembled. She typed slowly: Hello. I see but a typo turned see into s**. Sam laughed, then quickly erased and showed the correct way.
By evening she could open the chat, type a short phrase, and send it. Voice messages still unnerved her, but Sam promised they could wait.
At the start of autumn Margaret appeared in the messenger from an unfamiliar number: Anne, its me. Lucy set it up. Greetings from our little swamp.
Anne stared at the words, feeling Margaret suddenly closeno longer a thousandkilometre stretch, but right behind the hallway wall.
She typed: Margaret! I see you, I mean I read you. How are you? and sent, breath held.
The reply came in a minutea shock compared to the weeks she was used to. Alive, thank God. Pressures acting up but Im not scared. You? Is Sam pestering you with his progress?
She laughed, wrote about Sam, the health centre, the neighbour who kept arguing with the managing agent. Her fingers stumbled, letters sometimes forming odd words, but Margaret understood. Occasionally Margaret added a smiling yellow circle at the end of a sentence.
Thats an emoji, Sam explained, peeking over her shoulder. It means a grin.
Anne nodded, deciding not to use them, feeling they were a foreign tongue. Yet when Margaret sent a particularly sharp joke, her hand reached for the little face.
The correspondence quickened. Mornings Anne checked the phone as she once checked the postbox. Afternoons, between appointments, she stole glances at the screen. Evenings they exchanged dozens of short messages.
The speed was strangejoyful and anxious at once. What once stretched over pages and weeks now fit into a few lines. Before she knew it, she had already replied.
One day Margaret wrote: Imagine this, a neighbour at the cottage flirting. Old codger, but his eyes still race. He came yesterday with apples, said lets have tea together. I told him my pressure wont let me get excited.
Anne frowned, recalling Margarets loneliness and her sarcastic comments about widowers looking for a free caretaker.
She typed back: Make sure he doesnt settle on your neck. Youll never get rid of him. Theyre all the same. She sent without rereading.
Margaret answered almost instantly: Thanks for thinking of all men over seventy. Ill manage myself, thank you.
A sting ran through Anne. She wanted to type Im just worried, but stopped. The screen glowed with Margarets last line, lacking an emoji.
Later that evening another message arrived: You seem to enjoy me failing. That Ill write to you in old age, doing nothing. Anne felt a heat rise, poured herself tea, and the kitchen hummed with thoughts. She wondered if she truly celebrated Margarets misfortunes.
She returned to the table, opened the chat, fingers quivering, and typed: 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, then write. Even a minutes pause is a revolution for me.
She added a small smiling face after a long search. It felt foolish, yet lighter.
Margarets reply was brief: Agreed. A minute to thinkmy own little revolution. Im proud. Keep the letters coming, and well jabber on the messenger about trivial things, like girls in the dorm hallway.
Anne laughed aloud, hearing Margarets voice in her head, the familiar inflection.
That night she took a fresh envelope, placed it on the table beside the phonetwo ways to speak to the same person. She wrote about the health centres chief trying to force weekend shifts, the senior nurses rebellion, the neighbour below finally fixing a leaking ceiling, and a dream of their old dorm where they ran the corridors in gowns.
When the letter was finished, she photographed it with the phone and sent the picture in the chat. Heres a spoiler. The rest will come by post, she wrote.
Margaret replied immediately: Youre teasing. Now Ill await both letters and envelopes. My heart cant handle that intrigue. She added: Lucy says I could send you a voice note, but Im shy. What if I say something odd?
Anne thought a moment, then typed: Just send it. If needed, well pretend the line broke.
A few minutes later a voice message arrived. Anne pressed play.
Well, love, Margarets husky but familiar voice said, here I am, the star of the airwaves. They say I nearly died, but I think I just rested, got away from you lot. Dont cry. Ill outlive you. I have plans. I need to sort out that neighbour, maybe finally get some attention besides the doctors.
Anne listened, feeling weeks of tension melt away. Margaret was alive, stubborn, laughing.
She hit the microphone icon, heart thudding. Margaret, she said, voice steady, if you outlive me, I wont forgive you. And about the neighbour tell me honestly if he starts bringing apples daily, Ill come and give you both a proper talkingto.
She released the button, a little scared of what shed said, but it was too late. The message was sent.
A minute later the chat lit up: I hear you. Were like two schoolgirls, scared someone will forget us. Yet nobody has. Even your grandson, who now teaches me emojis. Then: Lets do this: when Im in hospital or feeling ill, you write paper lettersslow but warm. When Im fine, we jabber here, but not every five minutes, otherwise Ill tire of you.
Anne felt a calm settle inside. Simple rules, clear and kind. No midnight calls, no demanding instant replies, no grudges if someones busy. Yet knowing the other was there, reading, was enough.
She typed: Deal. And if you ever want tea with anyone, dont ask me for permission. I can only grumble. I cant live for you. Margaret sent back a winking emoji and the line: Thats the spirit. Ill note it when I start to slack.
Autumn slipped into winter. Margaret left the hospital but complained of weakness, sometimes disappearing for days. Anne no longer panicked at every silence; she recalled their pact, grabbed a notebook, penned a paper letter, folded it, and slipped it into the hallway postbox.
The phone rested nearby, another conduit to her friend. They swapped recipes for pickled cucumbers, news headlines, and one day Margaret sent a photo of her neighbour: a silverhaired man in a knitted cap, clutching a bag of apples.
Heres the hero of our saga, she captioned.
Anne examined the picture, wrote: Nothing wrong as long as hes not greedy. Margaret replied: Who says that? This is the woman who, fifty years ago, shared a tin of corned beef with me and counted the pieces for each of us. Anne burst into laughter, remembering the dorm night they gnawed that tin and dreamed of being seventy.
Now they were both seventyplus, each in her own flat, with a phone and a stack of envelopes. The world had changed, yet the thread between them remained taut.
One dim evening, the kitchen lamp under the cupboard flickered, and the phone vibrated softly. A new message from Margaret appeared: Anne, Ive been thinking. If Im ever gone, dont rummage through my phone and read my chats with the neighbour. Its all apples and blood pressure. Seriously thank you for being there, even when we drive each other mad.
Anne stared at the words, then typed slowly: I wont peek anywhere. And if Im gone first, dont read my old letters to find my faults. Just know I loved you. Still love you. Making you angry is my parttime job. She sent it and felt a weight lift from her chest.
Margarets reply came after a tenminute pause: Agreed. Anne set the phone down, walked to the window, watched the street lamps flicker, the postbox below darkening in the dusk. She knew tomorrow she would again descend with an envelope, and that night she would again glance at the tiny screen, waiting for a quick where are you? or a longer voice note.
Life had grown more complex. The slowness of the post could no longer hide from the speed of messages, and words could bite as fast as they healed. Yet support arrived faster too. A simple I feel blue today would be answered within minutes with a jab at the government, as always.
She smiled at the memory, returned to the table where a clean sheet lay beside the glowing phone. Picking up the pen, she finally tapped the phone and typed briefly: Writing you a letter. Dont snoop. The screen flashed back immediately: Too late. I already know everything. Still waitingfor letters and for you.
In that blend of paper rustle and digital chirp, their friendship found a sturdy footing, like the worn steps they climbed together, sometimes stumbling, always rising. She dated the letter, wrote the first greeting, and the phone rested quietly, its screen occasionally lighting up. In that rhythm of ink and pixels lived a bond as stubborn and lively as the two women themselves.
