No Instructions
Sasha received a message in her messengerjust a photo of a squared notebook page. Blue ink, immaculate handwriting, and a signature at the bottom: Your Granddad, Colin. Next to it, her mums quick note: He does it this way now. If youre not keen, you dont have to reply.
Sasha zoomed in on the photo to decipher the lines.
Sasha, hello.
Im writing to you from the kitchen. Ive got a new friend herea blood sugar meter. It starts nagging every morning if I so much as look at too much bread. Doctor says, Walk more! But where am I off walking, with all my mates long since in the cemetery and you off in Manchester? So, I decided Id take strolls down memory lane.
Today, for instance, I remembered back in 79, shifting crates off trains with the lads at Euston station. The pay was peanuts, but you could sneak a couple of boxes of apples. Wooden crates, metal brackets on the sides. Sour green apples, but it felt like a proper treat. Wed eat them on the spot, perched on cement sacks. Grey hands, dust under your nails, and your teeth grated from all the grit. Still delicious.
Whats my point? No real point. Just came to mind. Dont get me wrong; Im not about to give you life lectures. Youve got your own, Ive got my blood tests.
If you fancy, write and let me know whats up with your weather and your studies.
Your granddad Colin.
Sasha smirked. Blood sugar meter, tests. At the bottom, the app helpfully noted: Sent an hour ago. Shed already tried her mum, who didnt pick up. So, yes, now its like this.
She scrolled up through their chat. The last messages from Granddad were a year agosome short birthday voice notes, one with a, Hows uni? Sasha had sent a smiley face, then vanished.
Now, she stared at the squared page for ages before opening the reply window.
Hi Granddad. The weathers plus three and soggy. Exams are looming. Apples are £1.80 a kilo. So, apples are a bit tragic here too.
Sasha.
She paused, deleted the Sasha, and typed simply, Your Granddaughter, Sasha. Then sent.
A few days later, her mum forwarded a new photo.
Hi Sasha,
Got your letterread it through three times. Thought Id give you a thorough reply. Weathers just like yours, only minus your fancy puddles. Snow in the morning, turns into puddles by lunch, then its an ice rink come evening. Nearly went flying twice this weekbut apparently not my time yet.
Since were on apples. Let me tell you about my first proper job. I was twenty, started at a factory. We made bits for lifts. Dreadfully noisy, always something crashing about, dust hanging in the air. My work trousers were permanently grey, no amount of washing could fix them. Fingers all covered in nicks, oil under the nails. But I was so proud of my pass to the staff entrance, felt like a real adult.
Best part wasnt the pay, but lunch. Heavy plates of beetroot soup, and if you turned up early, you might snag an extra hunk of bread. Wed pile round the table with the lads and eat in silencenot because there was nothing to say, just too shattered to speak. The spoon felt heavier than a spanner.
You probably sit at your laptop now thinking all this is ancient history. And maybe it is. I still wonder: was I happy then, or just too busy to notice?
What do you do, apart from study? Do you work anywhere? Or is it all tech start-ups for you now?
Granddad Colin.
Sasha read it in the queue for a kebab. Someone was swearing; someone else was arguing; ads screeched from the shop speakers. He found himself re-reading the bit about the soup and the heavy plates.
He replied right there, propped up on the counter.
Hi Granddad,
I work as a delivery driver. Ferrying food, sometimes parcels. No staff pass, just an app that crashes every ten minutes. I grab food at work sometimesnot nicked, just too late to get home in time. Cheap stuff, eaten on the stairs or in a mates car. Also, in silence.
About being happyno idea. Not sure Ive time to think about it either.
Still, communal soup at lunch sounds alright.
Your Granddaughter, Sasha.
He nearly included something about start-ups, but decided Granddad could fill in the blanks himself.
The next letter was unexpectedly brief.
Hi Sasha.
Delivery driver is proper work. I picture you differently nownot just a kid glued to a laptop, but someone sprinting about in trainers.
Since you shared your work, Ill share a stint I did labouring. In between factory shifts, when money was short. Wed haul bricks up to the fifth floor via rickety wooden ladders. Dust everywherein your nose, ears, eyes. Id come home, tip my boots and pour out half a sandbox. Your grandma would scold me for ruining the vinyl flooring.
What I really remember isnt the fatigue, but this: there was a bloke everyone called Old Ted. Always there early, perched on an upturned bucket, peeling spuds with his penknife. Hed chuck them in this ancient pan he brought from home. Come lunchtime hed put the pan on a portable hob, and the whole place would smell of boiled potatoes. Wed eat by hand and sprinkle salt from a scrap of paper. Nothing tasted better.
I sit here looking at my supermarket potatoes and think, they just arent the same. Maybe its not the potatoes. Maybe its age.
What do you eat when youre shattered? Not takeawayreal food.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha took a while to reply. Real food threw him. Last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, hed bought some cheap dumplings from the 24-hour shop, boiled them in the hall kitchens battered pana pan previously used for someone elses sausages. The dumplings fell apart; the water turned cloudy. He ate them all standing at the window, since there wasnt a table.
A couple of days later, he finally wrote back.
Hi Granddad,
I usually fry eggs when Im tired. Two or three, sometimes a bit of sausage. Our frying pan is terrifying, but does the job. No Old Ted here, but my flatmate sets off the smoke alarm daily, shouting blue murder.
You write a lot about food. Were you hungry then, or are you now?
Sasha.
He instantly regretted that last sentence. Sounded harsh. But too late.
Reply arrived faster than usual.
Sasha,
Good question about being hungry. I was young then, always starving. Not just for soup and potatoes. I wanted a motorbike, new boots, my own roomnot to listen to my fathers coughing all night. Wanted respect. Wanted to walk into a shop and not count out the shrapnel in my pocket. Wanted girls to look at me rather than through me.
These days, I eat perfectly well. Doctor says a bit too well, actually. I write about food, I suppose, because its easy to describe and recall. Its easier to talk about soups flavour than shame.
Since you asked, Ill tell you a story. No lessons, as you like it.
I was twenty-three. Seeing your future grandma, but it was all wobbly. The factory put a call outworkers needed up north. Pay was brilliant; you could save for a car in a couple of years. I was keen, already imagined rolling back home in a new Cortina, her on the passenger seat.
But there was a catch. She wouldnt go. Her mum was ill, friends, jobcouldnt cope with the dark or the cold up north. I told her she was holding me back, said if she loved me, shed support me. Was ruder about it, no need to quote.
I went alone. Six months later, the letters stopped. Two years on, I came back with a car and some money. Shed married someone else. For ages, I said shed betrayed me. That Id done it all for her, and she
But truth is, I chose the cash and the metal over a person. And spent years acting like there was no other way.
Thats what my appetite was like.
You asked how I felt. At the time, I felt important and right. Spent years pretending I felt nothing.
If you dont want to reply, thats alright. I know youve better things than old mens tales.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha read it over and over. The word shame hooked in. He caught himself looking for a hidden excuse, but Granddad offered none.
He opened a new message, typed Do you regret it, deleted it. Typed What if youd stayed, deleted that too. In the end, sent something else.
Hi Granddad,
Thanks for telling me that. I dont know what to say. In our family, we talk about grandma like shes always only ever been a grandmanever anyone else.
Im not judging you. I picked work over someone not long ago myself. I was seeing someone, just got this delivery job, started getting the good shifts. I was always working. She complained we never saw each other, that I was glued to my phone, always knackered and snappy. I said it was temporary, that itd get better.
Then she said she was tired of waiting. I told herwell, not politely.
Now, when I stagger into the flat at eleven and fry my eggs, I sometimes wonder if I chose cash and takeaways over a person. I act like it was the right call.
Maybe it runs in the family.
Sasha.
This time Granddads letter landed on lined paper, not squared. Mum clarified with a voice notethe notebook ran out.
Sasha,
You summed up running in the family well. We do love blaming the clan for everything. Drinks? Granddad was a drinker. Yells? Granny was strict. Truth is, every time you make a choice, its yourseven if you pretend its hereditary.
When I got back from up north, I was convinced Id made a fresh start. Car, bed-sit room, money in my pocket. But in the evenings, Id just sit on the bed, with nowhere to put myself. Friends scattered, new boss at the factory, and at home just dust and a knackered radio.
Once I drove to your would-be-grandmas street. Parked opposite, staring up at the windows. Light in one, darkness in the next. Waited til I was freezing. Eventually, saw her come out with a pram. Man beside her, holding her armthey were chatting, laughing. I hid behind a tree, like a teenager, watching until they rounded the corner.
Thats when I realised no one had betrayed me. I picked my life, she picked hers. Took me ten years to admit it.
You say you chose work over your girlfriend. Maybe you didnt pick workmaybe you picked yourself. Maybe clearing your overdraft is more vital right now than trips to the cinema. Thats not good or bad. Its the reality.
Know whats the real shame? We so rarely say outright, I need this more than I need you. We make up flowery excuses and everyone gets upset.
Im not telling you to go get her back. Dont know if you even should. Just maybe, if youre ever standing beneath someone elses window, youll know that you couldve been more honest.
Your old Granddad Colin.
Sasha sat on the windowsill in the halls, phone warming his hand. Outside, cars splashed through puddles. Someone smoked by the entrance. Music thudded through the wall.
He thought hard about his reply. Remembered watching his exs window when she stopped picking up. Watching the curtains and the light, half-hoping shed appear. She didnt.
He wrote:
Hi Granddad,
Ive stood under a window too. Hid when I saw her come out with some blokehe had a rucksack, she had a shopping bag. They were laughing. I felt erased. But reading you now, maybe I left the picture before they did.
You said you figured it out after ten years. I hope I manage sooner.
I wont go chasing her. Ill just stop pretending I dont care.
Your Granddaughter, Sasha.
The next letter was about something else.
Sasha,
You once asked about money. I didnt answerunsure where to start. Ill try now.
In our family, money was like the weather. Only talked about when it was really bad or unexpectedly good. Your dad, as a kid, once asked how much I made. I had just started overtime, so I told him. He wide-eyed: Blimey, youre rich! I laughed, told him not to be daft.
A couple of years later, got laid off. Wage slashed in half. He asked again: How much now? I told him. Why so little? You working less? I snappedthe classic You just dont understand. Ungrateful! But he just wanted to make sense of numbers.
Ive thought a lot about that. I reckon its when I taught him not to ask about money. He grew up, took odd jobs, fixed peoples gadgets. I always assumed hed just guess how tight things were.
I dont want to repeat that with you. So, here it is. My pensions not much, but enough for my pills and bread. Wont be buying a car, and dont need to. Saving for new teeth nowthe old ones dont do the job.
How about you? Are you managing? (Not that Im about to transfer you cash or knit you socks; just need to know youre not skipping meals or sleeping on the floor.)
If youre awkward answering, just say all fine and Ill get the gist.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha felt something tighten inside. She recalled as a child, asking her dad about money, getting jokes or a gruff, Youll see when youre older. She grew up assuming money was something embarrassing you werent supposed to mention.
She typed:
Hi Granddad,
Im not going hungry or sleeping on the floor. Ive got a bedeven a mattress, if not the fanciest. I pay for my halls myselfagreed that with Dad. Sometimes Im late on rent, but havent been chucked out yet.
Food-wise, I get by if I dont buy rubbish. When things are tight, I just take more shifts, then go full zombie mode for a while. My choice.
Feels weird you asking, since I could never bring myself to ask you Are you okay, Granddad? But you already answered.
Honestly, I wish youd just write Im fine and leave it there. But I get that its because Im used to adults never sharing anything.
Thanks for telling me about money.
Sasha.
She fiddled with her phone, then added a second message:
If you ever really want something and cant stretch to it, just say. I cant promise, but Id at least like to know.
She hit send before she lost her nerve.
Granddads reply was the messiest yetletters all over, sentences wavering off.
Sasha,
Read your message about if you cant afford something. At first I wanted to say I need nothingall stocked up, just old and living on tea and tablets. Then thought of jokingif Im desperate Ill ask for a new Ducati.
But then I remembered; Ive spent my life trying to act like some tough old bloke who never needs help. Ended up the kind of granddad whos nervous asking his granddaughter for a favour.
So, lets put it this way. If ever I really do need something I cant manage, Ill try not to pretend it doesnt matter. For now, Ive got tea, bread, tablets, and your letters. Thats not sentimental, thats just my shopping list.
You know, I used to think we were completely differentyou with your what do you call them apps, and me with my radio. But reading you, I see were not so different. We both hate asking for help. We both pretend we dont care, when really, we do.
Since were all being honest, theres something else you might as well know. Not sure how youll take it.
When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. Just started a new job, got a room in a halls, thought things were finally sorted. Thenbabys cry, nappies, sleepless nights. Id finish a night shift and come home to him screaming. One day I lost it so badly, I hurled the bottle at the wall. Smashed. Milk everywhere. Your grandma crying, baby howling. I just stood and desperately wanted to walk out and not come back.
I didnt leave, in the end. Later called it a bit of a rough patch. But truth is, I was this close to running away. And if I had, you wouldnt be reading these letters now.
No idea why you need to know. Maybe just so you realise Im not some hero, not a role model. Just a bloke, who sometimes nearly gave up.
If that makes you want to stop writing, Ill understand.
Granddad Colin.
Sasha read it, feeling wavescold, then hot. The image of Granddad, forever a comforting figure who smelt of oranges at Christmas, flickered into new shades: a tired man in a halls room with a screaming baby and spilt milk.
She remembered last summer, snapping at a little boy at the kids camp job because he whined nonstop. Grabbed him by the arm harder than she meant. The kid burst into tears, and that night, Sasha couldnt sleep, convinced shed make a terrible parent.
She hovered over the message window. Fingers typed, Youre not a monster. Deleted. I love you anyway. Deleted, flustered by the word itself.
She sent:
Hi Granddad,
I wont stop writing to you. I dont know what youre meant to say to all that. In our family, no one speaks of this stuffonly jokes or clams up.
Last summer, at camp, there was a lad who always cried to go home. I blew up at him once, scared myself. Spent all night certain I was a bad person, that I shouldnt have kids.
But what you wrote doesnt make you worse in my eyes. Makes you more real.
I dont know if I could ever be that honest with my own, if I ever have them. But maybe I could try to admit Im not always right.
Thanks for not leaving then.
Sasha.
She pressed send and, for the first time, realised she was waiting for Granddads replynot out of courtesy, but because it mattered.
Two days later, her mum messaged: Hes mastered voice notes, but asked me to write it out so you dont get spooked. I wrote it up.
A new photo appeareda lined notebook page.
Sasha,
I read your letter and reckon youre braver than I was at your age. You admit when youre scared. Back then, I pretended nothing touched me, then battered a chair or two.
No idea if youll be a good parent. Nor do you. You only ever find out at the time. The fact that youve even wondered means a lot.
You said I feel real to you. Thats the best compliment Ive ever had. Folk usually call me stubborn, awkward, set in my ways. No ones called me real in years.
Since were doing this, I wanted to askif my stories get too much, say so. Ill write less, or stick to birthdays. Id hate to swamp you with my past.
And, if you ever want to visit for no reason, Ill be home. Got a spare stool, and a clean mug. (Checked itpromise.)
Your Granddad Colin.
Sasha smiled at the mention of the mug. She pictured the kitchen, the stool, the sugar meter on the table, the bag of potatoes by the radiator.
She snapped a picture of her uni kitchen: crammed sink, the terrifying frying pan, eggs, a kettle, two mugsone chipped. A jar full of forks on the windowsill.
She sent it and added:
Hi Granddad,
Heres my kitchen. Two stools, enough mugs. If you ever wanted to visit for no reason, Id be here. Well, nearly home.
Youre not a bore. Sometimes I dont know what to say, but that doesnt mean I dont read.
If you like, could you tell me something thats not about work or food? Something youve never told anyone, not because its embarrassing, but because nobodys ever asked.
S.
She sent itand wondered if that was the first time shed ever asked any grown-up in her family a real question.
She put the phone down, face-up. Her eggs were quietly hissing on the gas. Someone laughed in the next room. Sasha flipped the eggs, killed the gas, and sat on her stool, picturing her granddad perched across from her, mug in hand, telling stories aloud, not scribbled on paper.
She had no idea if hed ever come for real, or what would happen next. But the comfort of being able to share a photo of her grubby kitchen and ask, and how about you? settled a quiet warmth inside her chest.
She picked up the phone, scrolled through the threadsquared, lined, her short S.sthen set it screen-down, so she wouldnt miss if something new pinged.
The eggs had gone cold, but she ate them anyway, slowly, as if sharing them with someone else.
No actual love yous ever appeared in their messages. But something threaded between the lines, and for now, that was more than enough for both of them.
