No Instructions
Sasha got a message that came as a photo of a sheet of squared paper. Blue ink, tidy handwriting, and at the bottom: Your grandad, Colin. Her mums note was next to it: Hes doing this now. If you dont want to reply, you dont have to.
Sasha flicked through the photo, zooming in to decipher the lines.
Sasha, hello.
Im writing to you from the kitchen. Ive got a new friend here the blood sugar meter. It kicks off in the morning if I have too much toast. My doctors told me to get out for more walks, but where am I supposed to walk when everyone I knows now pushing up daisies and youre off in London? So, Ive decided to stroll back through old memories instead.
Today, for instance, I remembered how, back in 79, we used to unload train carriages. The pay was a bit of a joke, but at least you could nick a couple of crates of apples. Wooden crates, with great handles at the sides. The apples were tangy, bright green, but they were still a treat. Wed eat them right there, sat up on bags of cement by the tracks. Hands covered in dust, nails all grey, teeth squeaking from the grit. Still tasted amazing.
Whats my point? There isnt one. It just popped into my head. Dont worry, Im not about to tell you how to live your life. Youve got your own, Ive got my test results.
If you fancy it, write back let me know how the weather is over there and how unis going.
Your grandad Colin.
Sasha grinned. Blood sugar meter, test results. The messenger app said: Sent an hour ago. Hed already rung his mum, but she didnt pick up. So, it really was doing this now.
He scrolled higher up the chat. The last voice notes from Grandad had been a year ago quick birthday wishes and a Hows uni?. Back then, Sashad replied with a smiley face and then disappeared for a bit.
Now he stared at the squared paper photo for ages, then brought up the reply box.
Hi Grandad. Weather: three degrees and soggy. Exams: soon. Apples: now £1.20 a kilo. So not great for apples here.
Sasha.
He thought for a second, scrubbed out Sasha, wrote Your grandson, Sasha, and pressed send.
A few days later, his mum forwarded a new photo.
Sasha, afternoon.
I got your letter, read it through three times, decided Id make a proper reply. Weathers about the same here but none of your fancy London puddles. Snow in the morning, water by lunchtime, and then ice in the evening. Slipped over a couple of times, but seems its not my time yet.
Talking of apples, let me tell you about my first proper job. I was twenty and started at the factory. We made lift parts. It was noisy as anything, always banging, dust hanging in the air. I had these grey overalls that never really came clean, however much you washed them. My fingers were always nicked, nails full of grime. But I was proud of having an entry pass walking through the gates with the adults.
The best bit wasnt the pay, it was lunch. In the canteen, youd get proper soup in these heavy bowls. If you got in early, you could nab a bit more bread. Wed all sit together in silence. Not because wed run out of things to say, but because we were knackered. The spoon weighed more than a spanner.
Youre probably sat at your laptop now, thinking all this sounds like ancient history. But when I look back, I wonder: was I happy, or just too flat out to even think about it?
What else do you get up to when youre not at uni? Do you work anywhere? Or is it all startups now and not proper jobs?
Grandad Colin.
Sasha read it while waiting for his chicken wrap in a queue. People arguing, adverts blaring from the shop speakers. He caught himself reading the bit about soup and heavy bowls over and over.
He typed his reply there and then, leaning up against the counter.
Hi Grandad,
I do some delivery work. Taking peoples food about, sometimes papers. No pass for me, just an app, which is always on the blink. I sometimes eat at work too not nicking stuff, just cant get home in time. Buy something cheap, eat in the stairwell or in a mates car. Quiet, like you said.
About being happy no idea. Havent got the time to think about it either.
But soup in the canteen sounds pretty good.
Your grandson, Sasha.
He almost wrote something about startups but changed his mind let Grandad imagine.
The next letter was unexpectedly short.
Sasha, hello.
Deliveries thats a proper job. I picture you completely differently now. Not just a lad at a computer, but someone in trainers, always dashing about.
Since you mentioned work, Ill tell you about my time labouring on a building site. Used to pick it up between the shifts at the factory, when the cash was tight. We lugged bricks up to the fifth floor, up rickety wooden ladders. Dust up your nose, in your eyes, ears. At the end of the day, Id take off my boots and pour sand onto the linoleum back home. Your grandma would moan I was ruining the floor.
Oddly enough, its not the tiredness I remember, but something else. There was this bloke on site everyone called him Sam. Always turned up first, sitting on an upside-down bucket, peeling spuds with a penknife. Hed chuck them in a battered old pan he brought from home. At lunch, hed pop it on the hob and soon this lovely smell of boiling potatoes would fill the whole place. Wed just grab them with our hands, sprinkle old salt from a paper twist. I thought it was the best thing Id ever eaten.
Now I sit in my kitchen, looking at a bag of supermarket spuds, thinking theyre just not the same. Maybe its not the potatoes, but age, eh?
What do you eat when youre knackered not stuff you deliver, but properly eat?
Grandad Colin.
Sasha waited a while before answering. What did you say about proper food? He remembered last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, buying a bag of frozen dumplings in a 24-hour shop, sticking them in an old pan in the halls, sausages bits still stuck to the rim from someone before. The dumplings fell apart, the water cloudy, but he ate the lot, standing by the window there wasnt even a table.
Two days later, he wrote back.
Grandad,
When Im shattered I mostly do eggs. Two or three, sometimes some sausage. The frying pan heres seen better days, but it still works. Theres no Sam, but Ive got a flatmate whos always burning stuff and swearing.
You write about food a lot. Were you hungry then, or are you hungrier now?
Your grandson, Sasha.
He immediately regretted that last line sounded a bit harsh. Too late now though.
Grandad replied quicker than usual.
Sasha,
Good question about being hungry. I was young then and always starving. Not just for soup and potatoes. I wanted a motorbike, new boots, my own room so I didnt have to listen to Dad coughing at night. I wanted to be respected. To go into a shop and not count change in my pocket. For the girls to notice me, not just walk past.
Now I eat fine. Doc nags that I eat too well, if anything. I think I write about food because its something you can remember for real. Soups easier to describe than shame.
Since you asked, let me tell you a story. No morals at the end, dont worry.
I was twenty-three. I was already seeing your future grandma, but things were wobbly between us. At the factory, they put up a notice about a crew heading up north for work. The pay was great, save up enough for a car in just a couple years. I got all caught up in it pictured coming back, buying a Ford and driving her around.
One tiny snag. Your grandma said she wasnt coming. Her mum was ill, she had her job and friends here. She said shed never cope with all the dark and cold. I told her she was holding me back. If she really loved me, shed support me. I said it much nastier than that not worth repeating.
So I went up north alone. Six months in, the letters stopped. Two years later I came home with the car and money. Shed already married someone else. For ages, Id go round saying shed betrayed me, after all Id done
Truthfully, I just chose money and metal over a person. Spent years pretending it was the right choice.
That was my appetite then.
You asked how I felt. At the time, important, sure of myself. Then spent years acting like I didnt feel anything at all.
You dont have to reply, honestly. I get that youve got better things to do than listen to an old blokes stories.
Grandad Colin.
Sasha read it over and over again. The word shame stuck like a splinter. He noticed himself looking between the lines for an apology, but Grandad didnt offer one.
He opened a new message, wrote, Do you regret it?, deleted it. Tried, What if youd stayed?, deleted that too. Eventually, he sent something else.
Grandad,
Thanks for writing that. I dont know what to say, really. In the family everyone talks about Grandma like she was always someones wife, never with her own story.
Im not judging. I recently did sort of the same. I picked work over someone. There was a girl. Just as Id started the delivery gig, I got put on all the best shifts. Suddenly I was always out. She complained, said we never saw each other, said I was always tired and snapping. I told her to just hang on, that itd get better soon.
Then she said she was done waiting. I told her: not my problem. Said that a lot rougher than that, but you get the idea.
Now when I get in at eleven to put eggs on, sometimes I think I chose cash and convenience over a person, and pretend it was the right call.
Maybe its in the blood.
Sasha.
This time, Grandads letter came not on squared paper, but lined. Mum had sent a voice note: hes run out of notebooks.
Sasha,
In the blood thats a good one. We all love blaming everything on the family, dont we? Drink too much its because your grandad did. Shouty because grandma was strict. Truth is, every time, you still choose. Its just scarier to admit, so we claim its inherited.
When I got back from up north, I thought my life was sorted. Car, a tiny bedsit, cash in my pocket. But at night Id just sit on the bed, not knowing what to do with myself. Friends had moved off, there was a new supervisor at the factory, at home it was just me, some dust, and the old radio.
One night I drove past the house where your not grandma lived. Stood across the road, watching her windows. One was lit, one dark. I stayed until I was freezing. Saw her come out with a pram. Some bloke walking beside her, holding her arm. They were laughing, chatting. I hid behind a tree like a schoolboy, watched til they turned the corner.
Thats when I realised: nobody betrayed me. I just chose my own road, and she picked hers. Took me ten years to admit it.
You say you chose work over a girl. Maybe you chose yourself, not work. Maybe sorting yourself out matters more right now than going out holding hands. Not good, not bad, just how it is.
You know whats most annoying? Were rubbish at saying straight up: This thing matters more than you, right now. We spout nice words and then everyone gets upset.
Dont take this as advice to chase after her. Ive no idea if you should. Maybe, one day, youll be standing under someone elses window and realise you could have just been honest.
Your old grandad,
Colin.
Sasha sat on the windowsill in his shared kitchen, phone warming his hand. Cars sliding through puddles below, someone choking for a smoke on the steps, bass thumping from next door.
He took ages to think of a reply. He remembered standing outside his exs flat after shed stopped answering calls. Watching the curtains, the light, waiting for her to look out and see him. She never did.
He typed:
Grandad,
I tried that too, standing by her window. I hid when I saw her come out with some lad. He had a rucksack, she had some shopping. They laughed. Thought Id been erased from her life. Reading your message now, I think maybe I walked away myself.
You said it took you ten years to get it. I hope Im a bit quicker.
I wont go chasing her. Ill just stop pretending I dont mind.
Your grandson, Sasha.
The next letter was about something else.
Sasha,
You asked about money once. I never answered didnt know where to start. Ill try now.
In our family, moneys always been like the weather. Only talked about when its really bad or, on rare days, surprisingly good. When your dad was small, he once asked what I earned. Id just picked up extra shifts, so it was more than usual. Told him the figure. He gave big eyes: Wow, youre rich! I laughed and told him that was nonsense.
A couple of years later, I was made redundant. Wage slashed in half. He asked again: How much now? I told him, and he said, Is that all? Are you not working properly then? I lost it with him, told him he didnt understand, that he was ungrateful. He just wanted to know how numbers worked.
Years later, I realised thats when Id taught him never to ask me about money again. He grew up and didnt just quietly did odd jobs to help out. And I always wished hed just guess what pressure I was under.
I dont want that for us. So Ill be open. My pensions not much, but it covers the bills and food. Cars are past me now these days I just save for new teeth, the old ones arent up to scratch.
How are you managing, honestly? Im not about to start sending you fivers or buying you socks, just want to know you arent skipping meals or sleeping on the floor.
If its awkward, just say all good and Ill understand.
Grandad Colin.
Sasha felt a squeezing in his chest. He remembered asking his dad about money as a child and getting jokes, or a grumpy youll find out one day. He grew up feeling like money was something you should never ask about.
He stared at the text for ages before replying:
Grandad,
Ive got enough to eat and I dont sleep on the floor. Got a bed, even a mattress not the best, but fine. I pay my own rent at the halls made a deal with Dad. Sometimes I fall behind, but no ones kicked me out yet.
Theres enough for food, as long as Im careful. If things get really tight, I pick up more shifts, end up like a zombie after. But thats my call.
It feels weird youre the one asking, and I cant bring myself to ask you back like, Grandad, are you all right for money? But you already answered.
Honestly, itd be easier reading just Im fine and no explanation. But I get why youre doing it Im just used to grown-ups never telling the full story.
Thanks for talking about money.
Sasha.
He turned his phone over in his hand, then sent a second message:
If you ever want to get something, and your pension doesnt stretch just say. I cant promise I can always sort it, but Id like to know.
He sent it before he could rethink it.
Grandads reply was the wobbliest yet, the letters all over the place.
Sasha,
Read your message saying if you ever need anything. At first, I wanted to say Im fine, that Im an old man and only need tea and pills. Then I was going to crack a joke about needing a new motorbike one day.
Then I realised Ive spent my whole life acting like a bloke who can do anything alone and ended up as an old man scared to ask his grandson for anything, even small stuff.
So, here it is: if I really need something and cant pay for it, Ill try not to pretend it doesnt matter. For now, as long as Ive got tea, bread, pills and your letters Im sorted. Thats not me being soppy, just listing things.
You know, I used to think we were totally different. You with yourwhat are theyapps? Me with my radio. But the more I read, the more I see were alike. Neither of us likes asking for help. Both act tough, when were really not.
As were being honest now, Ill share something we never talk about in the family. Not sure how youll feel.
When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. Id just got a new job, we got a bedsit, and I thought everything was set. Then came a baby cries, nappies, sleepless nights. Id get back from night shifts and hed be screaming. I lost patience. Once, when he wouldnt stop, I hurled his bottle at the wall. Milk everywhere. Your grandma cried, the baby screamed, and I just stood there wanting to walk out and never come back.
I didnt leave. But for years I pretended it was just a bad day, nerves. Truth is, that was as close as I ever came to giving up. And if I had, you wouldnt be reading these letters now.
I dont know why you need to know this. Maybe just so you get that your grandad isnt a hero, not a role model. Just an ordinary bloke who sometimes wanted to chuck it all and vanish.
If you want to stop messaging now, Id understand.
Grandad Colin.
As he read, Sasha felt waves of chill and heat run through him. The grandad in his head had always been like a cosy blanket and Christmastime oranges now he pictured a knackered man in a bedsit, a screaming baby, milk dripping on the floor.
He remembered last summer, when hed worked at a kids camp and shouted at a whingey boy, grabbing his shoulder harder than he should have. The boy had burst into tears and Sasha spent all night thinking what a terrible father hed make.
He stared at the blank message box for ages. He almost wrote: Youre not a monster. Then, I still love you. Deleted both.
In the end, he sent:
Grandad,
Im not going to stop writing. I dont even know what to say to something like that. In our family, nobody talks about stuff like this about shouting or wanting out. People either bottle up or crack jokes.
I spent last summer working in a camp. There was this boy who cried every day and wanted to go home. One day I lost it and yelled, scared myself. Spent the night thinking I was a rubbish human, shouldnt have kids.
What you wrote doesnt make me think any less of you. Makes you feel real to me.
I dont know if Ill ever be able to tell my kid if I have one this honestly, but maybe I can at least stop pretending Im always right.
Thanks for not walking out that time.
Sasha.
He pressed send and, for the first time, was waiting for Grandads reply not out of politeness, but because it mattered.
The reply came after two days. This time, instead of a photo, Sashas mum just texted: Hes learnt voice messages now, but told me not to give you a fright. I wrote it out.
On his screen was a fresh photo, lined paper once again.
Sasha,
I read your letter and thought, youre braver than I ever was at your age. At least you admit when youre scared. Back then I pretended nothing ever touched me and just broke things instead.
I dont know if youll make a good dad. You dont either. Its something you only find out along the way. But the fact youre asking yourself says a lot.
You said I feel real to you. Thats probably the nicest thing anyones called me. Normally people say Im stubborn, awkward, difficult. No ones called me real for ages.
Now weve started saying big things, let me ask: if my stories ever get too much, just tell me. I can write less often, or just save it for birthdays. I dont want to drown you in my past.
Also, if you ever just fancy dropping by, no reason needed, Ill be in. Spare stool and a clean mug. The mugs definitely clean, I checked.
Your grandad,
Colin.
Sasha grinned at the mug bit. He imagined the kitchen: the stool, the blood sugar meter, a bag of potatoes next to the radiator.
He opened his camera, snapped a pic of his own halls kitchen. In the photo: a sink stacked with dishes, the battered frying pan, a carton of eggs, the kettle, two mugs (one chipped). A jam jar with forks on the windowsill.
He sent the photo and typed:
Grandad,
Heres my kitchen. Two stools, plenty of mugs. If you ever want to come over for no reason, Ill be in. Well, pretty much in.
Youre not a pain. Sometimes I dont know what to say, but I always read.
If you want, write about something besides work and food. Something youve never shared, not because its shameful, just because you never had anyone to tell.
S.
He pressed send and suddenly realised hed just asked a question hed never put to any grown-up before.
He set his phone down, screen off. The eggs on the hob crackled quietly. Behind the wall, someone laughed.
He turned the eggs, switched off the hob, and sat on his stool, picturing Grandad sitting opposite, with a mug in hand, telling stories in person one day, not on paper.
He had no idea if Grandad would ever visit, or what would happen next. But knowing he had someone to send a photo of his messy kitchen or just ask and you, how are you? made him feel both calm and a bit overwhelmed.
He glanced at their chat history the squared paper, the lined, his short replies, S.. Then he put his phone screen-down, just in case a new message came through.
His eggs were cold when he ate them, but he finished anyway, slowly, as if sharing.
They never actually said I love you in their messages. But something between the lines was already enough for both of them.
