No Lectures
The message arrived in Sashas chat app as a photo of a notebook page: blue ink, neat slanting lines, and the signature at the bottom: Your grandad, Colin. Beside it, a quick note from his mum: This is how he writes now. Dont feel you have to reply.
Sasha squinted at the picture, zoomed in to make out the writing.
Sasha, hello.
Writing to you from the kitchen. Ive got a new mate herea blood sugar monitor. It has a go at me if I have too much toast in the morning. Doctor said I should walk more, but I ask youwhere am I supposed to go for a walk when all my mates are in the cemetery, and youre off in London? So I decided to walk down memory lane instead.
Today I remembered back in 79, unloading crates at the train station with the lads. The pay was peanuts, but you could pinch a couple of boxes of apples. The crates were wooden with big metal staples at the sides. Apples were tart, greenhardly a treat, but back then it felt like a party. Wed eat them right there on the embankment, sitting on sacks of cement. Hands grey from dust, fingernails filthy, teeth crunching sand, but somehow they still tasted good.
Why am I telling you this? Im not really. It just came to mind. Dont worry, Im not about to give you a lecture. Youve got your life and Ive got my results.
If you fancy it, tell me how the weather is and how your exams are going.
Your grandad, Colin.
Sasha smirked. Blood sugar monitor, results. Next to the photo, the app read: Sent an hour ago. Hed tried ringing his mum, but she hadnt picked up. So that really is how he writes now.
He scrolled through their chat history. The last messages from Grandad were a year ago: short voice notes with happy birthday, or just a simple hows uni? Back then, Sasha replied with a smiley and vanished.
Now he sat with the photo a long while, then opened the reply box.
Hi Grandad. Weather: plus three and wet. Exams: soon. Apples are £1.20 a kilo now. So, not great here on the apple front.
Sasha.
He thought about it, deleted Sasha, and wrote just Grandson Sasha. Then sent it.
A few days later, Mum forwarded a new photo.
Sasha, good afternoon.
Got your letter, read it three times. Decided to reply properly. Weather heres just like yours, minus your trendy puddles. Snow in the morning, slush by lunch, sheet ice at tea time. Nearly slipped a couple of times, but apparently not my time yet.
Since you mention apples, Ill tell you about my first proper job. I was twenty, got on at a factory making lift parts. Always loud, forever crashing and banging, and dust floating about. Had grey overalls that never got quite clean, no matter how much you scrubbed. Fingers covered in metal splinters, oil under the nails. But I was proudhad a proper factory pass, felt grown up going through the gate.
Best bit wasnt even the pay; it was lunch. Canteen served stew in heavy bowls, and if you got in early youd grab an extra slice of bread. Me and the lads would sit in silencenot for lack of things to say, just knackered. The spoon in your hand weighed more than a spanner.
Youre probably sat at your laptop thinking all this is ancient history. And maybe it is. But I find myself wonderingwas I happy? Or just too busy to think?
What do you do apart from studying? Got a job? Or is it just start-ups now?
Grandad Colin.
Sasha read it standing in the queue at the kebab van. People arguing nearby, someone shouting, the chip shop radio blasting adverts. He found himself rereading the bit about the stew and the heavy bowls.
He tapped out his reply, leaned on the counter.
Hi Grandad.
I work as a courier. Delivering food, sometimes docs. No pass for me, just an appit freezes all the time. Sometimes I eat at work. I mean, I dont pinch anythingjust never get home in time. Grab something cheap, eat in a stairwell or in a mates car. Quiet, like you.
Dont know about happiness. Im too busy for that too.
But stew in the canteen doesnt sound bad.
Grandson Sasha.
He thought about adding something about start-ups, but decided to let Grandad imagine.
The next letter was unusually short.
Sasha, hi.
Courierthats impressive. Now I picture you not as a lad hunched over a laptop, but someone in trainers, always in a rush.
Since you mentioned work, Ill tell you about my stint on a building sitebetween factory shifts, when money was tight. We lugged bricks up five flights of rickety wood stairs. Dust everywhereup the nose, in the eyes, the ears. Come home at night, pull off my boots, and a little sandpit fell out. Your gran would shout at me for ruining the lino.
But funny thing: what I really remember isnt the exhaustion, but one detail. There was a bloke called Old Charliealways there first, sat on an upturned bucket, peeling spuds with a penknife. Hed throw them into his battered pan, then stick it on a hob for lunch. The whole floor would smell of boiled potatoes. We ate them with our hands, bit of salt from a twist of paper. Nothing tasted better.
Im sat now looking at a bag of shop potatoes and thinkthey just dont taste the same. Maybe its age, not the spuds.
What do you eat when youre knackered? Not deliveryproper food.
Grandad Colin.
Sasha didnt reply straight away. What to say about proper food? He remembered last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, picking up frozen sausage rolls from the Tesco Express, microwaving them in the battered shared kitchen where someone had just done instant noodles. They fell apart, water cloudy, but he ate them all, standing at the window, because there was no table.
Two days later, he wrote:
Hi Grandad.
When Im tired, usually I fry eggs. Two, sometimes three, maybe a bit of sausage thrown in. The frying pans a horror, but it works. No Old Charlie here, but my flatmate always burns things and swears his head off.
You do write a lot about food. Were you hungry then, or are you now?
Grandson Sasha.
As soon as he sent it, he regretted the last bitsounded rude. But too late to take it back.
Grandads reply came faster than usual.
Sasha.
Good question, thatabout hunger. Back then, I was young and always ravenous. Not just for stew and spudswanted a motorbike, new boots, a room of my own so I didn’t have to listen to my dads cough all night. Wanted to be respected. Wanted not to have to count pennies at the till. Wanted girls to look, not pass me by.
I eat fine now. Doctor says I overdo it. I write about food, maybe because its something you can put your finger on and remember. Easier to describe the taste of stew than the feeling of shame.
Since you asked, heres a story. No moral coming, youll like that.
I was twenty-three. Already seeing your future gran, but it was a bit shaky. Factory put out a call for lads to go up northgood money, could save for a car. I was fired up. I pictured coming back, buying a Cortina, showing her off round town.
But here’s the thing. Your gran wouldnt go. Her mum was ill here, job, friends. She said she couldnt face those long dark winters. I told her she was holding me back. If she loved me, shed support me. I was a lot harsher than that, but I wont repeat it.
So I went alone. Six months later, wed stopped writing. I came back after two years, money in my pocket, bought a car. But shed married someone else. I told everyone shed betrayed me. That Id slogged for her and she
But if Im honest, I chose money and metal over a person. Spent years pretending it was the only right decision.
That says a lot about my appetite.
You asked about what I felt. At the time, I felt important, righteous. Years passed before I stopped pretending I felt nothing at all.
No pressure to reply if you dont want. I know youve got better things to do than old mans stories.
Grandad Colin.
Sasha read it several times. The word shame snagged at him. He caught himself searching the spaces for an excuse, but Grandad wasnt giving him one.
He opened a new message, typed Do you regret it?deleted it. He tried, What if youd stayed?deleted that too. In the end, he sent something else.
Hi Grandad.
Thanks for telling me that. Not sure what to say. Everyone in the family always talks about Gran as if she had no optionsshe was always just Gran.
I dont blame you. I picked work over a person, too. Had a girlfriend. Id just started the courier job, lucked onto good shifts. Spent all my time working. She said we never saw each other, that I was always glued to my phone, always shattered and snappy. I told her we just had to stick it out, itd get better.
Then she said she was tired of waiting. I told her that was her problem. Again, a lot nastier than that, but Ill spare you.
Now, when I come back to the halls at eleven, frying eggs alone, sometimes I wonder if I picked wages and takeaways over a person, too. Pretending it was right.
Maybe it runs in the family.
Sasha.
Grandads next note wasnt on squared paper, but linedMum explained in a voice message that his exercise book had run out.
Sasha.
You said it was family, that thing of yours. We do love pinning things on the family, dont we? He drinksbecause Grandad drank. She shoutsbecause Gran was strict. Truth is its a brand new choice every single time. But its terrifying to admit, so we invent inheritance.
When I got back from up north, I thought Id got a new life. Car, room in a hostel, money in my pocket. But every night Id sit on my bed and not know what to do with myself. Friends gone, new boss at the factory, only dust and an old radio waiting at home.
Once I went to the house where your not-to-be Gran lived. Stood across the road, looking up at the windows. One was lit, the other dark. Stood there till I went numb. Then I saw her come out with a pram, a fella beside her, holding her arm. Chatting, laughing. I ducked behind a tree like a schoolboy. Watched till they were round the corner.
That was the first time I realised nobody had betrayed me. I just chose my path and she chose hers. But it took me ten years to admit.
You wrote that you picked work over your girlfriend. Maybe you didnt pick the jobyou picked you. Maybe getting yourself out of a hole matters more than the cinema. Not good, not bad. Just what it is.
Annoying thing is, were hopeless at saying directly: Right now, this matters more than you. So we make up pretty words and everyone gets the hump.
Im not writing all this so youll go chase her. I dont even know if you should. Maybe, down the line, youll be standing under someone elses window and realise you couldve just been honest.
Your old grandad, Colin.
Sasha sat on the corridor windowsill in the halls, phone warm in his palm. Outside, cars sloshed through puddles, someone smoked on the steps. Bass thudded from the next room.
He spent a long while, thinking what to reply. Remembered standing under his exs window when shed stopped picking up. Staring at the curtains, the light, hoping shed walk up, pull them aside, see him. She never did.
He wrote:
Hi Grandad.
I stood under a window too. Hid when I saw her walk out with some bloke. He had a rucksack, she was carrying groceries. They were laughing. Felt like Id been erased. But reading you, I wonder if I just erased myself.
You say it took you ten years. I hope I manage quicker.
Im not going chasing her. But maybe Ill stop pretending I dont care.
Grandson Sasha.
The next letter changed the subject.
Sasha.
Ages ago, you asked about money. I dodged itwasnt sure where to start. Ill try now.
Money in our familys always been like the weatheronly talked about when its dreadful or unexpectedly brilliant. Your dad, when he was little, asked once how much I earned. Id just got a side job and was flush, so I told him. He gasped, said, Blimey, youre rich. I laughed it off: Dont be daft.
Couple of years later I was made redundant. Pay was half what it had been. He asked again: How come its so little now? Did you stop working hard? I snapped at him. Said he didnt know anything, ungrateful brat, all that. But really, he was just trying to make sense of the numbers.
Ive looked back at that a lot and realised it was then I taught him never to ask me about money. He grew up never did. Just worked little jobs, lugging boxes or fixing whatever for people. I somehow thought he should just work out, by magic, how hard it all was for me.
I dont want to make the same mistake with you. So, here it is: my pensions not big, but it covers my tablets and my food. Not going to buy another car, but dont need one. Im saving up for new teeth now, the old sets not up to it.
What about you? Coping? Not in a heres a tenner for socks way, mind. Justare you okay? Not starving? Not sleeping on the floor?
If it feels weird to answer, just write fineIll get it.
Grandad Colin.
Sasha felt a knot in his stomach. He remembered asking Dad as a kid how much he made, getting jokes or a grumpy youll find out one day. Hed grown up thinking money was shameful, never to be mentioned.
He stared at the screen for ages before replying:
Hi Grandad.
Im not starving, not sleeping on the floor. Ive got a bed, even a mattressnot the best but itll do. I cover the rent myself, made that deal with Dad. Sometimes Im a bit late paying, but Im not kicked out yet.
Foods fine, if Im not daft about it. When it’s really tight, I grab more shiftsthen walk round like a zombie after. Still, my choice.
It feels odd you asking, when I cant just ask you straight back, Grandad, you alright for money? But youve already answered.
Honestly, wouldve been easier if you just wrote all good and left it at that. I guess Im used to grown-ups never saying anything real.
Thanks for talking money.
Sasha.
Then after a moments thought, he sent a follow-up:
If ever you want something and your pension wont stretch, just let me know. No promises, but at least Ill know.
Sent it before he could bottle out.
Grandads reply was the scruffiest yetletters wandering, lines drifting.
Sasha.
Read your message about if you need anything. At first I wanted to say Im fine. Got everything I need. Old mans only after his cuppa and his pills. Thought about cracking a jokeif Im desperate, Ill ask you for a new motorbike.
But then it hit me: Ive spent my whole life pretending to be the tough bloke who can sort everything. Now Im an old git scared of asking his grandson for the tiniest favour.
So heres how Ill put it. If I ever really need something and cant swing it, Ill try not to act like it doesnt matter. For now, though, Ive got tea, bread, pillsand your letters. No grandstanding, just the list.
You know, I used to think we were nothing alike. You and your what are theyapps, and me with my radio. Now I read your messages, I see were much the same. Neither of us likes asking. Both bluff when we care, but pretend we don’t.
Since were being honest, let me tell you something not talked about in families. No idea what youll make of it.
When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. I’d only just started a new job, got a room in a hostel, I thought life was finally on the up. Suddenlybaby. Screaming, nappies, sleepless nights. Id come in from night shifts and hed wail. I got angry. Once, when he wouldnt settle, I hurled the bottle at the wallit smashed, milk everywhere. Your gran cried, the baby howled, I stood there thinking I wanted to leave and never come back.
I didnt go. But spent years pretending it was just a bad mood. Truth is, I was inches from runningand if I had, you wouldnt be reading this.
Dont know why Im telling you. Maybe just so you know your grandads not a hero, not a role model. Just a bloke who nearly chucked it all in a few times.
If after that, you dont want to write any more, I get it.
Grandad Colin.
Sasha read and felt hot, then cold. His image of Grandadas a warm whiff of satsumas at Christmassuddenly had new shades. Tired man in a hostel room, baby screaming, milk all over the floor.
He remembered last summer, working at a kids camp, losing it with a little boy who just wouldnt stop whining. Had grabbed his shoulder too hard, scared the lad to tears. Sasha hadnt slept for nights after, convinced hed make a dreadful dad.
He stared at a blank message window. Typed Youre not a monster. Deleted it. Tried, Still love you. Deleted, embarrassed.
In the end he sent:
Hi Grandad.
Im not going to stop writing. No idea what youre supposed to say to things like that. Our family never talks about itnot tantrums, or wanting to walk out. We either say nothing or crack a joke.
Last summer, I worked at a camp. There was a boy who cried and begged to go home. I snapped and shouted so loudly I scared myself. Spent the night convinced I was a bad person and shouldnt have kids.
What you wrote doesnt make you worse, just more real.
Dont know if Ill ever be able to tell my own kid something like that, but maybe Ill at least try not to pretend Im always right.
Thanks for not leaving then.
Sasha.
He pressed send, and for the first time realised he was waiting for a replynot out of politeness, but for something that belonged to him.
The answer came two days later. Mum had typed it out from a voice note, with a warning: Hes learnt how to send voice messages but didnt want to alarm you. So I typed it.
A new photo popped uplined paper.
Sasha.
I read your letter and thought how youre braver than I was at your age. At least you admit when youre scared. Me, I pretended nothing fazed methen ended up smashing the furniture.
I dont know if youll make a good dad. And neither do youyou only find out as you go along. The mere fact youre thinking about it says a lot.
You wrote that to you Im real. Thats probably the best compliment Ive ever had. People usually call me stubborn or cantankerousno ones called me real in a long time.
Since weve come this far, let me ask: if I start getting on your nerves with my stories, say so. I can write less, or just on birthdays. I just dont want to drown you in my past.
Also, if you ever want to visitno special reason or anythingIll be at home. Theres a spare stool and a clean mug. Checked myselfthe mugs definitely clean.
Your grandad, Colin.
Sasha smiled at the bit about the mug. He pictured that kitchen: stool, blood sugar monitor on the table, bag of potatoes by the radiator.
He opened the camera, snapped a photo of his own shared kitchen: sink brimming with plates, the infamous frying pan, a box of eggs, a battered kettle, two mugsone with a chipped rima jar of forks on the windowsill.
He sent the photo and added:
Hi Grandad.
Heres my kitchen. Got two stools, plenty of mugs. If you ever fancy coming over just because, Ill be in. Or, well, nearly home.
Youre not boring. Sometimes I dont know what to write, but it doesnt mean I dont read.
If you like, tell me something not about work or food. Something youve never told anyonenot because its shameful, just because you never had anyone to tell.
S.
He pressed send, realising hed just asked a question hed never asked any adult in his life.
He laid his phone down, screen dimming. The eggs hissed in the pan. Someone laughed in the next room. Sasha flipped the eggs, turned off the gas, and sat on his stool, imagining Grandad sitting opposite, clutching a mug, telling a storynot from paper, but out loud.
He had no idea if Grandad would ever really visit, or what might happen next. But knowing he could send a photo of his messy kitchen, ask and you?, and have one person out there to read itmade his chest feel both calm and a little tight.
He picked up the phone and looked back through the messagesgrid paper, lined, his own brief S.s. Then put it face down, so he wouldnt miss any new reply if it came.
The eggs had gone cold, but he finished them anyway, slowly, almost as if sharing.
No one actually wrote love in the messages. But there was something between the linesand for now, that was enough for both of them.
