Keeping in Touch
Mornings in Edith Brownings flat always begin the same way. She puts the kettle on, measures out two spoonfuls of tea leaves into a wide-bellied teapotone shes cherished since her children were small and the world seemed wide open. While the water heats, she flicks on the radio, letting the voices of the newsreaders wash over her. Shes known these voices longer than many faces.
On the wall, a clock with faded yellow hands ticks along steadily, but the ring of the landline beneath it is growing rare. It used to rattle off in the evenings when her friends would call to discuss the latest drama or their blood pressure. Now, the friends are often unwell, moved away to live with children in other towns, or sometimes gone for good. The phones heavy receiver fits comfortably in her palm. Occasionally, Edith strokes it as she walks past, as though checking the line is still alive.
Her children ring on their mobiles now. Well, ring each otherEdith knows because, when they visit, their phones are glued to their hands. Her son will pause mid-story, stare at his screen, mutter, “Just a moment,” and swipe absently. Her granddaughter, a slim girl with a long ponytail, seldom sets her phone down. Her friends, games, lessons, musiceverything lives in that device. For them, life pulses inside these little screens.
Ediths own phone is a battered old brick, gifted to her after a hospital stay for high blood pressure.
“So we can always reach you,” her son had said.
The mobile usually sits in its grey pouch on the hall shelf. Sometimes, Edith forgets to charge it; sometimes its lost under scarves and receipts in her bag. The phone rarely rings, and when it does, she fumbles for the right button, always too slow, and curses herself afterward.
Today is Ediths seventy-fifth birthday. The number feels foreign. Inside, she feels at least ten years younger. Well, maybe fifteen. But the passport doesnt lie. Her morning proceeds as usual: tea, radio, a short exercise routine for her jointsshown to her by the nurse at the surgery. She pulls yesterdays salad from the fridge and sets out a pie. The family say theyll arrive at two.
Shes still faintly surprised that birthdays are no longer planned in drawn-out phone calls, but in something called a “family group chat.” Her son once said,
“We just sort things in the family chat with Lizzie. Ill show you one day.”
But he never did. The word ‘chat’ sounds to Edith like some alien place, where people exist in little windows, talking in letters.
Right at two, they come. Ethan, her grandson, blunders into the hallway with his backpack and headphones, followed by Daisy, her granddaughter, and then her son Russell and his wife Lizzie, both arms loaded with bags. The flat is instantly crowded and noisy, filled with the scents of pastries, Lizzies perfume, and something brisk and lively Edith cant name.
“Mum, happy birthday,” her son says, hugging her tightly and briefly, already half-turned for some next task.
Presents are placed on the table. Flowers tucked into a jug. Daisy immediately asks for the WiFi password. Her son, rubbing his temples, rummages in his pocket for a crumpled scrap and dictates a jumble of numbers and letters, which echo meaninglessly in Ediths head.
“Granny, why arent you in the chat?” Ethan pipes up, stepping out of his trainers and heading for the kitchen. “Thats where it all happens.”
“What chats that?” Edith fends off, pushing a plate of pie his way. “This phones enough for me.”
“Mum,” Lizzie chimes in. “Actually, thats why well, we have something for you.” She glances at her husband.
Russell produces a neat white box from a carrier. Ediths stomach flipsshe knows instantly whats inside.
“A smartphone,” declares her son in a voice somewhere between triumph and diagnosis. “Not flashy, but a good one. Camera, internet, all that.”
“What do I need this for?” she asks, working to keep her voice steady.
“Mum, just think,” her son pleads, “well be able to video call! The family chats all photos and news now. And everythings online these daysGP appointments, bills. You said you hated queuing at the surgery”
“I can still manage” she begins, but sees her sons exasperated sigh.
“Mum, itll be peace of mind. You can reach us straight away, and youll never have to dig out your old mobile and work out which button to press.”
He tries for a gentle grin, but Edith still feels the sting. “Work out which button.” As if shes totally hopeless.
“Fine,” she says with a sigh, eyes on the box. “If you all insist.”
They open the box together, as once they used to open gifts for the childrenbut now the children are grown, and Edith sits at the centre, feeling more a pupil at an exam than the lady of the house. Out comes a thin black rectangle, sleek and cold, with no buttons on the front.
“Its all touchscreen,” Ethan says, demonstrating a swipe. Instantly the screen lights with colourful icons. Edith recoilsit looks far too clever, as if itll start demanding passwords and codes at any moment.
“Dont worry,” Daisy says gently. “Well set everything up. Just dont tap away on your own yet, alright? Until we show you.”
For some reason, those words sting the most. Dont tap on your own. Like a child who might break a precious ornament.
After lunch, the family pile into the sitting room. Russell sits beside Edith on the sofa, phone in hand.
“Look, this button turns it on. Hold it down there. Thats the lock screen. To unlock, swipe like this”
He moves quickly; her mind fills with words like “swipe,” “lock screen,” and “icon,” and it all sounds like a foreign tongue.
“Hang on,” she says, “lets go step by stepotherwise Ill forget.”
“Youll get it, Mum, its easy once you start.”
She nods, though quietly she knows adjustment will take time. Time to accept the world now pulses in rectangles, and she must squeeze herself in.
By evening, Russell has saved the numbers for the family, her neighbour Valerie, and the local GP. Messenger app set up, family group added, the font size cranked up so she wont have to squint.
“This is the chat. Ill post something now” Russell types. A message from him flashes up. Then, from Lizzie: “Hooray, Mums with us!” Then Daisy splashes the screen with colourful emojis.
“And for me?” Edith asks warily. “How do I write?”
“Tap here,” Russell shows, “keyboard pops up. Or just send a voice messagepress the mic and talk.”
Edith tries, hands trembling. “Thank you” comes out as “thabk you.” Russell laughs, Lizzie grins, Daisy giggles, adding another stream of emojis.
“Its fine, everyone gets it wrong at first,” Russell reassures, seeing her frown.
She nods, but shame prickles inside. As if shes flunked a beginners test.
When they leave, the house returns to quiet. Left on the table: the pie, flowers, and the phones white box. The device sits screen-side down. Edith carefully flips it over and presses the button as shown. The soft light fills the screen with a photo Daisy set as her background: the family, New Year last year. Edith is off to the side in a blue dress, brow arched, still deciding if she belongs among the crowd.
She swipes the screen. Icons scatter. Phone, messages, cameraand then a flood of others. She recalls: “Don’t tap anything youre unsure of.” But how to know whats unsure?
She gently places the phone back and goes to wash up. Best let it rest, get used to its new surroundings.
Next morning, Edith is up earlier than usual. She glances at the strange new phone. Yesterdays dread is less sharp. Its just a thing, after all, and things can be learned. Years ago, terrified of her new microwave, she managedand the kitchen never exploded.
She makes her tea, draws the phone near. The background photo glimmers. Edith finds the ‘green phone’ iconat least thats familiarand taps.
Up comes a contact list: Russell, Lizzie, Daisy, Ethan, Valerie, GP. She selects Russell. Rings. The phone vibrates, bars flickering on the screen. She holds it close.
“Hello?” Russells voice sounds, slightly surprised. “Mum? You alright?”
“All fine,” she answers, pride creeping in. “Just a test run. It worked!”
“There you go,” he laughs. “Told you. Well done. But its cheaper on Messenger, Mum.”
“Hows that?” she says, flummoxed.
“Ill show you later, Im at work now.”
She hangs up with a touch of the red icon. Her heart pounds, but warmth spreads. She did that on her own. No-one had to help.
A couple of hours later, the first message pops up in the family chatshort beep, screen glows. “Daisy: Granny, how are you?” The reply box blinks expectantly.
Edith contemplates it. Then taps, and the keyboard appears. She pecks out “All good. Having tea.” Theres a mistake in good but she lets it be. Presses send.
In seconds, Daisy replies: “Awesome! Did you type that yourself?” With a heart emoji.
Edith realises shes smiling. She did itthe words are hers, in their world as well as her own.
Valerie drops by that evening with a jar of marmalade.
“Heard your lot bought you one of those, what is it, clever phones?” she says, slipping off her shoes at the door.
“Smartphone,” Edith corrects, the word still feeling fancy for someone her age but enjoying it all the same.
“And? Doesnt bite?”
“Just bleeps,” Edith sighs. “Everythings so different. No buttons.”
“My grandsons nagging me too,” Valerie laughs. “Says you cant get by without them now. I say Im too oldlet them tap about in their internet.”
Too old stings Edith. She used to think so, too. But now, with that gadget on her table, it feels like it might not be too late after all. Just to try.
A few days later, Russell phones to say hes booked her GP appointment online.
“Online? How?”
“Through the NHS website, Mum. All sorted now. You can do it yourself, too. I left your login and password written outleft it in the drawer by the phone.”
She checkssure enough, a tidy slip with numbers and letters. She picks it up carefully, like a prescription. Clear enough, but the use of it, not quite so.
Next day, she decides to try. Powers up the device, taps the web browser her son pointed out. White field, bar at the top. Slowly, Edith copies in the address. Each symbol a battletwice she starts over. The site loads at last, awash in blue and white stripes, with countless buttons.
“Enter username, password,” she reads aloud.
Username goes in just about, but the password is another storynumbers and letters jumbled together, screen keyboard flickering on and off, the field wiped with a careless touch. She mutters a rare curse, shocked at her own frustration.
Giving up, she reaches for her old landline and calls Russell.
“Its no good,” she says. “Those passwords are something else.”
“Dont fret, Mum,” he says gently. “Ill come round tonight and show you again.”
“Youre always showing me,” she finds herself sayingsurprised at the sharpness in her tone. “Then you go, and Im left with it all over again.”
A pause.
“I know, Mum,” he finally replies. “I have work, you know that. Tell you what, Ill send Ethan. He’s better at this than me.”
She agrees, hangs up with a heavy heart. Feels a burden, forever needing help.
That evening, Ethan arrives. Shoes off, straight to the living room. “Alright, Grannyshow me the problem.”
She points uncertainly at the phone. “Its hardall this, these words and buttons. Im scared Ill wreck it.”
“You cant break anything,” Ethan shrugs. “Worst youll do is log out. We can log you back in.”
He talks briskly, but not impatiently, fingers flying over the screen, explaining login, language swaps, GP bookings.
“Lookheres your appointment. If you cant go, tap to cancel.”
“What if I do that by mistake?”
“Then just book again. No big deal.”
She nods. Not big for him, but quite something for her.
After he leaves, she sits with the phone, feeling it constantly testing her. Username, password, ‘connection error.’ Life was simpler before: ring, sort it out, call done. Now, she must puzzle over screens and menus.
A week later, disaster: The GP booking vanishes. She wakes one day with a dizzy head and surging blood pressureremembers her check-up is after tomorrow. Goes to check, logs into the site as Ethan taught, sees no booking in her name.
Her heart sinks. She scrolls up and down. Nothing. She recalls fiddling with the “cancel” button out of curiosity. Had she pressed it by mistake?
Panic starts. Without an appointment shell need to visit and queue at the surgerystuffy, crowded, coughing people everywhere. Shes not well enough. She nearly calls Russell but remembers his stressful week at work, imagines him apologising to colleagues: “Excuse me, Mum with her phone again” Shame fills her.
She steadies herself. Takes a few breaths. She could ask Ethan, but he has university; she doesnt want to be saved again.
She surveys the phone. Its the problem and the solution at once. Edith logs in againnervous fingers. No booking. She closes her eyes, breathes again, taps “Book appointment.” Up pops a list of doctors, she picks her GP, chooses the next available slotthree days ahead, later than she hoped, still, its something. She taps confirm and waits.
The phone thinks, then: “You are booked in.” Name, date, time. She reads it through three times to be sure. Relief starts to bloom. Shes managedon her own.
For full measure, she opens the messenger, finds the GPs number her son set up, and, nervous, taps the mic.
“Hello, its Edith Browning,” she says, steady as possible. “My blood pressures not great. Ive booked for the morning after tomorrow, just letting you know.”
She sends the message. The phone pings within momentstext reply in big clear letters: “SEEN YOUR BOOKING. IF YOU FEEL WORSE, CALL RIGHT AWAY.”
The tension slips a little. The slot is safe, the GP knows, all via this tiny machine.
That night she texts the family chat: “Booked my gp by myself. Online.” Makes a mistake in myself but leaves it. Meaning is what matters.
Daisy replies first: “Wow! Youre better than me!” then Lizzie: “Mum, so proud of you.” Finally, Russell: “Told you youd do it!”
Edith reads their words and feels a slow, quiet unfurling inside. Shes not one for emojis or quickfire chats, but theres a thread running now: she can reach out and receive an answer.
After a smooth doctors appointment, she decides to push further. Daisy once said she and her friends swap food and pet photos. Edith had found it funny, almost silly but, secretly, a bit enviable; they share slices of their days, while she only has her radio and the window onto the communal gardens.
On a bright day, sunlight glinting on her seed trays, Edith takes up the phone and opens the camera. Her kitchen fills the little screens frame. She nudges the phone closer to her tomato seedlings and taps the shutter. The snap is slightly blurry but no worse than her first pies. On the picture: green shoots poke from the soil, sunlight tracing the table. She smiles. Like her beside the phonehesitant, but growing all the same.
She attaches the photo to the family group and writes: “My tomatoes are growing.” Sends.
Replies come fast. Daisy posts a shot of her desk, books crammed everywhere. Lizzie shares a plate of salad, “Learning from you.” Russell, a grinning selfie in the office: “Mums tomatoes, my reportswhose life is better?”
Edith laughs aloud. For a moment, the kitchen feels fullthe family in their own corners of England, yet sitting round her table.
It doesnt always go smoothly. Once she accidentally sends a voice note to the whole group, muttering at the television and the news. The grandchildren roar; Russell teases, “Mum, youre a natural radio host.” Red-faced, Edith joins in the laughter. Well, at least its her, not a recording.
Sometimes she muddles chats, messaging Daisys questions to the whole family. Once, asking how to delete a photo, she gets a step-by-step from Ethan, Daisy shrugs, “No clue either,” and Lizzie sends a meme: “Mum: leading the way in tech.”
She still gets lost in the menus, wary of update requests. “Update the system” sounds ominous, like the whole thing may change before shes ready.
Day by day, though, the fear fades. She learns how to check bus times, finds the weather without switching on the radio. Once, she even unearths a cake recipe online, close to her mothers old onewhen she sees the familiar ingredients, her eyes prickle.
She doesnt post about it; simply bakes the cake and shares a photo: “Remembered how Gran used to make it.” The chat eruptshearts, exclamations, requests for her method. She snaps a picture of her handwritten recipe and sends it through.
She notices, one day, that her old landline no longer tugs her gaze. Its still fixed on the wall, but isnt the only lifeline to the world. Now she has another thread, invisible but solid.
One evening, dusk settling and flats opposite lighting up, Edith sits with phone in hand scrolling through the family chat: Russells work updates, Daisys selfies with friends, Ethans quick jokes, Lizzies household tales. Among them, her pictures, her little voice notes, her questions.
She realises, not without surprise, she no longer feels like an outsider peeping in. She doesnt understand half the emojisbut her messages are read, her photos liked. As Daisy would say.
The phone chirps gently: a new message. Daisy: “Granny, algebra test tomorrow. Can I call and moan afterwards?”
Edith grins. She writes, picking out each word with care: “Call me. I always listen.” Sends.
She sets the phone down by her tea. The quiet in the flat no longer feels empty. Out there, beyond her walls, words and voices are waiting. No, shes not the centre of all the young chat business, as Ethan calls it, but shes carved herself a small perch in this strange world of screens.
She finishes her tea, turns off the kitchen light, and, heading for the lounge, glances back at the phone. The black rectangle sits quietly where she left it. She smiles, knowing that, whenever she needs, she can reach outand someone will be there.
And, for now, thats enough.
