No Life Lessons Given Sasha received a message in his messenger—a photograph of a page from a maths…

Without Instructions

Alex gets a message on WhatsAppa photo of a page from a lined notebook. Blue ink, neat slant, signed at the bottom: Your granddad, Colin. Next to it, a brief message from his mum: He does this now. You dont need to reply if you dont want to.

Alex zooms in to read the writing.

Hello, Alex.

Im writing from the kitchen table. Got myself a new companion herea glucose meter. Kicks up a fuss if I have too much toast. Doctor says I should get out more, but where would I wander? All my lot are in the churchyard, and youre off in Manchester. So, Ive taken to walking through old memories.

Today, for example, I remembered in 79 when the lads and I unloaded freight at the railway. The pay was peanuts, but sometimes you could nab a crate or two of apples. Wooden crates, metal handles on the sides. The apples were sharp, green, but it still felt like a treat. Wed eat them right there on the embankment, sat on cement sacks. Hands stained grey, nails in dust, teeth on edge from the grit. Still tasted grand.

Why am I telling you this? No reason, really. Just crossed my mind. Dont think Im trying to give you life lessons. Youve your world, Ive got my check-ups.

If you fancy, let me know how your weather is and how the end-of-terms shaping up.

Your granddad, Colin.

Alex laughs gently at glucose meter, check-ups. Underneath, the messenger tags it: Sent one hour ago. Hes already rung his mum; she didnt answer. Means, probably, this is how it is now.

He scrolls back through old chats. The last messages from Granddad Colin are voice notes from a year agobirthday wishes, a hows the studying going. He replied with a smiley and then vanished.

Now, he stares a long time at the notebook page, then opens the reply window.

Hi Granddad. Weather here: three degrees and drizzle. Exams soon. Apples now are a quid-twenty a kilo. Not great for apples these days.

Alex.

He hesitates, deletes Alex, types Your grandson, Alex and sends.

A few days later, Mum forwards another photo.

Afternoon, Alex.

Got your letterread it three times. Decided to reply properly. Weather here is much the same as yours, just without your fancy puddles. Snow in the morning, slush by lunch, then an icy crust in the evening. Nearly gone flying a couple of times, but looks like Im still here for now.

Since you mentioned apples, Ill tell you about my first real job. I was twenty. Got a position at the engineering works, making lift parts. Always deafening, always some ruckus, dust in the air. Had these grey overalls you could never properly clean, however much you scrubbed. Fingers always snagged, nails black with oil. But I was proudhad a pass, walked through the works gate like a grown-up.

The best bit wasnt the pay, but lunch. In the canteen, they served stew in heavy bowls, and if you got in early, an extra chunk of bread. Me and the blokes would pile round one table and not say a wordnot for lack of things to talk about, more wed nothing in the tank. Even holding a spoon felt heavier than a spanner.

Youre probably there on your laptop thinking this is all prehistory. But I remember it and wonder: was I happy? Or just too busy to notice?

What are you up to, besides the exams? Working somewhere? Or is it all start-ups for your lot these days?

Granddad Colin.

Alex reads it while queuing at the kebab van. Arguments all around, some football talk, some crackly advert from the tiny speaker at the cash register. He finds himself re-reading the bit about stew in heavy bowls.

He types his reply while leaning on the counter.

Hi Granddad,

I do shifts as a delivery driver. Mostly food, sometimes post. No staff passjust an app thats forever freezing. But I eat at work sometimes toonot stealing, just not time to get home. I pick up something cheap, eat in my mates car or in a stairwell. Quietly. Not much to say.

About happinesscouldnt say. Barely have time to think about it either.

Stew at the canteen sounds all right.

Your grandson, Alex.

He almost mentions start-ups, but leaves it. Let Granddad draw his own picture.

The next letter is surprisingly short.

Hi Alex.

Delivery driver, eh. I see you different nownot just a lad sat behind a screen, but someone in trainers, always in a rush.

Since were on work, Ill tell you about doing odd jobs at a building site. Picking up extra money between shifts at the works. Wed haul bricks up to the fifth floor on rickety wooden stairs. Dust everywhereup my nose, in my eyes and my ears. Come home at night, boots off, and sand would pour out. Your gran would moan about the muck on the kitchen lino.

Strangest thing: I dont remember the exhaustion, only this one image. There was a bloke there, everyone called him Big Jim. Hed arrive early, perched on an upturned bucket, peeling spuds with his penknife. Chuck them in an old pan from home. At lunch, hed put it on a slow hob, and the whole floor would smell of boiled potatoes. Wed grab them, eat with our hands, dip them in salt wed pinched from the canteen. I thought nothing could taste better.

Im in my kitchen looking at a bag of supermarket spuds now, thinking they just arent the same. Maybe its not the potatoes, but age.

What do you eat, when youre worn out? Not from takeawayreal food.

Granddad Colin.

Alex doesnt reply straight away. He wonders how to describe real food. He remembers last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, when he bought some frozen pies from the 24-hour off-licence, boiled them up in the shared kitchen in the ancient pan that still tastes like last years hot dogs. The pies split apart, the water went cloudy, but he ate the lot, standing by the windowno table in the kitchen.

It takes him two days to send a reply.

Hi Granddad,

When Im knackered, usually have eggs. Two or three, maybe with some bacon. The pans battered, but it does the job. No Big Jim here, but got a housemate who always burns something and swears like mad.

You write a lot about food. Were you hungry back then, or now?

Your grandson, Alex.

He immediately regrets that last bitmaybe its rude. Too late to take it back now.

This time, the reply is quick.

Alex,

Good question, the hunger. I was young and permanently hungry then. And not only for stew or potatoesI wanted a motorbike, new boots, my own room so I wouldnt hear Dads coughing at night. I wanted respect. I wanted to walk into the shop not counting pennies. I wanted girls to look at me instead of walking by.

Now I eat fine. The doctor says a bit too well, in fact. I write about food because its something you can describe and recall; its easier to discuss the taste of soup than the sting of shame.

Since you asked, heres a storyno moral, I promise.

I was twenty-three. Seeing your future gran back then, but it was up and down. Word came round at the worksneeded a bloke for a team heading to Scotland. Good money, could save up for a car in a couple of years. I was keen, already picturing myself driving a Cortina around town, picking her up.

But then, she said she wouldnt come. Her mum was ill, she had work and friendssaid shed never manage those long winters and darkness. I told her she was holding me back. If she loved me, she should support me. I said it ruder than that, but I wont quote myself.

So, I went alone. After six months, we stopped writing. Two years later I came back with cash and a car. Shed married someone else.

For years I told everyone shed betrayed me, that Id done it all for her, and truth is, I chose money and metal over a person. I pretended for a long time that this was the only way it couldve gone.

That was my appetite back then.

You asked how I felt. At the time, I felt important and right. After that, I pretended not to feel anything much, for years.

You dont have to reply to this. I get it if youre not up for the ramblings of an old man.

Granddad Colin.

Alex reads it over and over. The word shame hooks him. He catches himself searching for an excuse between the lines, but Granddad doesnt offer one.

He starts a messageDo you regret it?then deletes. Types, What if youd stayed?then deletes again. What he sends is different.

Hi Granddad,

Thank you for writing that. I dont really know what to say. In our family, we mostly talk about Gran like she was always just Gran, nothing else.

I dont judge you. I chose work over someone myself, not that long ago. I had a girlfriend. Id just started the delivery job, and was getting better slots. Working all the time. She said we never saw each other, that I was always on my phone, snapping at everything. I told her wed just have to get through it, that itd get easier soon.

Then she said she was tired of waiting. I said, well, thats your problem. Said it ruder, but I wont quote myself either.

Now, when I come home to the flat past eleven and fry up my eggs, I sometimes think I picked money and drop-offs over people too. And pretend it was the right call.

Seems it runs in the family.

Alex.

Granddads next letter is on lined, not squared, paper. Mum sends a voice note: Hes out of notebooks.

Alex,

Youre right about it running in the family. Round here, we blame everything on the relatives. Drinks? Its because Granddad did. Shouts? Gran was strict. But really, its your own choice every time. Only, admitting its scary, so its easier to call it inheritance.

When I got back from Scotland, I thought life was sorted. Car, my own bedsit, cash in my pocket. But at night, Id sit on my bed not knowing what to do with myself. Mates had all moved away, new boss at the works, nothing at home but dust and a tired old radio.

One night, I drove to the street where your not-Gran lived. Parked across the road, watched the windowsone lit up, the rest dark. I stood there until I got cold. Then I saw her come out with a pushchair. A bloke with her, holding her arm, laughing about something. I hid behind a tree, like some fool. Watched till they turned the corner.

Thats when I first realised, no one betrayed me. We both made our choices. Took me yearsten at leastto admit that to myself.

You said you chose work over your girlfriend. Maybe you didnt choose work. Maybe you chose yourself. Maybe digging yourself out of a hole feels more urgent than going to the cinema. Its not right or wrong. Just is.

Worst bits how bad we are at saying, right now, this matters more than you. So we say pretty things, hurt each other anyway.

Im not suggesting you go running after her, by the way. Dont know if you should. Maybe, one day, youll be outside a window and realisecouldve said something more honest.

Your old granddad, Colin.

Alex sits on the windowsill in the blocks corridor, phone warm in his palm. Outside, cars nose through puddles. Someone smokes by the door. Next room, bass thuds through the wall.

He thinks for a long time. Remembers standing outside his exs window after she stopped answering calls, watching the light shift behind curtains, half-hoping shed look out and see him. She didnt.

He writes:

Hi Granddad,

Ive stood outside a window too. Hid when I saw her come out with some blokea rucksack on him, carrier bag in her hand. Laughing. I thought Id been cut out of her life. Now, reading your letter, maybe I just walked out on mine.

You said it took you ten years to realise. I hope I manage sooner.

Im not running after her. Just tired of pretending I dont care.

Your grandson, Alex.

The next letter is about something else.

Alex,

You once asked about money. Never answered, didnt know how. Ill try now.

Money was much like the weather in our houseyou only mentioned it when things were dire or when they went right for a bit. When your dad was little, he once asked what I earned. Id taken on some overtime, so it was more than usual. I told him the figure, and his eyes went wide. Youre rich! he said. I laughed it off.

A couple of years later, work dried up and my wages dropped to half. Your dad asked again. I told him the number, and he said, Why so little? Are you working less hard? I snapped at him, said he didnt get it, should be grateful. Truth is, he was just trying to make sense of the numbers.

Ive thought about that over the yearshow that was the moment I taught him not to ask me about money. He grew up, never asked again. Did odd jobs, fixed peoples gadgets, all quietly. I always thought he should work out for himself how tough things are for me.

I dont want to repeat that with you. Ill tell you straight. Pensions not much, but covers food and my prescription. Never going to buy a car now, dont need to. Only thing Im saving for is new teeththe others are giving up.

How about you? Are you managing all right? Not that Ill start sending you cash or buying you socks. Just want to know youre not hungry or sleeping on the floor.

If its awkward to answer, just say yeah, fineIll understand.

Granddad Colin.

Alex feels a knot inside. He remembers asking his dad what he earned as a child and only getting jokes or a snapped find out later on. He grew up associating money with secrets and shame.

He stares at the letter for ages, then types,

Hi Granddad,

Im not hungry and Im not on the floor. Ive got a bedeven comes with a mattress, not the best but does me. I cover my rent for the halls myself, made that deal with Dad. Sometimes Im late, but so far havent been kicked out.

Ive enough for food, if I dont buy rubbish. If it gets tight, I take on more shiftsthen I feel dead for a few days. But thats my call.

I feel awkward youre asking and I cant ask you back. Like, Granddad, do you have enough? but youve already told me.

Honestly, its easier for me if you just said alls good and left it there. But I get why you dont. Im just used to grown-ups saying nothing.

Thanks for telling me about the money.

Alex.

He turns the phone in his hand for ages, then adds, in a separate message:

If you ever want something and havent got enough, say so. Im not promising I can help, but Id like to know.

He sends it before he can regret it.

Granddads reply is the most uneven yetthe letters wobble, lines slant away.

Alex,

Read your note about if theres ever not enough. First felt like saying I need nothing. That Im all sorted, just need my pills. Then wanted to jokeif I want anything, Ill ask for a new motorbike.

But I thought about itmy whole life, Ive played the hard man, could do everything solo. Ended up a pensioner, scared to ask his grandson for a favour.

SoI promise, if I ever truly need something, Ill try not to pretend it doesnt matter. For now, Ive got tea, bread, my tablets, and your letters. Thats not me being soppythats just me listing my things.

You know, I used to think we had nothing in commonyou with your what are they, apps? Me with my old radio. Now I read you and see were a lot alike. We both hate to ask for anything. Both pretend we dont care, when we actually do.

Since were being honestIll tell you something no one in the family talks about. I dont know how youll feel.

When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. Had landed a new job, got a room in the hostel, thought things were on the up. Then a baby comes alongcrying, nappies, sleepless nights. Id work through the night, come back, and hed be screaming still. Lost my rag once, chucked his bottle at the wallmilk everywhere. Your gran was sobbing, kid still wailing, and I just wanted to walk out and disappear.

I didnt walk. But for years pretended it was just a bad day. Truth is, I nearly legged it. And if I had, you wouldnt be reading any of this now.

No idea if you need to know thismaybe just to understand your granddad is no hero, not a model. Just a bloke who sometimes wanted to jack it in and vanish.

If you dont write back, Ill understand.

Granddad Colin.

Alex finds himself going hot then cold reading it. Until recently, Granddad was always a sort of soft blanket and the scent of oranges at Christmassuddenly he is a worn-out man in a hostel room, baby screaming, milk spilt.

He remembers last summer, temping at a kids camp, shouting at a homesick boy, gripping him by the shoulder too hardthe kid burst into tears. Alex spent the night feeling hed be a terrible parent.

He sits a long time over the empty message box. Types Youre not a monster. Deletes it. Types, Love you anyway. Deletes that, embarrassed by the word.

He sends,

Hi Granddad,

Im not going to stop writing. I dont know what youre supposed to say to that sort of thing. In our family, no one talks about anger, or wanting to leave. We either say nothing, or make a joke.

Last summer, I worked at a campthere was one lad who cried all the time, wanted to go home. I snapped and shouted at him. Scared myself. That night, I thought, maybe Im not meant to have kids either.

What you wrote doesnt make me think less of you. It just makes you real.

I dont know if I could ever be so honest with my own kid, if I have one. But maybe Ill try not to pretend Im always right.

Thanks for not walking out then.

Alex.

He hits send, and for the first time realises he actually wants a replynot out of politeness, but for real.

Its two days before a reply comes. This time, Mum doesnt send a photo, just a message: Hes figured out voice notes, but asked me to write it for yousaid not to freak you out.

A new photo appearslined paper.

Alex.

Read your message and I thought, youre braver than I ever was at your age. You admit youre scared. Me, I pretended nothing could touch me, and ended up slamming doors.

Ive no idea if youll be a good dad. Nor do you. Its one of those things you find out as you go along. But the fact you even ask means a lot.

You said Im real to you. Best compliment Ive had, I reckon. Usually get called stubborn, awkward, set in my ways. No ones called me real in a long time.

Since were doing the honest thing, wanted to askif I get boring with my stories, tell me. I can write less, or just for birthdays and such. I dont want to smother you in the past.

Alsoif you ever want to visit, no reason needed, Ill be here. Spare stool, clean mug. The mugs been checked, promise.

Your granddad, Colin.

Alex smiles at the bit about the mug. He pictures the kitchenstool, glucose meter on the table, bag of spuds by the radiator.

He takes a photo of his own student kitchen. In the pic: sink piled with dishes, battered frying pan, carton of eggs, kettle, two mugs (one chipped). Forks in an old jam jar by the window.

He sends the picture and adds:

Hi Granddad,

Heres my kitchen. Two stools, mugs to spare. If you ever want to visit, Ill be inwell, mostly.

You dont get boring. Sometimes I dont know what to say back, but I always read.

If you want, tell me something not about work or food. Something youve never told anyone, not because its a secret, just no one ever asked.

A.

He hits send and realiseshes just asked a grown-up something hes never asked a soul in the family.

He drops the phone on the table, screen down. The egg is sizzling gently in the pan. Next room, someones laughing.

He flips the eggs, switches off the gas, and sits on his stool, imagining Granddad opposite, holding a mug, telling stories right there, out loud.

He doesnt know if Granddad will ever visit, or what comes next. But knowing he can send a picture of his messy kitchen and a how are you makes him feel calm, and a bit full in the chest.

He glances at his phone, at the line of messagessquared paper, lined, his own short A. He places the phone face down, just in case a new message pops up.

The eggs go cold but he finishes them, slow and steady, sharing them in his own way.

There are still no love yous spelled out in the messages. But theres something between the lines alreadyand, for now, its more than enough for both of them.