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At the Edge of This Summer: Dana, a Quiet Librarian, Wins a Dream Holiday by the Sea, Saves a Teenager from Drowning, and Discovers Unexpected Romance with a Single Father and His Son as the Season Draws to a Close
On the Edge of This Summer
Working as a librarian, Alice always considered her life a bit dull. Visitors were scarce these days; everyone preferred browsing the internet from home. She would regularly rearrange the books, dusting the shelves, but the real perk of her job was the sheer number shed managed to read: romances, philosophy, you name it. By the age of thirty, shed suddenly realised that all this romantic fluff had somehow passed her by.
She was at a respectable age, should probably be thinking of settling down, but she never bothered changing jobs. Her looks didnt command attention; her salary was modest. The library drew mostly students, some schoolkids and the occasional pensioner.
Not long ago, thered been a professional competition among county librarians. To Alices delight and utter surprise, she won the grand prizea fully paid two-week seaside holiday.
How brilliant! Ill definitely go, she told her mum and her friend with a giddy smile. Id never afford something like this on my wage. Its as if good luck finally landed in my lap!
Summer was drawing to a close. On her third day at the coast, Alice wandered along the nearly empty beach; most holidaymakers had retreated to cafes since the sea was particularly rough. She fancied a bit of time to stroll alone, to think and dream.
Just then, she saw a wave knock a boy off the pier and into the churning water. Without a second thought for her own safety, she dashed in. He wasnt far out, thank goodness, and though she wasnt a stellar swimmer herself, shed always managed to stay afloat.
The waves alternately pushed her and the boy toward shore, then seemed to pull them back again. Alice managed to reach him and, inch by inch, got him closer to where she could stand, her beautiful dress soaked and clinging. Finally, she was able to haul him to safety.
Looking at him, she was taken aback. Hes just a kida tall one, maybe fourteenbarely older than a schoolboy, she thought. She asked, What on earth made you go swimming in this weather?
The boy murmured his thanks, swayed a little, and walked away, not looking back. Alice, shrugging, watched him disappear. The following morning, sunlight streamed through her hotel window; the sea shone bright and blue, restless but cheerful, as if to apologise for yesterdays temper.
After breakfast, Alice headed to the sun-soaked beach, stretched out on a lounger, and let her worries drift away. Closer to the evening, she fancied a stroll and ended up in the pier arcade, where she noticed the shooting range. Shed been a decent shot back at school and university, but her first attempt was wide of the mark. Her second hit dead centre.
See that, son? Thats how its done, a man joked behind her, making her turn. To her amazement, the voice belonged to the boy shed pulled from the sea.
His eyes widened in recognition, but she quickly realised the father didnt know anything about yesterday. She offered a small smile.
Perhaps youll show us a thing or two? asked the boys father, introducing himself as Jack. My Toms useless with these things, and Im not much better, sadly. He smiled warmly.
After the arcade, they all wandered around together, then moved to a café for ice cream, followed by a ride on the Ferris wheel. Alice expected Toms mother might join them soon, but neither Jack nor Tom seemed to be waiting for anyone else.
Jack turned out to be a fantastic conversationalist, full of stories, and with every passing minute Alice liked him more.
Alice, have you been here long? Jack asked.
This is just my first week, she replied. Got another to go.
London, originally, she admitted, surprised when they discovered all three hailed from the same city. They laughed at the coincidence.
Isnt it funny? Jack grinned. Cant meet up in town, but all the way out herehere we are! He was clearly taken with Alices calm and gentle nature.
Tom joined the chat, having cottoned on that Alice wasnt going to mention his adventure in the water. The group split late into the night, Jack and Tom seeing Alice back to her hotel and agreeing to meet her again on the beach tomorrow.
She arrived early, but her new friends were running late, turning up nearly an hour behind.
Morning, Jack called, apologising profusely. Honestly, Alice, you wont believe itwe overslept and completely forgot to set our alarm.
Dad, Im off for a swim, Tom announced and headed to the water.
Alice suddenly called, Wait! You cant swim!
Jack raised his eyebrows. Of course he canhes on the school swim team, entered in races all the time. Alice was surprised but said nothing. Had she imagined that he couldnt swim?
Theyd booked rooms in neighbouring hotels. The following days flew by in a dream. Every morning started on the beach; they parted only late into the evening, exploring sights together. Still, Alice longed for a chat alone with Tom, sensing he was troubled, though perhaps she was imagining things. By now, she knew Jack and Tom were lodged next door.
The chance came. One morning Tom appeared on his own.
Hiya. Dads a bit poorlytemperature and all that, Tom explained. I asked if I could come down told him Id be with you. Hope you dont mind, he grinned, I just couldnt sit in that room all day.
Tom, give me your dads mobile number. Ill ring and check on him, Alice suggested; Tom rattled it off.
Hello, Jack? she greeted. Sorry to hear youre under the weather. Dont worryToms in good hands, hes promised to listen to everything I say.
Thanks, Aliceappreciate it. Ill be up and about soon enough! Jack replied.
After a swim, Tom sprawled on the lounger beside her and suddenly burst out, Do you know youre a real mate? Alice looked over; he was smiling.
What makes you say that?
Because you didnt tell Dad about well, the pier and the sea. Tom blushed. Honestly, I didnt plan it. Got knocked straight off by a wave and lost my nerve a bit.
No worries, Alice smiled. Then after a pause, she gently asked, Tom, wheres your mum? Why are you two on your own?
He went quiet, thinking it over, but then nodded, deciding to trust her. As it turned out, Tom felt he was grown up enough to know the truth.
Jack sometimes travelled for work. Whenever he went away, Tom stayed with his mum, Susan. Everyone thought they were the perfect family, but appearances were deceiving. The trouble, it seemed, was with Susan.
One day Jack told her, Listen, Susan, Im off to Manchester for a three-week training course. They say Ill probably get a promotion after, maybe even become deputy manager. The pay goes up a lot
Surprisingly, Susan seemed almost pleased. When Jack left, she stayed at home with Tom.
A couple of days later, Susan told Tom, Were having guestsmy colleague Paul and his daughter Rosie. Paul and I have drawings to finish, so youll have to entertain Rosie for a bit. Shes a couple of years older than you, but Im sure youll get along.
Rosie turned out to be quite the character. After a short chat in Toms room, she suggested, Come on, lets see whats happening in the park.
Susan handed Tom a crisp tenner. Take ityou can at least buy Rosie an ice cream. Go on, have some fun! He was shocked; his mum had never given him that much pocket money.
They spent the afternoon togetherTom, nearly fourteen and already tall for his age, found Rosie mature and worldly. The weeks slipped by.
Just before Jack was due home, Rosie said, Thank heavens your dads back soon. Im tired of looking after yougot my own life, you know? Dad made a deal with me: keep you distracted while our parents well, occupy themselves. She gave a cynical laugh. My parents split up ages ago, still fighting over the house
Tom felt sick hearing Rosie talk about his mum and her dad like that. He believed her and didnt, but the facts were hard to ignore. When Jack returned, Tom didnt know what to do. Should he keep quiet? Tell Mum off? Or tell Dad instead?
It wasnt long before the truth came out. Tom noticed his mum becoming increasingly distant with Jack. One evening, back from football training, Tom entered just in time to overhear a blazing row.
Yes, Im seeing someone else. What are you going to do about it? Susans voice echoed through the flat.
Nothing, Jack replied. Ill file for divorce. Tom will be staying with meits clear youre not bothered about him.
Fine by me, Susan snapped. Im starting a new family anyway.
Tom dashed to his room, listening as his mum admitted, Paul and I have been together behind your back for ages. Im moving out tomorrow.
On Saturday, Tom stayed in bed on purpose, knowing his mum was packing. Jack sat quietly behind his laptop. Tom already knew he wanted to stay with his dadPaul and Rosie had never been his cup of tea. He heard the front door slam as Susan left.
Jack tried to explain, but Tom said, Dad, theres nothing to explain. Ive known for agesalmost told you myself. I love you. Well be fine together.
Jack ruffled his hair. Turns out youre more mature than I thought, he smiled. If you want to see your mum, do it for your sake. She left menot you.
But Tom didnt want to see Susan yet. He just couldnt quite forgive her. That afternoon, Alice and Tom popped to see Jack, bringing fruit. Jack was in good spirits, promising hed join them on the beach the next day.
In three days, Jack and Tom were heading home, while Alice had two days left herself. The summer was ending. On the very edge of it, they said their goodbyes. Jack promised to meet Alice at the airport, Tom beamed.
Alice had no plans, just a blissful smile, rereading Jacks kind messages where he confessed he missed her already and couldnt wait to see her again. Before long, Alice moved into the flat with Jack and Tom, and it seemed Tom was the happiest of them all: for his dad, for himself, and for Alice.
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Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs. Hope Dawson’s day began the same way: putting the kettle on, spooning two heaps of tea into her beloved, chubby old pot—the one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world still felt wide open. As the water boiled, she flicked on the kitchen radio to half-listen to the news. The voices of the announcers were more familiar to her than many faces she knew. On the wall hung a clock with yellow hands. The hands still ticked reliably, but the shrill ring of the landline beneath them echoed through the flat less and less. It used to crackle in the evenings, when friends would call to discuss soaps or compare blood pressure. These days, friends were either under the weather, had moved away to help their children, or slipped away entirely. The hefty landline stood in the corner, its receiver fitting comfortably in her palm. Sometimes Mrs. Dawson would fondly stroke the handset in passing, as if checking that this old line of communication was still alive. Her children phoned each other by mobile now. At least, she was sure they did: when they visited, their phones were always in hand. Her son could fall silent mid-conversation, gaze at his screen, apologise—“Just a second”—then start tapping away. Her granddaughter—a slender girl with a long ponytail—barely let go of her own. Her whole world, it seemed, was in that little device: friends, games, lessons, music. Everything for everyone else was there. For Mrs. Dawson, it was just her old brick of a mobile. They’d bought it after her first hospital scare. “So we can always reach you,” her son had explained. The phone itself rested in a grey case on the hallway shelf. Sometimes she forgot to charge it. Sometimes it ended up buried in her bag among tissues and shop receipts. It rarely rang, and when it did, she often fumbled the buttons, then scolded herself for being slow. That day was her seventy-fifth birthday. The number felt strange—foreign. Inside, she felt scarcely older than sixty-five. Maybe sixty. But passports don’t lie. The morning rolled on in its usual way: tea, radio, a gentle joint exercise routine from the surgery. She fetched yesterday’s homemade salad from the fridge, set out a pie. Her children had promised to arrive at two. It still amazed her that birthdays were now orchestrated via some ‘group chat’ and not over the phone. Once, her son had explained, “Tanya and I sort everything in the family chat. I’ll show you sometime.” He never did. To Mrs. Dawson, ‘chat’ sounded like something from another life—a place where people lived inside little windows and only spoke in letters. At two o’clock they bustled in. First Grandson Archie, rucksack and headphones, then Granddaughter Daisy, quiet as a mouse, and finally her son and daughter-in-law, arms laden with bags. Instantly the flat was filled with the scent of bakery treats, her daughter-in-law’s perfume, and a fresh, quicksilver fragrance Mrs. Dawson couldn’t quite place. “Mum, happy birthday!” Her son hugged her tightly but briefly, as if already in a rush. Gifts landed on the table. Flowers went in a vase. Daisy asked about the Wi-Fi right away. Her son, wrinkling his forehead, dug in his pocket for a scrap of paper with the password, and began reciting a jumble of numbers and letters that made Mrs. Dawson’s head spin. “Granny, how come you’re not in the chat?” Archie called as he shucked off his trainers. “That’s where the action is!” “What chat? I’ve got this phone—more than enough for me,” she said, sliding a slice of pie his way. “Mum,” her daughter-in-law began, exchanging a quick look with her husband, “that’s actually why we… Well, we got you a present.” Her son presented a neat white box, smooth and shiny. Mrs. Dawson’s heart began to flutter. She knew what it was. “A smartphone,” her son announced, like a doctor breaking news. “Nothing fancy, but solid—good camera, proper internet, all the bits.” “Why would I need that?” she replied, forcing her voice to sound steady. “Mum, come on. We can video call now. We’ve got a family chat—photos, news, everything’s online. For booking appointments, checking bills—you said yourself the GP queue was dreadful.” “I’ll manage, somehow…” she began, but saw her son’s contained sigh. “Mum, it’ll put our minds at rest. You can message us straight away, and we can check in anytime. No more hunting for the green button on your old one.” He smiled, trying to soften the blow. Still, her stomach pinched. “Find the green button”—as if she was too muddled for anything. “All right,” she said, eyes on the box. “If you want, I’ll try.” Everyone opened the box together, like a child’s birthday years ago, only now the children were grown, and she sat at the centre, feeling more like a student at an exam than the guest of honour. Out came a slim black rectangle—cold, too smooth. No buttons. “It’s all touchscreen,” Archie explained. “Just tap, like this.” He drew his finger across the screen; icons flashed alive. Mrs. Dawson nearly jolted. This thing, she was sure, would now demand passwords, logins, or something else arcane. “Don’t worry.” Daisy’s voice went soft. “We’ll set it up. Just don’t press anything yourself, not until we show you.” For some reason, that stung the most: “Don’t press anything yourself.” Like she was a child in a china shop. After lunch, the family camped in the lounge. Her son sat beside her, phone on her knees. “Right—look here. This is the power button, you hold it, then swipe the screen to unlock—like this.” He moved so briskly her head spun—button, lock screen, swipe. It sounded like a foreign tongue. “Slow down,” she pleaded. “One thing at a time or I’ll forget.” “You’ll get used to it, promise. It’s easy.” She nodded, knowing it would take time. She needed to accept that nowadays, the world lived in these rectangles—and she would have to squeeze in there somehow. By evening, her contacts were loaded: children, grandkids, neighbour Val Peterson, and the GP. Her son installed a messenger, set up a family group, even changed it to big text so she wouldn’t squint. “See—this is the chat. I’ll type something now.” He tapped a message to himself. Her daughter-in-law’s “Hooray, Mum’s with us!” popped up, then a cluster of colourful emojis from Daisy. “How do I send something?” she whispered. “Press here—keyboard comes up—you type. Or, if you want, there’s voice. Hold the mic icon and just talk.” She tried. Her fingers trembled. ‘Thank you’ turned into ‘thabk you.’ Her son burst out laughing. So did his wife. Daisy giggled and added more smileys. “It’s fine,” her son said, noticing her tension. “Everyone makes mistakes at first.” She nodded, but shame prickled—incredible, to fail at something so simple. When they left, the flat returned to quiet. Only a half-finished pie, flowers, and an empty white box remained. The new phone lay face-down. Hesitantly, Mrs. Dawson picked it up, turned it over. The screen was black. She pressed the side button just as shown. The display glowed gently, showing a festive photo Daisy had set as her wallpaper—last year’s Christmas, all of them together. She saw herself in profile, in a blue dress and raised eyebrow, as if already unsure she belonged in that scene. She swiped the screen as instructed. Icons greeted her: phone, messages, camera, others she didn’t recognise. Her son had warned her: “Don’t press anything you don’t know”—but how could you tell, with so much unfamiliar? In the end, she quietly placed the phone back and went to wash up. It could settle in. It needed to get used to the flat. The next morning she woke early. Her gaze drifted at once to the smartphone. It still looked like a stranger patiently waiting. Yesterday’s fear ebbed slightly. It was, after all, only a thing. Things could be mastered. She’d learned to use a microwave—for all her terror it might explode. She made tea, sat, and drew the phone closer. She switched it on. Her palm felt clammy. The Christmas photo glowed back at her. She swiped. Icons again. She found the green phone—at least that was familiar—and pressed. A list of contacts appeared: her son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Archie, Val Peterson. She chose her son. Pressed. The phone buzzed, then stripes danced across the screen. She lifted it to her ear as with any phone and waited. “Hello?” Her son’s voice was surprised. “Mum? Everything okay?” “All’s well,” she replied, a strange pride kindling. “Just wanted to check. It worked.” “There you go!” he laughed. “I told you. Well done! But it’s cheaper to call on the messenger now, remember.” “How…?” she faltered. “I’ll show you next time. I’m at work—can’t talk now.” She ended the call, pressing the red phone. Her heart pounded—but she’d done it. On her own. A couple of hours later, a notification pinged. The family chat lit up: “Daisy: Granny, how are you?” A tiny reply box blinked below. She studied it, then gingerly tapped the box. The keyboard appeared. Letters were small but visible. She tapped, one by one: “F” missed, landed “v”. Quickly erased. Tried again. Ten minutes to type: “All good. Having tea.” Missed a letter but left it. Pressed send. A moment later, Daisy replied: “Wow! Did you do that yourself?” Then a heart. She caught herself smiling. She’d written. Her words, sharing space with theirs. That evening, Val Peterson knocked, jam in hand. “Heard you got one of those… what do you call ‘em… clever phones!” Val cackled, slipping off her shoes. “Smartphone,” Mrs. Dawson corrected. It still sounded far too young for her—but she found herself enjoying the word. “And? It hasn’t bitten you yet?” “Just beeps at me—no buttons.” Mrs. Dawson laughed. “World’s upside down.” “My grandson wants me to get one. ‘Everyone’s got to have one, Gran!’ But I tell him, too late for me. Let them play with their internets.” ‘Too late’ hurt. She’d felt the same. But now something in her room seemed to say: Not yet. At least, give it a chance. A few days on, her son called: he’d booked her GP appointment—online. “How?” she asked. “Via the government website—everything’s there now. You could do it too. Your username and password are on a slip in the phone drawer.” She opened it—a neat slip of instructions, cryptic as a doctor’s prescription. Next day, she plucked up her courage. Switched on the phone, found the browser icon her son had shown her in passing. Tapped, typed in the address, cross-checking each letter from the slip. Twice she got it wrong, twice erased, painstaking. At last, the site loaded: blue-and-white stripes, unfamiliar options. “Enter username.” She read, out loud. “Password.” Typing the username was hard enough. The password—a tangle of letters and numbers—was an ordeal. The onscreen keyboard kept switching, then disappeared. At one point, she pressed the wrong button and the field cleared. She muttered, startled by her own annoyance. Finally, she gave up and phoned her son on the landline. “I can’t do it,” she said. “Your passwords are torture.” “Mum, don’t worry,” he assured. “I’ll come over and show you again.” “You’re always coming and showing me, then you leave and I’m alone with it.” A silence stretched. “I know,” he said at last. “But work’s mad. How about I send Archie—he’s better with tech anyway.” She agreed, but felt heavy-hearted. Without them, she was helpless—a burden needing constant explanations. That evening, Archie arrived, kicked off his trainers and joined her on the sofa. “Let’s see, Gran—what’s stumping you?” She showed him. “It’s these words, these buttons. I worry I’ll ruin everything.” “You can’t break anything,” he shrugged. “Worst case, you log out. Then we just log in again.” He explained calmly, fingers dancing over the screen. Where to press, how to switch languages, find GP details. “See—here’s your booking. If you can’t make it, you cancel here.” “What if I cancel by accident?” “Then you just book again. No biggie.” For him: no biggie. For her—a mountain. After he left, she sat with the phone for a long time. This little screen seemed to test her daily: another login, another ‘connection error’. The world once seemed so simple: call, arrange, show up. Now you had to master buttons, passwords, and pop-ups too. A week later, her check-up was nearly due. She woke groggy, her blood pressure swinging. She remembered her appointment was two days later. She decided to check. Switched on, opened the website as Archie had shown. Searched the booking page—her name was missing. Her heart plummeted. She scrolled up, down. Blank. She was sure she hadn’t touched anything. Or had she? Last night, she’d tried to view ‘cancel appointment’ to learn how it worked. Perhaps she’d pressed something by accident. Panic rose. No appointment meant a crowded walk-in queue—claustrophobic, coughing strangers. She felt giddy. She almost called her son. Then remembered: this was his busiest week. She imagined him glaring at his screen, apologising to colleagues: “Sorry, it’s my mum—again with the phone.” Shame prickled. She steadied herself. Sat, breathed. Thought of Archie, but he had classes—and she didn’t want to be rescued again. She eyed the phone. It was both the problem and, possibly, the answer. Carefully, she went back to the site, logged in. Her hands trembled but she tried to be exact. Yes—the appointment slot was empty. This time she clicked ‘Book Appointment’. Picked her GP, selected the nearest date—a day later than planned, but still soon. Pressed ‘Confirm’. The screen ‘thought’ a moment, then: “Successfully booked.” There, in black and white. She read it twice, three times. Relief seeped in. She’d done it—alone. To be sure, she went one step farther. She opened the messenger, found the chat with her GP—her son had set it up—and pressed the microphone: “Hello, this is Hope Dawson. My blood pressure’s not great. I’ve booked to see you in two days, in the morning. If you have time, please let me know.” She released the mic. The message sent; a little ‘tick’ appeared beside it. After a couple minutes, a reply: “GOT IT. SEE YOU THEN. IF YOU FEEL WORSE, CALL STRAIGHT AWAY.” The tension faded. Booking restored, GP notified—and all through that tiny screen. That night, she messaged the family chat: “Booked doctor online—myself.” She’d misspelt a word, but let it go. The meaning was clear. Daisy replied first: “Wow! You’re better than me.” Then her daughter-in-law: “Mum, proud of you.” Last, her son: “Told you! You’d manage.” She read their replies, feeling something quietly expand inside. She wouldn’t join in all their digital chatter or memes, but a fine thread now joined her to them—one she could tug for a reply. At her next appointment, all went smoothly. Afterwards, she decided to try something new. Daisy had mentioned sharing silly food and cat pictures with friends. At first, Mrs. Dawson had scoffed, but underneath, she’d envied their little glimpses into each other’s day—she had only her radio and the window. One bright morning, sunlight glinting on the glass jars of seedlings on the sill, she opened the phone camera. The kitchen appeared on screen, slightly surreal. She angled it at the seedlings. Pressed the button. A gentle click. The photo was a little fuzzy, but charming—green shoots pushing through earth, sunlight striped across the table. She thought the timid little plants looked much like herself with her phone—reaching for the light, feeling the weight of earth. She sent the photo to the family chat. Typed, “My tomatoes are coming along.” Sent it. Replies flooded in. Daisy with a snapshot of her desk, buried in books. Her daughter-in-law—a salad with “Learning from the best.” Her son—a tired but grinning selfie at work: “Mum’s got tomatoes, I’ve got spreadsheets. Who’s winning at life?” She laughed out loud. The kitchen no longer seemed empty; at that little table sat everyone, from all their far-off cities, together now. Of course, it wasn’t always smooth. Once, she accidentally sent a voice note to the group chat, muttering about the news on TV. The grandchildren howled with laughter; her son wrote, “Mum, get your own radio show.” She blushed, then joined in. Why not? At least her voice was heard. Sometimes she mixed up chats; once, she messaged everyone at once to ask how to delete a picture. Archie replied with step-by-step instructions, Daisy admitted, “I don’t know either”, and her daughter-in-law sent a meme: “Mum, you’re our tech star!” She was still often muddled by the buttons, wary of the phone’s constant ‘update your system’ pleas, as if it wanted to change everything she’d finally mastered. But gradually, her fear faded. She realised she could now look up bus times, check the weather, even found an old-fashioned pie recipe—like the ones her mum used to make. When she saw the ingredients list, tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t tell anyone—she simply baked the pie, sent a photo to the chat, added, “Remembered how Gran did it.” Hearts, exclamation marks, and requests for the recipe returned. She took a photo of her handwritten list and sent it off. Gradually, she found herself glancing less at the old landline. It still hung there, but no longer the sole thread to the outside world. She had another now: invisible, but strong. One evening, as dusk settled and windows twinkled across the street, she sat in her armchair, phone in hand, scrolling through the family chat: photos from her son’s work, Daisy’s selfies with friends, Archie’s quick jokes, bits of news from her daughter-in-law. Scattered among these, her tentative but growing contributions: the tomato picture, her pie recipe, a question about prescriptions. She realised she no longer felt like an observer through glass. True, she didn’t grasp half the slang her grandchildren used nor could she conjure up those playful smiley faces. But her messages were read. Her questions answered. Her photos ‘liked’, as Daisy called it. A soft ping broke the quiet—new message. Daisy: “Granny, I’ve got a maths test tomorrow. Can I call after and have a moan?” Mrs. Dawson smiled. Typed slowly, careful with each keystroke: “Call anytime. I’m always here to listen.” She pressed send. Then she set the phone on the table beside her tea. The flat was silent, but no longer empty. Somewhere, beyond walls and streets, calls and messages were waiting for her. She’d never be part of ‘the buzz’, as Archie called it, but she’d found a little corner of connection in this new world of screens. She finished her tea, turned off the kitchen light, and glanced at the phone—calm, unthreatening on the table. She knew, whenever she wished, she could reach out and her loved ones would be there. And for now, that was enough.
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