Irena Xapuhova

З життя22 хвилини ago

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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The Key in His Hand Rain drummed against the window of the flat with the bleak consistency of a metronome, each beat ticking out the time left. Michael sat hunched on the edge of his sagging bed, as if by shrinking he could disappear altogether from the notice of fate. His large hands—once strong, shaped by years on the factory floor—now lay powerless in his lap. His fingers curled and uncurled in vain, desperate for something solid to hold on to. He wasn’t looking at the wall; he was seeing a map traced on the faded wallpaper—a map of hopeless journeys: trips from the NHS surgery to the private diagnostic clinic. His gaze, like an old film stuck on a single frame, was dulled and washed out. Another doctor, another kind but weary “Well, you have to understand—you’re not as young as you once were.” He couldn’t muster any anger. Anger took energy, and he had none left. Only fatigue remained. The pain in his back had become more than a symptom—it was the backdrop to every thought and action, a white noise of helplessness drowning everything else out. He did everything he was told: swallowed pills, slathered on gels, lay on the chilly table in the physio clinic, feeling like discarded machinery on the scrapheap. And all that time—he waited. Passive, almost devout, for the lifeline he hoped someone—perhaps the government, or a brilliant doctor, or clever professor—would throw out to him as he sank slowly into the muck. He stared into the horizon of his life and saw only rain-soaked greyness beyond the glass. His own will, once so sharp and practical on the job and at home, was reduced to a single function: to endure and hope for a miracle from somewhere else. Family… There had been family, but it had slipped away, vanishing quickly and with a strange clarity. His daughter Katie was first to go—clever Katie, off to London in search of something more. He’d never begrudged her ambition; if anything, he’d encouraged her to chase it. “Dad, I’ll help you as soon as I’m settled,” she’d said over the phone. He’d known even then that it wasn’t important. Then his wife left—Raia. Not to the shops, but forever. Cancer took her so fast. It was as if her absence magnified the weight in his spine, leaving him, halfway between the chair and the bed, still breathing, but blaming himself for it. She, the wellspring of his strength, faded in three months. He’d nursed her until the end, until her cough turned desperate and her eyes dulled to a distant shine. Her last words, gripping his hand in the hospital: “Hang on, Mike…” He wasn’t able to. He broke. Katie called, begged him to stay with her in her tiny rented flat, but what use was he to her there? In a stranger’s home, a burden. She wouldn’t be coming back. Now only Raia’s younger sister, Val, visited, once a week by the clock—bringing soup in Tupperware, pasta with a lukewarm cutlet and a fresh pack of painkillers. “How are you, Mike?” Val would ask, peeling off her coat. He’d nod, “Alright.” They’d sit in silence, her bustling around, tidying his little room, as if the order of things could somehow restore the order of his life. Eventually, she’d leave behind the scent of another woman’s perfume, and the soft, near-tangible weight of a duty performed. He was grateful. Yet also, crushingly alone. It wasn’t just physical loneliness—it was a prison built from helplessness, grief, and a subdued rage at unfairness. One melancholy night, his wandering gaze fell on a key lying on the tattered rug. He must have dropped it the last time he shuffled in from the surgery. Just a key. Nothing special. A bit of metal. He stared at it as though seeing it for the first time. He remembered his grandfather—brightly, as if someone had turned on a light in a dark corner of memory. Grandad Peter—one sleeve empty and pinned—would sit on the stool and tie his laces with a lone hand and a broken fork. Patient, focused, quirkily triumphant when he managed it. “Look, Mikey,” Grandad would say with a gleam of victory in his eye, “A tool is always close by. Sometimes a tool looks like junk. The trick is spotting the friend in the rubbish.” As a boy, Michael had thought this was just old man talk—a comforting fable. Grandad was a hero, and heroes could always manage. Michael, he decided, was ordinary; his battles with pain and loneliness weren’t fit for brave stories. But now, staring at the key, the old scene rang not like consolation, but as a quiet rebuke. His grandfather never waited for help. He used what he had—a bent fork—and beat back helplessness itself. So what had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, sitting by the door of someone else’s charity. The thought jarred him. Suddenly, the key—the chunk of metal, echoing his grandad’s words—became a silent command. Michael stood, groaning as his body objected, almost shame-faced in the empty flat. He took two shuffling steps, picked up the key. His attempt to straighten was met with the familiar knife of pain. He froze, waiting for it to pass, but this time, instead of collapsing back onto the bed, he pressed on. Moving slowly, he went to the wall. He turned his back to it, pressed the blunt bit of the key to the wallpaper right where the pain sat, and gently, gingerly leant in, applying pressure. There was no plan to ‘massage’ or ‘treat’—just the act of pushing back. Pressure against pain, reality against reality. He found a spot where, miraculously, this struggle brought not agony, but the slightest, dull relief—something inside relented, softened a fraction. He moved the key, tried again, higher then lower, with the same careful experiment. Each movement was slow, full of listening to his own body. It wasn’t treatment—it was negotiation. The key, not some medical gadget, was his tool. It seemed foolish. A key was no miracle. But the next evening, when pain returned, he tried again. And again. He discovered places where pressure brought not more pain, but relief—a sense of opening a vice by fractions. He began leaning against the doorframe to stretch. Drank a glass of water when the empty cup reminded him—something free, at least. Michael had stopped waiting, hands idle. He started using whatever was at hand: the key, the doorframe, the floor for simple stretches, his own resolve. He kept a notebook—not a pain diary, but a list of ‘key victories’: “Today managed five minutes by the cooker.” On the sill, he placed three old baked bean tins—planned for the bin. He filled them with earth from the front garden and planted a few onion bulbs. Not a vegetable plot, but a tiny patch of life that he was now responsible for. A month passed. At the next appointment, the doctor’s eyebrows went up at what he saw in the new scans. “There’s some improvement. Have you been doing the exercises?” “Yes,” Michael said. “I’ve been using what I’ve got.” He didn’t mention the key—the doctor wouldn’t have understood. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t come by ship. It had simply lain on the floor, ignored while he watched the wall, waiting for someone else to turn on the light. One Wednesday, when Val appeared with soup, she stopped in the doorway. On the windowsill, in those tin cans, green shoots of spring onion pointed skywards. The room no longer reeked of medicine and defeat, but of something almost hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him standing confidently at the window. “Kitchen garden,” he replied. After a moment, he added, “Want some for your soup? Home-grown, fresh.” That evening, she stayed longer than usual. Over tea, without discussing his aches and pains, he told her about the stairs—the single extra flight he now climbed each day. His rescue didn’t come from Doctor Dolittle with a magic potion. It had hidden itself as a key, a doorframe, an empty can, and a concrete staircase. It hadn’t removed pain, loss, or age. But it put tools in his hands—not to win a war all at once, but to fight his small daily battles. And it turns out, if you stop waiting for a golden ladder from heaven and see the plain, concrete one at your feet, you might find the climb itself is already a life. Slowly, carefully, step by step—but always upward. And on the windowsill, in those three battered cans, grew the finest green onions in the world.

The rain was tapping against the flat window, steady as a grandfather clock, counting down the hours to something you...