Whispers from the Past: Unveiling Old Letters

Old letters

When the postman finally stopped hoisting parcels up the stairs and began leaving newspapers and envelopes in the hall, I was furious at first. Then I got used to it. Now each morning began with me descending the narrow stairwell, gripping the cool metal banister, and peeking into the old green pigeonhole with its tilted 12 on the door.

The box dated back to the early eighties, its paint flaking, the number crooked. It creaked every time I opened it, and I always thought, One day itll fall off altogetherwhere will I get Violets letters then?

Violets letters arrived irregularlysometimes after a week, sometimes after a monthbut they always came: a slim envelope, a neat slanted hand, the faint scent of cheap perfume. I would climb back upstairs, put the kettle on, sit at the kitchen table, and slit the envelope along the seam so as not to tear the paper.

Violet lived in another city, about six hundred miles away. We had once shared a single room in the student halls of the medical school, cramming anatomy together and sharing a tin of corned beef. Later she married, started a family; I took a job at the local health centre, married late, had a daughter. Our lives drifted apart, yet the letters kept a thin, resilient thread between us.

She wrote about her cottage, about a neighbour who kept planting the wrong tomatoes, about her son who still couldnt bring himself to leave his perpetually dissatisfied wife, about blood pressure that jumps like a goat, and about new tablets the doctor had prescribed. Between the lines I always sensed the old Violetcheeky, stubborn, a touch sarcastic.

I replied in the evenings, when the flat grew quiet. My daughter lived on her own, my grandson visited on weekends. Weekdays were filled with the ticking of the wall clock, the hum of the lift in the flat block, and the rustle of my pen across paper. I described the health centre where I still worked parttime as a GP, neighbours forever bickering over parking spaces, my grandson who had become an IT bloke and never explained anything clearly.

I loved the ritual: laying a fresh sheet, smoothing it out, mentally mapping out the week, deciding what to tell Violet and what to keep to myself. Each letter felt like a little evening tally. I wrote slowly, savoring every word, as if I could hear Violet reading it on the other side of the country.

One afternoon my grandson Sam burst in with a box.

Gran, he said, pulling out a sleek new phone, enough of that old buttonphone. Its the twentyfirst century now.

I retorted, And Im still living in the nineteenth?but I took the device anyway. Thin, heavy, glass. Even holding it made my hands tremble, as if dropping it would ruin Sams scholarship.

Its simple, Sam demonstrated, swiping until bright squares lit up. This is a messenger. You can text, send voice notes, picturesinstantly.

Why not just stick with post? I chuckled, though curiosity flickered in my eyes.

Post is lovely when you get a postcard from Brighton, but with this you could chat with Violet every day.

Sam already knew about Violet. I sometimes read her letters aloud to him. He would grin, Youve got a cracking friend. Then, as if by habit, he decided Violet too should get a digital boost.

Just one thing, I hesitated, Violet doesnt use phones. She has an old buttoncell model.

Does she have any grandkids?

A granddaughter, Ellie. Shes at university.

Sam smiled triumphantly. Alright, lets sort it. Write her a letter asking Ellie to help, and Ill set everything up for you.

He placed the phone on the table, plugged it in, typed a few details. I watched the screen glow, loading bars marching across, feeling both foolish and exhilarated.

That evening I sat at the table as usual, but now the new phone lay beside the blank sheet, silently displaying the time and weather. I pulled out Violets envelope, addressed it carefully, and at the bottom added a note: Violet, Sam bought me a new phone and says I can send letters through it now. If Ellie can help, let her have a look. Perhaps well both learn something. Though Im an old cat.

I smiled, sealed the envelope, and the next day slipped it into the communal letterbox in the hallwaynot my little green box, but the large one with a slot for letters.

Two weeks later Violet replied: Youre certainly behind the times, but Im even further back. Ellie giggles that everythings possible. She came over this weekend, showed me how to do it on her phone. So go ahead, Anne, surprise me. Ellie says shell set it up for me when I visit her in town, or even come herself. Imagine thatIll be texting like the young folk.

I laughed at the familiar spark in her words, the same mischievous tone shed used when we once learned to ride her exhusbands motorcycle.

A month later Sam returned, settled beside me, and patiently walked me through the basics. Heres the chat window. First Ill add myself, well practice.

He typed a couple of lines, the phone chimed, the screen flashed. My fingers trembled as I tapped the first message: Hello. I see. I typed see wrong, it came out sih. Sam burst out laughing, then quickly corrected it, showing me how to delete and replace.

By evening I could open the chat, type a short phrase, and hit send. Voice notes still scared me, but Sam promised they could wait.

At the start of autumn Violet appeared in the messenger with a message from an unknown number: Anne, its me. Violet. Ellie set it up. Greetings from our little swamp.

I stared at the words, feeling as if she were suddenly right next to me, not a thousand miles away, not behind a mailbox but just beyond the hallway wall.

I typed back: Violet! I can see youwell, read you. How are you? and held my breath.

The reply came within a minute, something I had never experienced with snailmail. Alive, though the pressure is mischievous. You? Is Sam still pestering you with his progress?

I laughed, wrote about Sam, the health centre, the neighbour who keeps arguing with the council over parking, and my grandson who now calls himself an IT bloke and never explains anything. I wrote slowly, fingers stumbling over occasional misspellings, but Violet understood. She peppered her messages with a little yellow smiley face.

Thats a smiley, Sam whispered from behind, means shes smiling.

I nodded, deciding not to use them myselfthey felt like a foreign tongue. Yet when Violet sent a particularly sharp joke, my hand reached for the tiny grin on its own.

Our correspondence became lively. In the mornings I checked the phone as I used to check the pigeonhole. At work, during short breaks, I sneaked a glance at the screen to read Violets latest note. In the evenings we could exchange a dozen quick messages.

The speed of it was strangejoyful and a little alarming. What once stretched over weeks now fit into a few lines. Before I even realised, Id already hit send.

One day Violet wrote: Can you believe my new neighbour at the cottage is flirting? Old chap, but still has spark in his eyes. He showed up with apples, saying lets have tea together. I told him my blood pressure cant take excitement.

I frowned, remembering Violets loneliness and her sarcastic remarks about widowers looking for a free caretaker.

I typed back: Make sure he doesnt sit on your neck. Once youre tangled you wont get off. Theyre all the same. I sent it without rereading.

She replied almost instantly: Thanks for thinking so highly of all men over seventy. Ill manage on my own, thank you.

Something pricked inside me. I wanted to write: Im just worried, but stopped. The screen displayed her last line, bereft of a smiley.

Later that evening another message arrived: You seem to enjoy me failing. As if I should spend my old age writing to you and doing nothing. My chest warmed. I set the phone down, poured tea, and let the thoughts swirl.

At night I woke several times, checking the empty chat. The next morning at the health centre I could not shake the feeling that she was angry with me.

Midday the phone pinged. It was Sam: Gran, hows it going? Still using the phone? I replied shortly: All good. Busy at work. Will call later.

Violets silence persisted.

On the third day I could no longer bear it and dialled her number. The line rang and rangno answer. I tried again, same result.

Maybe shes at the cottage with no signal, I tried to console myself, but anxiety grew.

That evening, just as I was about to type a long apology, a notification popped upa new voice message. I tapped the triangle cautiously. A rustle, then the voice of Ellie, Violets granddaughter.

Hello, Mrs. Sayers. This is Ellie. Grandmas in hospital; she had a seizure. Shes in intensive care now, but stabilising. She asked me to tell you she isnt angry and will write as soon as she can. Sorry for the recording, Im between wards.

Ellies voice trembled and cut off. I sat still until the sound faded, then rose, fetched an old folder of letters, pulled a fresh sheet, and began: Dear Violet. I wrote at length about my fear when you stopped replying, about how foolish our spat seemed, about how no man is worth tearing a decadeslong friendship over, about how Id be glad for you to have tea with anyone, as long as youre well.

The envelope grew thick. I signed the address, descended the stairs, and dropped it into the communal letterbox.

The next day I sent Ellie a tentative messenger: Ellie, Ive mailed a letter to Grandma. How is she?

She replied a few hours later: Shes better now, moved to a ward. Shes still a bit weak but already complaining about the foodgood sign. I read your note to her; she cried, then smiled, calling you stubborn but good. Shell write when shes stronger.

I smiled through tears. Stubborn but goodit felt almost a compliment.

Days passed. I kept working, watched the news, called my daughter now and then. The phone rested nearby, like a small window no one had yet opened.

A week later a new message pinged from Violet.

Im writing slowly, my hand shakes. Your tech progress almost killed me. Ellie says its a joke. I dont entirely believe her, but anywaydont be angry. I snapped earlier. Youre also a bit of a hero, lumping all men together. I just wanted to feel alive, not just a grandma with tablets. Do you get me?

I reread it several times, then typed: I get you. I too sometimes want to feel more than a GP and a granny. Sorry for the advice. Im scared for youand for myself, that I might lose you. Thats no excuse. Lets agree: you tell me everything you want, Ill think before I write, at least a minutes pause. I added a shy smiley at the end, hunting through the emoji list before finally finding one.

Violets reply was brief: Agreed. A minute to think is a revolution for you. Im proud. Keep writing, dont stop. And well chat about little things in the messenger, like girls in the dorm hallway.

I laughed aloud, hearing her tone in my mind, her unmistakable inflection.

That evening I fetched a fresh envelope, placed the phone beside ita pair of ways to speak to the same person. I wrote about the health centre where the senior doctor tried to force us into weekend shifts, the downstairs neighbour finally finishing her renovation and stopping the leaks, and a dream of our old dorm where we ran about in gowns.

When the letter was ready, I photographed it with the phone and sent the picture in the chat. Heres a spoiler. The rest will come by post, I added.

Violet answered almost instantly: Youre kidding. Ill be waiting for both the letter and the envelope. My heart cant take that much intrigue.

She added: Ellie says I can send a voice note, but Im shy. What if I say something wrong?

I hesitated, then typed: Send whatever you like. If needed we can pretend the line dropped.

A couple of minutes later a voice note arrived. I pressed play.

Well then, Violets raspy yet familiar voice began, here I am, the radio star. They say I almost died, but I think I just took a nap away from you all. Dont you weep. Ill outlive you yet. I have plans. I need to sort that neighbour out. Let someone look after me besides the doctors.

I felt the tension of the past weeks melt away. Violet was alive, stubborn, and still laughing.

I hit the microphone icon, my heart thudding. Violet, if you outlive me I wont forgive you, I whispered, trying not to let my voice tremble, and about the neighbour if he starts delivering apples daily, tell me straight. Ill come over and sort it out.

I released the button, fearing Id said too much, but it was already sent.

A minute later the chat lit up: Listening, Anne. It feels like were two schoolgirls still scared of being abandoned. No ones forgotten us, not even your grandson teaching me how to place those smiley faces.

Another followed: Lets agree. If Im in hospital or feeling poorly, you write paper letters. Theyre slow but warm. When Im fine we jab at each other in the messenger, but not every five minuteselse Ill tire of you.

The rules felt soothing. No midnight calls, no instantreply demands, no irritation if the other is busy. Yet we both knew the other was somewhere on the other end, reading our words.

I typed back: Deal. And one more thingif you ever want tea with anyone, dont ask my permission. I can only grumble. I cant live for you.

She replied with a winking smiley and the line: Brilliant. Ill note that and listen when I start to falter.

Autumn slipped into winter. Violet left the hospital, still complaining of weakness, sometimes disappearing for a day or two. I no longer panicked at each silence; I recalled our agreement, fetched a notebook, wrote a paper letter, slipped it into the hallway box.

The phone lay beside it, another conduit to my friend. We discussed everything from salted cucumber recipes to the news. One day Violet sent a photo of her neighboura silverhaired man in a knitted cap, an apple bag in his hands.

Heres the hero of our little saga, she captioned.

I studied the picture, the mans face tired yet kind. I typed: Nothing wrong as long as hes not greedy.

She replied: Who would have thought? That woman who shared a tin of corned beef with me fifty years ago would now be called

I laughed, remembering that night in the dorm when we counted how many bites each of us would get from that tin when we were seventy.

Now we were both seventyplus, each in our own flat, with a phone and a stack of envelopes. The world had changed, but that slender thread between us still tugged.

One evening, the kitchen lamp flickered under the cupboard, the phone vibrated softly. A new message from Violet appeared:

Anne, Ive been thinking. If I ever go, dont rummage through my phone and read my chats with the neighbour. Its just apples and blood pressure. And seriously thank you for being there, even when we irritate each other.

I stared at the words, then typed slowly: I wont snoop. And if Im gone first, please dont read my old letters looking for my fault. Just remember I loved you. And annoying you was my job.

I sent it and felt a weight lift from my chest, as if wed both finally voiced what wed known all along.

Violets reply came ten minutes later, a single word: Agreed.

I set the phone down, walked to the window. The street lights flickered, a few pedestrians hurried home. Below, the communal letterbox stood in the dusk. I knew tomorrow Id drop another envelope, and that night Id glance at the tiny screen, awaiting a quick Where are you? or a longer voice note.

The world had become a little more tangled. You cant hide behind the slowness of post or the distance of miles. Words now fly fast and sometimes cut, but support also arrives quicker. Just a line of text can lift a mood, as well as a handwritten note can warm a heart.

I smiled, returned to the table where a clean sheet lay beside the glowing phone. I lifted my pen, then reached for the phone, and typed to Violet: Im writing you a letter. Dont peek.

The screen instantly flashed back: Too late. I already know everything. Still waiting, both letters and you.

And so, across the years and the miles, our friendship endures, stitched together by ink and pixels.