Stranded

When my phone went blank, my immediate thought was panic. Like everyone, I was so dependent on this little gadget. If I'm honest, though, I was just following the crowd, like a sheep.

Technology has never drawn me in. I don't want to be on top of the latest trends or grab the newest model. Maybe it's my age? Knowledge of a time before Smartphones ruled the world?

I understand the benefits of having a Smartphone but sometimes I just want to be left alone. I did and do harbour a level of resistance to using it and all that it can do for me. But life is so hard without it, isn't it, and when everyone's using it to communicate, what can you do? Be left out of the loop? That works for a while but then when you miss out on crucial information and the only way that you can gain it is by having a Smartphone, what other choice do you have?

I found that it's easier to conform despite my misgivings because it made my life easier and ultimately, humans are all about making their lives as easy as possible, unless they're masochists and I am most certainly not into self-persecution at all.

So I'm a sheep. Baa.

It wasn't predicted, the Smartphone crash. It just landed, like an alien invasion, with as much shock and as much disruption. I remember I was just about to get my top score on Candy Crush, idling away time, when zzzzttt. Gone. Nothing. Not even a beep. I was in a cafe, waiting for my son to contact me so I knew where he needed picking up from football. He'd been called up for an away match with the school and was waiting on address details of the game. It was last minute but hey, when you've got an information and communication portal in your pocket, there's no need for planning, is there? I'd just finished some shopping and was now killing time. I could have picked up a book but the temptation of the entertainment that little screen can offer...

One minute, crushing candy. Next minute, nothing.

I obviously did the usual to get it to work again: got out my charge pack and my cable because the battery's always been a bit rubbish; pressed the buttons to see if it would spring back into life; long pressed to turn it off and waited for the tuneful signal that reboot had happened and all was right again.

Nope. None of this happened. If I'd looked around, I'd have seen everyone else doing something similar but that phone still had my full attention. When I realised it wasn't going to surge back into life, I leant back in my chair and thought.

This was problematic.

"Hey? Has your phone stopped working?"

First contact. So it wasn't a "me" problem. A young woman on the table next to me spoke. Earlier, she'd omitted a soft but distinct FFS unabbreviated and now asked the burning question. Was she sweating a little?

"Yeah," I answered and soon it was clear from the murmurs around me growing into a hubbub of bewilderment that this was a widespread and indiscriminate thing.

"Shit." She swore, summing up the situation succinctly. And then more plaintively: "I can't do without my phone," panic clear in her tone. "My whole life's on there."

I remember thinking "Your life is here, not on that phone." Old school still. I did sympathise although I thought the statement was a little melodramatic if I'm honest but then she started to list off all the things that she did with her phone.

"I don't know how I'm going to get home," she said. "My train pass is on there. I can't get through the barriers without it. And I scan a bar code to get into my building and that's on there too, saved. I can't even buy an Uber! My fucking bank card is in my Wallet!" I've capitalised it because she wasn't carrying a bag and I couldn't see a wallet.

I could see her point but I was more concerned at that point about the fact that my son couldn't call me. Forget the Smart bit. Could he use it the old fashioned "smart" way - as a phone? I didn't think so. How was I going to get to him? If Smartphones had gone bzzzzt, how could he call?

"What am I going to do?" the young woman said. I was lucky - I could drive myself. And then I realised that I had an app to open my car, no actual key anymore. Shit. How was I going to get home?

It was then that I saw that the cafe had a landline - remember them? A phone on the wall? Fixed to masonry rather than the palm of your hand? What a novelty. I'd call the school and find out what I could about the match and also that I didn't know how I was going to get there because I couldn't open my car. My son might be able to get a lift maybe. Of course, I'd try and get there somehow. Luckily, I did have a card with me so I could pay for a cab, I supposed, if I needed to. Unlike this poor girl who was sat, staring at the blank screen of her phone, completely floored by the situation in which she found herself. I could also call my husband too from here and my mum maybe as she might be able to help.

But then I realised I could do none of those things because to call my husband, he would need to be able to answer his Smartphone and I didn't think that he would be the only person in the world whose phone was still working. Besides, I didn't know his number. It was in my contacts. On my Smartphone. Same as mum's number. I'd never committed it to memory - no need. The phone would do that for me so I could dedicate my memory space to more important things. I didn't know any taxi firms' numbers either. Shit.

I could feel my heart starting to race now and a queue was already forming to use the landline, hitherto unlifted from its perch for days. The noise level had grown too as people were extracted from the virtual world back into real life around them, taken from their insular interactions with reels and apps and entertainment news when access had suddenly been denied.

Discussion was rife. Voices were lively, confused.

I'd never heard so much conversation in this cafe. Normally, it was a pair of mums in the corner who were having a long awaited meet-up who drew attention to themselves with their loud discussions of husbands, kids, home improvements and how pilates had changed their lives; or the college kids watching their screens, only stopping to share whatever external funny they'd come across with their bros and laughing and discussing it loudly, really loudly, before returning just as quickly to their silence.

But now, the cafe was a hive. Buzzing. I mean, it might have been as a result of fear and don't get me wrong, I was all too cognisant of the fix I was in but part of me was heartened by the conversation caused by this chaos. People were engaging with each other in a way I'd not seen for a long time. They were offering advice; helping each other out; being all neighbourly.

There was a solidarity being born of mutual worry. Maybe this would be a good thing. A reset, I remember thinking.

Time to break out of my reverie though because what the hell was I going to do? Couldn't Google the number for the school to ring them. No such thing as a Yellow Pages anymore. I felt helpless. No way of leaving here in my car to get to the school. How do I get an Uber when I don't have access to the app?

Then all of a sudden, I thought of the library. Wifi, computers, access to information. Only problem was I didn't know where the library was. I knew there was one but the street it was on? Lost to me. But it seemed to be my best option. The cafe had a laptop and others customers had worked out that it was Smartphones, not the internet that had gone down and so those with laptops were putting them to good use as they had a sudden resurgence as the gadget of choice. I didn't have a laptop.

I shouted out: "Hey, could someone tell me where the library is?" and the amount of blank stares that came back at me was startling while others shook their heads.

"Devizes Street," a man on a laptop said without looking up from the screen. "By the Tesco's." Okay, I had an idea of where that was. It wasn't close but I thanked him, as he continued to gaze at the screen and merely lifted a hand to wave me off, no movement in his features. So much for community coming back to the forefront. I suppose he did respond - but the screen is king.

But fortune took pity on me that day as the library wasn't necessary. As I went to head out of the door of the café, who should be coming in but my husband and my son, my husband looking relieved to have found me, my son looking bewildered.

"Football was cancelled and the school rang my office," he explained. "When I couldn't call you, I got straight on it. Thought you'd still be here."

Good job we talked at lunch time and he was listening! Good job he worked in an office with a good old fashioned landline. Good job he had a car with a key.

I'd explained about the library idea and he'd nodded.

"Luckily, I'm here so no need for that. Let's go home," my husband said.

"And do what?" my son said. "How'm I going to chat with my friends? This sucks balls!" He looked super pouty, like the world should never have had the audacity to inconvenience him!

"Hey!" I chastised. "At least you can get home! That poor girl is stuck here!"

We looked over to where the girl I'd spoken to earlier was sitting head in hands. She looked normal; just a young woman lost.

"We could give her a lift somewhere?" my husband offered and I remembered her comment about her building. Perhaps she had a relative or someone whose house we could drop her at. Or surely her building would have an override? Like a concierge, a human, who could physically let her in? I suppose she'd only know when she'd get there but how was that meant to happen?

I went over to her. "Excuse me?" I said. "Would you like a lift? I'm leaving now and we can take you to your apartment block if you like?"

She looked up at me, dark eyes blank.

"I don't know how I'll get in," she responded. No thanks, I noticed but she was distressed, I suppose.

"Is there somewhere else we can take you? A friend's house? Or family?"

It was like she was surviving a bomb attack and was debilitated by shock.

"I don't know. I don't know where to go. I just want to go home."

I didn't want to get irritated but the fight was on as I suppressed a sharp response. Empathy, I told myself. That's what this situation needs. What would be the charitable thing to do?

My husband said, "How about we take you to your apartment and go from there?"

Still blank, then: "How do I know you're not serial killers or something?"

I mean, I know they say you never know but surely we weren't giving off killer vibes? My son was standing in his kit, boots and all, looking very uncomfortable and my husband looked very much the businessman. We were just a family.

I laughed to try for levity but wondered if it made me sound manic.

"We're not," I found myself saying but isn't that what killers would say? Such distrust! I could barely believe I was in such a situation.

"Mum? Can we go?" My teenager's short supply of patience had depleted and I had to admit I, like this girl, just wanted to go home. But part of me also didn't want to leave her with nothing.

I ignored my son and reached in my bag. I always carried some cash - an emergency £20 which didn't get you much nowadays but might help this girl in some small way on a night where her suspicion of strangers offering her help was going to get her nowhere.

"Here," I offered, holding out the note. "Take this. It might be useful."

The girl looked at the note, then looked at me, then said "£20? What can I do with that? It won't buy me anything!"

I must have looked shocked because I certainly felt it. My act of generosity shunned and me made to look foolish. I countered with a "It's a start", desperately wanting her to take it so that she'd have something and if I'm honest so I could feel like I'd done something to help so she'd not been left with nothing.

"Please. Take it," I said, waggling it a little like the movement would make it more attractive.

She reached for it then and took it with no words of thanks and I felt the full force of what she perceived to be an empty gesture.

"Can we go now, Mum?" my son pestered.

"Yes," I replied, a little put out with the situation. I felt deflated and needed to make sure that this stranger knew I cared because I felt like all of my efforts for compassion and helpfulness were rebounding like tennis balls on a brick wall.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay? You can come with us if you want. The offer still stands."

"She doesn't want to, Mum. Just leave her alone already. Come on, let's go."

The young woman didn't respond to me, didn't react to my son's bad manners, didn't do anything other than sit, one hand on her Smartphone, placed like her warmth could will it back to life; the other holding the note like it was completely strange and uncomfortable for her.

Not wanting to make a scene, I stepped away, completely flummoxed by the whole encounter. I couldn't give her a number to contact us if she needed it because we were uncontactable now. Should I give her our address? No, that felt like compassion overkill - and yet, I didn't want to just leave her. I had to say something more, just to show, I don't know, that she mattered, that I wasn't who she thought I was, that there was a community beyond a screen of human beings, living breathing human beings, not just presentations of them and that they could help if allowed and were willing to engage in real interaction if others were receptive and not so suspicious. How do you do this without sounding like you're delivering a lecture?

I settled for courtesy.

"Well, it's been nice to meet you. Good luck." It sounded trite even to my ears but when she still didn't say any word of thanks, still sat there glazed and confused, I added:

"And we're just folk looking out for other folk, that's all. Nothing sinister here."

I wanted to let my words settle with the gravitas and sentiment I'd used in every one of them. But they weren't given the chance as my son exploded their warmth and simplicity.

"For God's sake, Mum. She doesn't care! Leave it! Leave her alone!"

And that's what I did.

I left a girl alone.

And although I laid into him once we were in the car on our way home, I realised that my anger wasn't solely directed at my son but also at the girl for not accepting our help, for being ungrateful and resistant to human help.

And that my words and gestures of kindness were blown up and scattered really easily, burst by wariness and suspicion. They'd meant nothing.

And I wondered if Smartphones had caused this in some way.

And I think that I realised in that moment that this world wasn't mine anymore; that my son had greater understanding than I of where humanity was headed with his reading of the situation. It made me feel dumb and emotionally clumsy, and for someone who felt like they could read people and reach them, this was more of a shock to me than losing my Smartphone. I suppose I wasn't as invested in it and in some ways, that meant I could deal with its loss better than those who had only ever known this device as their gateway to everything.

It was sobering. I've often thought of that girl since and the debilitating shock the blackout caused. Her life deconstructed in an instant, as she'd invested in a machine which kept her safe - until it stopped. I wondered: could she apply herself to life without apps?

It was something I revisited often, the memory of that day.

Smartphones came back. Of course they did. But not immediately. I just hope she picked herself up from that table in that coffee shop and managed to get home. I hope she looked at different options for living, for survival in a world where technology might fail. And that she was doing okay.

But I was never going to know and I had to live with that fact.