13April2025
The old tin thermos on the kitchen shelf still belongs to my motherinlaw. Its battered glass belly bears the faint scuff of countless washes, the metal once polished by a teadripping dragon motif that my wife, Mabel, swore made the brew stay hot longer. In the old days we used it at the summer garden when the whole neighbourhood of children would gather on the veranda, lulled by the scent of jam and the promise of my mothers cherry pies. Mother always argued a thermos kept tea stronger and warmer than a kettle; the children cared little, they came for the pies.
Mabel unscrewed the dented lid with care, feeling the worn threads, and poured tea into a chipped bluestained mug that had once held cornflower colour. The mug, as old as the thermos, was accompanied by a pewter spoon nicked by a nail that fiveyearold Mabel had once tried to scrape away the stubborn rust. Those relics from the cottage in Cotswold were, for her, a bridge to a past that stretched back three decades, a past she could still touch despite the 300mile gap to my own childhood.
She shuffled the stack of fresh letters delivered by the prison clerk to the censors desk and flipped through envelopes until she found the right one. The familiar handwriting read To Andrew Vasilyev, personally handdelivered. Of course, personally handdelivered never meant directly to his fingers; first the contents had to be cleared by the prison inspector, then only would the paper reach his hands. Mabels role as a prisonmail censor had come to her with her second marriage.
My husband, Nicholas Paul Belmore, the warden of HMP Westfield, is a stern, methodical man. He never quite knew how to occupy his wifes restless mind. The village only hosts a small surgery and the post office; the school closed years ago and the children of staff are bused to the district centre. They offered Mabel a teaching post and a service car, but her health wouldnt stand the daily jostle of country lanes. She had no children of her own. After six months of unemployment she agreed to read inmates lettersnot school essays, but prison correspondence. At first she corrected the grammar out of habit; soon she learned to ignore the mistakes. Reading other peoples words felt like peeking through a keyhole, but the monotony dulled any guilt. In the letters she hunted for forbidden topics, coded numbers, criminal plans and, lately, the occasional swear wordbanned in prison mail only as literature began to reclaim it. Some passages she flagged for the prison psychologist, others she slipped to the intelligence unit. The job became a distraction from her own swirling thoughts, until one day an unusual envelope arrived.
That morning, after a quarrel with me over a spilled coffee, Mabel silently wiped the greasy ring from the stove, refilled the old thermos, and walked to work on foot, abandoning the car. A bleak, snowfree November draped the countryside, dry leaves rustling over frozen ground. The wind stripped the bare trees on the other side of the railway line, and the chill bit through any coat. Mabel knew she would shiver regardless of how she dressed, so she kept the thermos close.
She nodded to the nightshift clerk, passed the gate, climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, unlocked the chilled office with a key, and after the first steaming cup of tea settled into her bones she began sorting the mail. One letter featured a prisoners wife berating him for hidden money; another showed a daughter complaining about a stepfathers greed; a third contained a mailorder bride pleading with her bunny to wait a few more months, unaware that he already had two other brides in different towns. The letters were full of inventories of contraband, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce, sudden announcements of pregnancy, threats, promises, and plans for a new life after release.
Mabel took a sip, then, with the precision of a wellpractised cutter, slit open the next envelope:
Dear Andy! My son! I love you and am proud of you! wrote an unknown mother. You acted like a true man; your father would have done the same. We are all in the hands of fateyour strength proved fatal to the scoundrel. Had you turned away, the girl you saved might have perished. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your unintentional sin. And you, son, pray too.
Mabel leaned back in her chair. Such a letter had never crossed her desk before. The return address listed York, not far from Cotswold. She read on, but her tone changed.
My dear, I have found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is failing, my hands are clumsy, I keep mixing up the keys. Ill manage. Send me your handwritten drafts; its permitted. Keep writing, son, the year will pass and life will go on
She set the letter aside. Who could forgive every sin, mortal or not, but a loving mother and God? Mabel had no mother nowshe had been gone three years. She had no one left to forgive her either.
She brushed away the tears, dialed the prison psychologist.
DrFoster, any file on Vasilyev from Block3?
Give me a moment, crackled a key click. Only a preliminary interview so far. Vasilyev Andrew, born 1970, convicted under Article109, oneyear sentence, arrived two weeks ago. Anything odd?
Nothing, just curious, Mabel stammered, masking her true motive. Ask Telegrin, he left his wife penniless.
Will do, MsBelmore.
From that day Mabel waited for more letters. They only flew one way. The mother of Vasilyev wrote about his grownup daughter Sonya, sent greetings from acquaintances, and always closed with, Im waiting for you, my son. I pray for you. The sentiment often brought tears to Mabels eyes, which she blamed on fatigue and tried to drown in chores.
The weeks of November dragged on without snow. One evening, over supper, Mabel asked a drunkenbutsated me:
Paul, could you go to prison for my sake?
What do you mean, love? Commit a crime in my honour?
Not on purpose. Say a bloke tried to mug me on the streetwould you step in?
Who needs you, old thing? I said, patting her shoulder. And what if we had a child and some thugs attacked?
Again with your jokes! I snapped. We have no childrenwhy not get a cat?
Where does a cat fit in? she snapped back, flustered. Im talking about a man sentenced under Article109. If you defended me and someone died, would that be noble enough to land you in prison?
Only those whose bravery ends in death end up behind bars, I retorted, tapping my finger. Whats this about the Criminal Code? Are you joining a law society?
Enough, she muttered, clearing the plates. Imagine you saved me and unintentionally killed someone.
Youre daft, Mabel! I wont even think about it. Get the kettle going, I said, snatching the remote. And stop using that ancient thermosbrew a proper pot!
By the end of winter the cold turned to a thin, foamlike frost that clung to the fields. On my kitchen table lay a reply from Vasilyevs mother. Mabels hand trembled as she slit the envelope, nicking her finger.
Mother, hello, the inmate wrote. Sorry for the silenceI couldnt gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go onwhat will it be like? If anyone needs my writing its only you and me. Sonya wont read it; dont force her. Dont strain your eyes on the computerjust stash the letters in a box, Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending two chapters, the envelope cant hold more.
A stack of thin, almost translucent sheets lay inside. Should she check them per protocol? She hesitated, then slipped the pile back into the envelope, shoved it into her bag, and hoped no one would notice the delay.
Mabel read the fragments late at night in the cramped kitchen, the tea thermos steaming beside her in case I appeared and I could blame a sore throat. Yet it was her own spirit that ached, rattled by the unknown writers musings.
The manuscript recounted the prisoners life, the incident that landed him in HMP Westfield, and his imagined alterego, Peter Vernon Andersona simple reshuffle of names that underscored the autobiographical tone. The prose moved her, the descriptions of the countryside vivid enough to make her feel the rail line, the bare woods, the cold wind that once brushed the garden of the Cotswold cottage. When he spoke of childhood, Mabel remembered her own garden holidays, the tea on the veranda, the pies. The language was clear, free of errors, and she often found herself forgetting that the words came from an inmate rather than a novelist.
Can we ever return to the past? Peter asked in one passage, pacing the narrow space between his barred window and the cell door. A foolish questiondoes it matter? To ruminate on mistakes, to blame ourselves for what cannot be changed? She placed the page aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be altered, why does the ache persist? Why cling to relics of yesterday, letting the heart bleed under the weight of memory? She glanced at the thermos, the cup now empty and cold.
Weeks turned into months. Springs first icicles dripped from the prison walls, mirroring the thin frost that appeared in Vasilyevs manuscript. New characters emerged, and a fresh heroine was introduced:
She came home exhausted, tossed her coat by the hall, slipped her frozen feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul
Are you alright, Mabel? I called from the doorway, breaking her reverie. Youve been off lately. I chewed on a ham sandwich, eyes glued to the football on the telly.
Yes, she whispered, though the words hung heavy. The matchs roar filled the room.
On the twentieth of April, the anniversary of my mothers death, Mabel visited the parish church in the nearby town, then the market, escorted by our driver, Victor. Midday they turned back for a postoffice run, only to be called back for a package of prison letters that the regular postman usually delivered. Mabels pulse quickenedhad someone discovered her secret?
Vasilyevs letters now arrived twice a week. One afternoon I spotted a stack of sheets on the kitchen table. Did I read them? I glanced, then turned away, fearing the consequences.
Later, while Victor and Mabel carried the grocery bags inside, a sweet scent of lily of the valley brushed my cheek. The slippers were turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. I emerged from the bedroom, tightening my tie, and said:
Theyve called me to the Severnbridge caselets be off.
I kissed Mabel on the cheek, What are we celebrating? she asked, voice tight. Four years since Mums passing, I replied, masking my own unease.
She whispered, Mothers four years today. I nodded, Alright, later. The front door slammed, and I trudged to the bedroom. The wide, embroidered bed loomed like a monument to two strangers sharing a room. I opened the top drawer and among the clutter found a glossy hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread. It seemed my marriage was a polished façade, much like the prisons gossip that I pretended not to see.
What had I been clinging to all these years? A respectable title, the hope of children that never materialised, the long distance that justified my absence, the guilt of visiting my own mother just before she died? All those shields, once thought solid, were as flimsy as cardboard. Now nothing held me here.
The day the amnesty list went up, the prison bulletin displayed the names of those to be freed. In the list I saw A.P. Vasilyev; his sentence was cut by a third, set for release on 11June. The ending was near. I felt the story drawing to a close.
Returning home with fresh chapters, I walked through the dimly lit flat that had housed me for nine years. The shadows cast by the waning light made the furniture look like stage props for a life I no longer recognised. I opened the wardrobe, the clothes inside a somber, drab jumble, like a funeral shroud. I closed it, headed to the kitchen to make supper, determined to finish Vasilyevs manuscript before he walked free.
The final letter arrived a day before his release:
Mother, theyve announced amnesty. In three days Ill be home. Ill probably read this myself, so no need to welcome me I didnt finish it. I tucked the letter with the last chapters into my bag.
My suitcase was already hidden under the bedjust a few shirts, a couple of books, the old thermos and mug. A ticket to Cotswold lay in my purse alongside my May payslip. I drafted a note for Paul, explaining my departure, and another to the prison to hand over my resignation. He would sort the rest.
That night the house fell silent. Paul never returned, claiming an urgent work trip to Manchester. My fate seemed sealed.
I opened the last bundle of pages. They were blankplain white sheets folded to the size of the envelope. I flipped back to Vasilyevs mothers letter, finding nothing of interest, then a slip of paper fell out:
Hello, dear reader!
I understand your confusion when the climax is replaced by blank pages. Yet you can place the missing dots yourself. There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow may be the single day that changes everything. Can we return to the past? No. But we can return to the presentif its a present worth living, free of cardboard shields, cold routines, and empty fantasies.
I lay awake until dawn, then slipped the ring from my finger, pressed the note into Pauls mailbox, and slipped out through the back door into the morning.
Outside the prison gates a man in a dark, outofseason coat hoisted his backpack and walked toward the nearest bus stop. On the platform a blue post box, paint peeling, waited. I dropped the freed letter inside. A strange bald figure watched from a distance.
Vasilyev and I were on the same train, ten miles apart, each in an empty carriage, heading home to a present we could finally claim.
The lesson I carry now is simple: we may not change the past, but we hold the power to shape the present, and that choice is the only freedom that truly matters.
