The old thermos, a battered Chinese model with a cracked glass belly and a dragonetched surface worn smooth by countless washes, had survived from the days of summer tea parties at the cottage. Back then the porch, heavy with the scent of jam and the heat of a relentless July, would fill with the local children, all eager for Mothers berry scones. Why a thermos instead of a kettle? Mother swore that tea brewed inside a sealed vessel stayed hotter longer. The youngsters cared little they came for the scones.
Ethel carefully unscrewed the dented tin lid, feeling her way along the faded threads, and poured tea into a chipped bluespotted mug that had once held a lilac flower. The mug, a contemporary of the thermos, sat beside a pewter spoon scarred by a nail that the fiveyearold Ethel had once tried to scrape clean. Those relics from the house in Ravensfield were, to Ethel, a bridge linking her to a past now threequarters of a century away. Ravensfield lay some three thousand miles from the prison, and childhood lay an age further still.
She set a box of fresh letters, delivered by the nightshift clerk, on the desk and began riffling through the envelopes until she found the one she needed. The familiar hand wrote, To Andrei Vasilyevich Vasilenko handdelivered (personal). Yet personal never meant truly private first the contents had to be reviewed by Inspector Belvedere, and only then could the slip reach the intended hands. Ethel was the prisons censor of correspondence.
That peculiar occupation had found her after a late marriage. Her husband, Nicholas Pritchard, the warden, a stern and steady man, could not fathom how to occupy a wife who missed home. The settlements only public places were the prison, a tiny medical outpost, and the post office; the school had closed, and the children of staff were ferried to the district centre by bus. Nicholas had been offered a teaching post and a service car, but his frail health would not endure the daily bumps. They had no children of their own. After six months of idle waiting, Ethel agreed to read compositions not school essays, but those penned behind bars. At first she corrected the errors out of habit; soon she learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters felt like peering through a keyhole, awkward and invasive, yet the monotony dulled any lingering shame. In Vasilenkos letters she hunted for forbidden topics, coded words and numbers hinting at illicit plots, and, increasingly, for profanity a strange shift, for prison mail had long banned swearwords even as literature embraced them. She erased some passages, flagged others to the prison psychologist, and sent the suspicious to the operations unit. The work had become a dull routine, a distraction from the whirlwind of her own thoughts. Then, one morning, a strange envelope arrived.
That morning, after a quarrel with Nicholas over a spilled pot of coffee, she quietly wiped the greasy ring from the stove, filled the ancient thermos to the brim, and, abandoning the car, walked to work on foot. A bleak, snowfree November dragged dry leaves across the frozen ground. The surviving leaves shivered in the wind, awaiting their fate. Beyond the railway, a bare, snowless forest loomed, its branches stiff with frost. Everything seemed frozen; no matter how she bundled herself, she would feel the chill. Hence the thermos.
Nodding to the clerk, Ethel passed the gate, climbed the echoing stairwell to the second floor, unlocked the nightcooled office with a key, and after a first warming sip of tea settled into the familiar rhythm of her duties. One letter contained a prisoners wife berating her husband for stashing money without her knowledge. Another featured a daughter lamenting her stepfathers greed. A third described a mailorder bride pleading with her bunny to endure a few more months, oblivious that the bunny already had two other brides in different towns. Prison letters often listed contraband hidden in parcels, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce and immediate remarriage, notices of pregnancy, threats, promises, pleas, and plans for a new life after release.
Finishing a cup, Ethel slit open the next envelope with the practiced precision of a seasoned cutter:
Dear Andy! My son! I love you and am proud of you! wrote an unknown mother. Know that you acted like a true man; your father would have done the same. We are all in fates hands your strength proved fatal for the villain. Had you passed by, that girl you saved might have perished. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you pray, son.
Ethel leaned back; such letters had never crossed her desk before. The return address read Belgrave not far from Ravensfield. She read on, but her tone shifted.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is poor and my hands unsteady; the keys keep slipping. Ill manage. You can keep sending me manuscripts; its allowed. Ill copy them slowly. Keep writing, son, the year will pass and life will go on…
She set the letter aside who could forgive a man of all his sins but a loving mother and the Almighty? No one could now forgive Ethel; her own mother had been gone three years, and there was no one left for her to forgive.
She rubbed her dry eyes and dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Frederick, do you have any file on Vasilenko from the third wing?
One moment, let me check, came a clacking voice. Nothing beyond the initial interview. Andrei Vasilenko, born 1970, Article 109, sentenced to a year. He arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters? The psychologists tone hinted concern.
No, nothing unusual, Ethel stammered, unsure how to explain her sudden interest. Perhaps speak with Telegrin; he left his wife penniless.
Very well, Miss Pritchard.
From that day Ethel waited for letters. The envelopes flew only one way. Vasilenkos mother wrote to her son about Sunny, an adult daughter living her own life, passing on greetings from acquaintances, and sharing modest oldpeople news. She always ended, I await you, my son. I pray for you. That simple line often moved Ethel to tears, which she blamed on fatigue, trying to drown the sentiment in chores.
The final weeks of November stretched on without snow. One evening, over dinner, Ethel asked her drunken, overeating husband:
Nick, would you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he set down his fork. Commit a crime on my behalf?
Not on purpose. Say someone assaulted me on the street would you defend me?
Who needs you, old woman? he brushed her shoulder patronisingly. And whats this about assault?
What if we had a daughter and some loons attacked her
Youre always on your case! he snapped. No children, so calm down. Get a cat perhaps?
A cat? What does that have to do with anything? Im asking about a man convicted under Article 109.
Weve two such inmates. And?
So noble deeds are punishable? Is it dangerous to show true manly courage, to protect the weak, that you could end up in gaol?
Only those whose noble hearts end in death end up in prison, by mistake, Nicholas said, raising a finger as if teaching. Why this sudden legal curiosity? Planning a lawsuit? Or missing instructions?
Enough, Ethel waved a plate away. But think, Nick, if you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
Youre daft, Ethel! I wont even imagine it. Get the kettle on, he said, sinking into the sofa, grabbing the TV remote. And stop using that ancient thermos, brew a proper pot!
By winters end the ground was dusted with a thin, foamlike snow. On the kitchen table lay a reply from Vasilenkos mother. Ethels finger slipped while cutting the envelope, nicking herself.
Mother, hello, the prisoner wrote. Sorry for the long silence I could not gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go on but what kind? If anyone needs my writing its only you and me a way to pass the time. Sunny wont read it; dont force her to write back, it burdens her as it does me. Dont strain your eyes on the computer its unnecessary. Just stack the letters in the box; Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending you two chapters, thats all the weight I can manage. The envelope cant hold more. Its hard to write here
The envelope also contained a stack of thin, almost transparent sheets, densely covered in cramped script. Should she inspect them per protocol? She hesitated, then tucked the stack back into the envelope, redfaced, and slipped it into her bag, hoping the delay would go unnoticed. Thus the prisoner gained his first secret reader.
She read late into the night, the wind howling outside the cramped kitchen, a checkered lampshade casting squares on the walls. The thermos sat beside her, a convenient excuse should Nicholas appear, I have a sore throat. The throat hurt, but the soul ached more, stirred by the unknown writers notes.
Vasilenkos manuscript captivated Ethel. He described his life, the incident that landed him behind bars, and wove in autobiographical detail that made her heartbeat quicken. The prose painted the prisons bleak surroundings with such vividness that Ethel imagined walking beside him along the railway, past the barren woods and the scattered signal huts. When he recalled his childhood, Ethel was reminded of her own cottage holidays, Mothers tea on the veranda, and the scones. Their worlds merged, their eyes saw the same horizons, admiring the same flawed beauty. The language was clear and pure; the handwritten pages, unlike printed books, kept her anchored in reality. No errors marred the text; a red pen hovered over each line, a reminder of a schoolteacher she once was. A callus on her middle finger whispered of that past.
Can one return to the past? the character asked, measuring the narrow space between the barred window and the cell door. A foolish question! Should we even dwell on it, gnaw at our mistakes, blame ourselves for what cannot be altered? Ethel set the page aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be changed, why does such a weary longing persist? Why do we cling to relics of yesterday, tearing at our hearts, holding up reminders of lifes fleeting and irreversible flow? She glanced at the faded mug, its tea long cold.
She folded the pages back into the envelope, and each morning returned the letter to the pile of vetted correspondence, waiting eagerly for the next installment. Weeks passed, winter faded, and the first signs of spring icicle beads dripping from the prison eaves appeared both in Vasilenkos manuscript and in the real world. The narrative sprouted new characters, its plot branching like a young apple tree. One chapter introduced a new heroine:
She came home exhausted, dropped her coat in the hall, slipped her frozen feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul
Ethel, are you home? Nicholas called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong with you? Youve seemed off lately, he said, chewing a ham sandwich. Fine, warm up dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, she whispered, and he walked away. The television blared a football match from the next room.
The thought of escape rose on the twentieth of April, the anniversary of Mothers death. That morning Ethel visited the parish church, then the market, escorted by Volodya, Nicholass private driver. By midday they turned back toward the village, but a sudden phone call reminded Volodya of a urgent errand Nicholas had left him for. They returned to the post office to collect a heavy parcel of prison letters that the usual courier would have delivered. Ethel felt a tight knot in her chest had they discovered her breach?
Vasilenkos letters now arrived twice a week. The story swelled towards a climax. One careless moment Ethel left a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Nicholas spotted them. What excuse could she offer? Yet her greater worry was not the reprimand. It was the scent that lingered when she and Volodya brought in the groceries lilac, sweet and fresh, brushing her cheek before fading. Her slippers were turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel strewn on the floor. Nicholas emerged, tying his civilian tie, and said:
Theyve called me to see Mr. Sevenfold. Lets go.
Youre always buzzing about work like a bee, he cooed, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. What are we celebrating? he asked, hefting the bag.
My mothers fouryear anniversary, Ethel whispered, voice barely audible.
Right, right. Evening then, he replied, and slammed the front door. She shuffled to the bedroom, felt the thick, satincovered bed, a space large enough for two strangers to sleep apart, and opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. Among the clutter lay a shiny hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
It seemed all the small cluessmiles from the guard, sideways glances from the night clerkhad gone unnoticed by Ethel, who had convinced herself she stood above the prison gossip. Yet she felt no bitter resentment toward Nicholas, no jealousy, no sour love. The notion of infidelity repulsed her, yet also relieved her, for now she possessed a reason to leave. Where to go?
Where now? she thought, looking out the window. No one awaits me at home, but the house is still there, distant enough to draw me. Here is merely a temporary dormitory for the alienated, a prison in all but name.
She questioned why she had clung for so long to the role of a married woman in her forties, to the blind hope of children that never blossomed, to the miles that justified her absence, to the guilt over a mother she visited only on the day she died, to the shield of duty shed erected. All those reasons felt as flimsy as cardboard. Nothing now held her here.
When the amnesty was announced, lists of those to be freed were posted on the prison wall and sent to every department, including the censors office. In the roster Ethel saw Vasilenkos name; his sentence was reduced by a third, with a release date set for 11 June. The finale was near, she sensed.
Returning home with fresh chapters, she walked through the dimly lit flat she had inhabited for nine years. The weak evening light threw tired shadows across the room, now feeling like a stage set for a life she no longer belonged to the chairs, the crystal glasses, the lowset furniture. She opened the wardrobe; the clothes hung like a mournful shroud, shoulders drooped under the weight of memory. She closed it, went to the kitchen, and began to cook dinner. She would not leave until she finished Vasilenkos manuscript.
The last letter arrived a day before his release.
Mother, hello! Amnesty has been declared; in three days Ill be home. So Ill probably read this myself. No need to meet me Ethel did not finish it. She took the letter home with the remaining chapters.
Time was short. She had packed a suitcase the night before, hidden under the bed: a few changes of clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and mug that was all. Her ticket to Ravensfield lay in her handbag with her papers and Mays wages. She wrote a note to Nicholas, planning to hand it to him, and would leave a resignation letter for him why stir up more trouble? He would sort it out.
She needed to survive that night without exposing herself. Nicholas did not return home, sending a belated message about an urgent assignment in Carlisle. Ethels fate was sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she unfolded the pages, only to find blank sheets. She flipped back to Vasilenkos mothers letter, but found nothing of interest. Tucked inside the envelope was a small note:
Greetings, dear reader! I understand your puzzlement when the climax is replaced by empty pages and no dots over the is. Yet you can place those dots yourself. There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow may be a single day that changes everything that follows. Can we return to the past? No. But we can return to the present provided it is a worthwhile present, free of cardboard shields, familiar cold, and empty delusions
All night Ethel lay awake. At dawn she slipped the ring from her finger, pressed the note into the keyhole for Nicholas, and, pretending the door was locked, stepped into her own present.
At the same hour a nondescript man in a dark coat, out of season, emerged from the prison gates, slung a rucksack over his shoulder, and walked toward the nearest bus stop.
On the platform Ethel spotted a crudely painted blue postbox, its slot spiderwebbed, and dropped the freedofblankpages letter inside. A strange, balding figure watched her from a distance.
Vasilenko and Pritchard travelled together on the same train,As the train chugged into the mistshrouded countryside, Ethel sensed the heavy shackles of her past finally loosening, leaving only the fragile promise of a new, uncertain dawn.
