The old thermos was a battered English one, with a cracked glass belly and a dented metal lid that had seen more washes than a kitchen sink. It survived from the days we used to have tea on the garden summerhouse, when the whole neighbourhood of kids gathered on the veranda, swarmed by the smell of jam and the heat of July, all eager for Mums cherry pies. Mum always swore by the thermos she said tea kept its strength longer in it than in a kettle, and it stayed hot for ages. The kids didnt care; they came for the pies.
Ethel turned the rusted tin lid with care, feeling the worn threads, and poured tea into a chipped blue mug that used to be a favourite for its little blue flower pattern. The mug, the same age as the thermos, and a pewter spoon scratched by a nail that fiveyearold Ethel once tried to clean the stubborn tea stain all these old things from the cottage in Littleford were, for Ethel, the bridge that linked her to the past. Littleford was about 3,300 miles away, and her childhood felt like a quarter of a century behind her.
She nudged a stack of fresh letters that the prison clerk had left on the desk and started sorting through the envelopes until she found the right one. The familiar handwriting read: To Andrew Vassell, personally handdelivered. But personally handdelivered never happened first the contents had to be checked by the inspector, Mrs. Bennett, before they could reach the inmates hands. Ethel was the prisons letter censor.
That odd job had come to Ethel after she remarried rather late in life. Her husband, Nicholas Bennett, was the warden a stern, dependable man who never quite knew what to do with his homesick wife. The little town only had a medical outpost and a post office besides the prison. The school had closed, and the wardens children were bused to the nearby market town. Theyd offered her a teaching post and a company car, but her health wouldnt let her spend hours on rough country roads. They had no children of their own. After six months of unemployment, Ethel agreed to read the inmates letters not school essays, but prison correspondences. At first she corrected the occasional mistake, but soon she learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters felt intrusive, like peeking through a keyhole, yet the monotony dulled any sense of guilt. In the letters she hunted for banned topics, hidden codes, criminal plans, and, increasingly, the occasional swear word (the prison had banned swearing in letters just as the literary world was starting to accept it). Some she erased, some she passed to the prison psychologist, and some she flagged for the security office. It became a routine that kept her mind off the endless swirl of thoughts. Then, one day, a strange letter landed on her desk.
That morning, after a quarrel with Nicholas over a missing mug of coffee, she wiped the greasy smear off the stove, filled the old thermos to the brim, left the car at home and walked to work. A bleak, snowless November dragged dry leaves across the frosty ground. The few stubborn leaves shivered in the wind, waiting for their fate. Beyond the railway line the treeless forest looked as if itd never seen snow. Everything felt cold. Ethel knew that no matter how many layers she wore, shed still feel the chill thats just the English weather. So she kept the thermos close.
She nodded to the clerk, passed the gate, climbed the echoing stairs to the second floor, unlocked the cold office with her key and, after a first warming sip of tea, settled into her usual work. One letter was from the wife of inmate Telson, scolding her husband for hiding money she didnt know about. Another was a daughter complaining about her stepfathers greed. A third featured a longdistance fiancé urging her bunny to wait a few more months, oblivious that the bunny already had two other fiancées in other towns. Prison letters were full of lists of contraband in parcels, admonitions from sick relatives, demands for divorces, pregnancy news, threats, promises, pleas and plans for a new life after release.
She lifted the next envelope with the practiced flick of a knife:
My 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. Were all in fates hands your strength turned out fatal for the scoundrel. If youd walked past, the girl you saved might have died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your unintentional sin. And you, pray, son.
Ethel leaned back on the chair shed never seen a letter like that before. The return address read: Belfast not far from Littleford. She kept reading, but now it felt different.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters into the computer. My eyesight is poor and my hands are clumsy, so I keep mixing up the keys. Ill get the hang of it. You can keep sending me handwritten letters thats allowed and Ill type them slowly. Dont stop, write on! This year will pass, life will go on
Ethel set the letter aside who could forgive all sins, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and God. She herself had no one left to forgive her her mother had been gone for three years. She wiped the dry eyes and dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Frederick, do you have anything on Andrew Vassell from Block3?
Give me a minute, Ill check. A clicking sounded on the other end. Nothing, just an initial interview. Andrew Vassell, born 1970, convicted under Section9, sentenced to one year. He arrived two weeks ago. Anything odd in the letters?
No, everythings fine, Ethel stammered, unsure how to explain her sudden curiosity. Maybe talk to Telson, he left his wife without money.
Alright, MsBennett.
From that day, Ethel began to wait for letters. But the envelopes only ever flew one way. Andrews mother wrote to him about his grownup daughter Sonya, sent greetings from friends, shared simple oldpeople news and always closed with, Im waiting for you, my son. I pray for you. That little line often brought tears to Ethels eyes. She blamed it on fatigue and nerves, drowning the sentiment with housekeeping.
The last weeks of November dragged on, still no snow. One dinner, Ethel, slightly tipsy from a hearty stew, asked her husband:
Nick, would you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he paused, fork in hand. Commit a crime for my sake?
Not on purpose. Imagine if someone tried to mug me on the street, would you step in?
Who do you need, old lady? he teased, patting her shoulder. What, a mugger? he said more seriously.
What if we had a daughter and some lads tried to harm her
Again with your drama! he snapped. No kids, settle down. Get a cat maybe?
A cat? Im not asking about that! Im asking about a bloke sentenced under Section9.
Weve got two of those here. So?
So being noble can land you in jail? Protecting the weak could get you locked up?
Only those whose chivalry ends in death end up behind bars, by accident. Whats with the law obsession? Planning to become a solicitor?
Enough, she waved, clearing plates. But imagine you saved me and accidentally killed someone.
Youre daft, Ethel! I wont even imagine it. Just make the kettle, will you? he slumped on the sofa, grabbing the TV remote. And use a proper teapot, not that ancient thermos!
By the end of winter, a thin, foamlike snow finally settled on the frozen ground. On the kitchen table lay a reply from Andrews mother. Ethels fingers slipped on the envelopes edge and she nicked her finger.
Mother, hello, the prisoner wrote. Sorry for the long silence I couldnt get my thoughts together. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go on but what kind? If anyone needs my writing, its just you and me to pass the time. Sonya wont read it anyway. Dont force her to write; it burdens her. And it burdens me to see her burdened. Dont strain your eyes on the computer its unnecessary. Just stack the letters in the box, Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending two chapters, cant send more the envelope weight is limited. Its hard to write here
Inside were a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, densely scrawled. Should she check them according to protocol? She hesitated, then tucked them back into the envelope, slipped it into her bag and hoped nobody would notice the missing day. Thus the prisoner got his first secret reader.
She read at night, the wind howling outside, locked in the tiny kitchen under a checkered lampshade. The thermos of tea sat nearby a handy excuse if Nicholas popped in, Ive got a sore throat. It was true; her throat ached, but her soul ached more, riled by the strangers notes.
Andrews manuscript fascinated Ethel. He described his life, the incident that landed him behind bars, and the protagonist, Peter Vernon Anderson, a thinly veiled version of himself. The narratives rhythm made her heart throb, the scenery vivid as if she walked beside the railway, through the bleak woods and the scattered signalboxes. When the story drifted back to childhood, Ethel recalled her own garden holidays, Mums tea on the veranda, the pies
The language was clear, the prose free of errors, and the red ballpoint she always used lingered over each line. She saw the callus on her middle finger, a reminder of her old teaching days. Can we go back in time? Peter wondered, measuring the narrow gap between the barred window and the cell door. Foolish question! Should we even think about it, chew over mistakes, blame ourselves for what cant be changed? Ethel set the page aside, pondering. If nothing can be altered, why does the ache linger? Why do we cling to objects from the past, bruising our hearts with reminders of fleeting time? She glanced at the faded mug, its tea long gone.
Week after week she read new chapters, the winter giving way to the first signs of spring icicles dripping like old beards from the prison walls, then melting into water that mirrored the manuscripts growing plotlines. A new female character appeared:
She came home exhausted, tossed her coat by the door, slipped cold feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul
Ethel, you home? Nicholas called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong? Youve been off lately, he said, chewing a ham sandwich. Just heat the dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, she whispered, and he left. The TV blared a football match.
The thought of escape surfaced on April20th, the anniversary of her mothers death. She spent the morning at the village church, then the market. Volodya, Nicholass driver, took her back. Midway, Volodya remembered a urgent errand from Nicholas and turned the van around to collect a heavy sack of prison letters from the post office. Ethels heart thumped had they discovered her secret?
Now Andrews letters arrived twice a week. The story swelled toward its climax. One day, Ethel left a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Nicholas spied them. How to explain? She didnt panic the real worry was far simpler. While unloading groceries, a faint scent of lilies brushed her cheek, and everything seemed oddly out of place: slippers turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. Nicholas emerged, buttoning his suit, smiling.
Theyve called me to the council, he said, well be off soon.
Youre buzzing about work, as always, Ethel replied, forcing a chuckle. What are we celebrating?
My mums fouryear anniversary, she muttered, halflaughing.
Alright, later. He left, slamming the front door.
Ethel shuffled to the bedroom, pulled open the chest of drawers and, among the usual bits, found a shiny hair clip tangled with a thin chestnut cord.
It all felt like a quiet conspiracy the guards sideways glances, the whispered corridors, and her, Ethel Bennett, turning a blind eye, thinking herself above the prison gossip. Yet she felt no rage, no jealousy, no bitter love. The idea of infidelity was repulsive yet oddly relieving finally a reason to leave. But where to go?
She wondered, standing by the window, Home isnt waiting, but its still a place, albeit far away. This house feels like a temporary shelter for the estranged, a prison of its own. She questioned everything the marriage shed taken on in her forties, the fleeting hope of children that never blossomed, the miles that justified her absence, the guilt over her mothers death that shed carried by accident. All those shields fell away, leaving her empty.
The day of the announced amnesty, the prison posted the lists of those to be released. In the list, she spotted Andrew V. his term cut by a third, set for release on 11June. In a couple of weeks, the story would end. She felt the conclusion drawing near.
She returned home with the latest chapters, switched off the lights, and walked through the flat shed lived in for nine years. The dim glow cast tired shadows over the faded furniture, now looking like a set for someone elses life. She opened the wardrobe, the clothes hanging there seemed like a funeral shroud, heavy with memories. She shut it, drifted to the kitchen and started dinner, determined to finish the manuscript before anything else.
The final letter arrived a day before Andrews release.
Mum, hello! Amnestys announced, Ill be home in three days. This letter will probably be the last you get from me. No need to wait for me Ethel didnt read further. She slipped the letters into her bag with the last chapters.
Time was short. Shed packed a suitcase yesterday and hidden it under the bed only a few clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and the mug. Her train ticket to Littleford lay in the bag with her May pay slip. Shed write a note for Nicholas, explaining her departure, and leave a resignation letter no point dragging the house down with her.
She had to survive the night without being found out. Nicholas didnt return that night, sending a late text about a sudden work trip to Birmingham. Ethels fate was sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she opened the pages, only to find them blank crisp white sheets folded to the envelopes size. She flipped back to Andrews mothers letter, but there was nothing new. Then a folded note fell out:
Hello, my dear reader!
I understand your confusion when the ending is just blank pages and no dots over the is. But you can place those dots yourself, cant you? There wont be an epilogue. Tomorrow could be the day even a single one that changes everything that follows. Can we go back in time? No. But we can return to the present! As long as its a worthwhile present, without cardboard shields, the familiar cold, and empty illusions
Ethel lay awake all night. At dawn she slipped her wedding ring off, pressed the note into a pocket of Nicholass key, quietly closed the door behind her and stepped into her own present.
At the prison gates, a nondescript man in a dark coat lifted his backpack and walked toward the nearest bus stop. On the platform she saw a blue postbox, painted roughly, with a cobweb in the slot. She dropped the freedfromblankpages letter inside. From a distance, a bald figure watched.
Andrew and Ethel rode the same train, ten kilometres apart, each in an empty carriage, heading home. Free at last. The present, finally.
