The kettle was an old, battered tin from a seaside shop, its glass belly cracked and its enamel dulled by years of washing. It had survived the endless summer afternoons when the garden patio filled with the scent of jam and the chatter of the local children, all eager for Mums raspberry tarts. Mum swore by the kettle, insisting that tea brewed in it stayed hotter longer. The kids didnt mind they came for the pastries.
Ethel twisted the dented metal lid, feeling the worn threads give way, and poured steaming tea into a chipped blue mug that had once been a bright cornflower. The mug, as old as the kettle, sat beside a nicked pewter spoon that a fiveyearold Ethel had once tried to scrub clean with a nail. Those relics from the old farmhouse in Willowbrook were, for Ethel, a fragile bridge to a past that lay five hundred miles and a lifetime behind her.
She hauled a stack of fresh letters from the guards desk and began sifting through the envelopes until one caught her eye. The familiar hand wrote: To Andrew Vasilyev, personally handdelivered. The personal clause never meant anything first the letters had to be screened by Inspector Belmore, then they might reach the intended hands. Ethel was the prisons censor.
The role had come to her with a late marriage. Her husband, Nicholas Belmore, was the warden a stern, nononsense man who never seemed to know how to ease his wifes ache for home. The only other public buildings in the tiny town of Brackenford were the GPs surgery and the post office. The school had shut down; the children of staff were bused to the nearby market town. Nicholas had been offered a teaching post and a company car, but a bad back kept him from the daily jolts of rural roads. They had no children of their own. After six months of idleness, Ethel agreed to read the inmates correspondence not school essays, but prison letters. At first she corrected spelling, then she learned to ignore it. Reading other peoples pleas felt like peering through someone elses keyhole, but the routine dulled any guilt. She hunted for forbidden topics, coded plans, numbers that hinted at crimes, and, lately, the occasional profanity banned in prison mail just as it had just begun to reappear in contemporary novels. Some passages she excised, some she passed to the prison psychologist, others she flagged for the security wing. The work became a distraction from the relentless churn of her thoughts until one strange envelope landed on her desk.
That morning, after a squabble with Nicholas over a spilled mug of coffee, she wiped the greasy stovetop clean, filled the old kettle to the brim, and left the car behind, walking to work.
Grey, snowless November dragged dead leaves across the frosted ground. The surviving leaves shivered in the wind, awaiting their fate. Beyond the railway, a barren, leafstripped wood stood like a mute sentinel. The air was a chill that seeped through any coat. Ethel knew she would freeze no matter how many layers she wore, so she kept the kettle close.
She nodded to the guard, passed the gate, climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, unlocked the cold office with a rusted key, and, after a warming sip of tea, dove into the familiar routine. One letter contained a wifes rant at her husband, Telegrapher, for hiding money. Another featured a daughters complaint about a stepfathers stinginess. A third was a secret fiancée coaxing her bunny to wait a few more months, oblivious that the bunny already had two other secret wives in different towns. Prison letters were filled with inventories of contraband, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce, urgent marriage proposals, 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:
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 the hands of fate your strength proved fatal for the villain. Had you passed by, perhaps the girl you saved would have died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you, son, pray.
Ethel slumped back, stunned. She read the return address: Belgrave, not far from Willowbrook. She turned the page, but the tone shifted.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters on the computer. My eyesight is failing, my hands are clumsy, the keys keep slipping. Ill manage. You can keep sending me the manuscript by mail thats allowed. Ill type it slowly. Dont stop, write! This year will pass, life will go on
She set the letter aside. Who could forgive every sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother, perhaps, and God. No one could forgive Ethel now her own mother had been gone for three years, and there was no one left for her to forgive.
She wiped away dried tears and dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Fedor, do you have anything on Vasilyev from the third block?
Just the intake interview, came the crackle of keys. Andrew Vasilyev, born 1970, convicted under article 109, oneyear term, arrived two weeks ago. Anything odd?
Itsnothing, Ethel stammered, hiding her sudden curiosity. Talk to Telegrapher he left his wife without money.
Very well, Ms. Ethel Belmore.
From that day Ethel waited for letters. The envelopes flew only one way. The mothers letters spoke of a grownup daughter, Sonya, sharing greetings from acquaintances and trivial oldpeople news, always ending, Im waiting for you, son. I pray for you. The phrase often brought tears to Ethels eyes, which she blamed on fatigue and tried to drown in chores.
The last weeks of November dragged on without snow. One evening, over dinner, she asked her husband, slightly drunk from a full stomach:
Nick, would you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he paused, fork in midair. Commit a crime in my honour?
Not on purpose. Justif someone attacked me on the street, would you step in?
Who do you need, old woman? he teased, patting her shoulder. What do you mean attack?
What if we had a daughter and she were assaulted
Again with your melodrama! he snapped. No kids, calm down. Get a cat perhaps?
What does a cat have to do with this? she snapped. Im asking about the man sentenced under article 109.
We have two of those. So?
So noble acts are punishable? Is it dangerous to protect the weak?
Only those whose bravery ends in death end up in prison, Nicholas said, tapping his finger for emphasis. Whats got you interested in the criminal code? Planning a protest? Or missing instructions?
Enough, she said, clearing plates. Imagine you defended me and unintentionally killed someone.
Dont be daft, Lily! I wont even imagine it. Get the kettle going, he told her, flopping on the sofa, remote in hand. And stop using that ancient kettle!
By the end of winter, a thin, foamlike snow fell on the frosthardened earth. On Ethels kitchen table lay a reply from Vasilyevs mother. She sliced the envelope too eagerly, cutting her finger.
Mother, hello, the inmate wrote. Sorry for the silence I couldnt find my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass, life will go on but what? If anyone needs my writing, its only you and me, to pass the time. Sonya wont read it. Dont force her. Its a burden for both of us. Dont strain your eyes on the computer its pointless. Just stack the letters in a box; Ill come and sort them. Im sending two chapters, cant send more the envelope is weightlimited. I cant write much here
Inside were dozens of thin, almost translucent sheets, each densely scrawled. Ethel wondered whether protocol required her to inspect them, but she shoved the bundle back into the envelope, slipped it into her bag, and hoped no one would notice the missing day. Thus the prisoner gained his first secret reader.
She read the letters late at night, the wind howling outside the thin walls of the kitchen, the gingham lamp casting a warm pool of light. The kettle steamed beside her, an excuse for a sore throat whenever Nicholas appeared. Her throat ached, but her soul ached more, rattled by the strangers scribbles.
Vasilyevs manuscript hooked Ethel. He narrated his life, the crime that landed him behind bars, and the nameless hero, Peter V. Anderson, a thinly veiled version of himself. The prose was vivid, the landscape descriptions so crisp they seemed to spill beyond the prison walls, as if Ethel were walking the railway line beside the bleak woods. When the narrative drifted back to childhood, Ethel recalled her own garden holidays, her mothers tea on the veranda, the sweet pastries. Their worlds overlapped, their eyes saw the same bleak beauty, their hearts ached at the same imperfections. The prose was clean, the ink a bright red that lingered on the page, reminding her of the scar on her middle finger from a teaching stint long ago.
Is it possible to return to the past? Peter mused, measuring the narrow space between his cells barred window and the door. A foolish question! Should we even think about it, chew over mistakes, blame ourselves for what cannot be changed?
Ethel set the page aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be changed, why does that lingering grief persist? Why do we cling to relics of the past, tearing our hearts, holding reminders of lifes fleeting, irreversible nature? She glanced at the kettle, its nowcold mug.
She folded the pages back into the envelope each morning, returning it to the pile of screened mail, waiting hungrily for the next installment. Weeks turned into months; winter faded. First signs of spring icicles dripping from the prisons eaves appeared both in Vasilyevs story and in the real world. The tale sprouted new characters like a sapling. One chapter introduced a weary woman returning home, shedding her coat, cold feet slipping into slippers, an empty house mirroring an empty soul.
Ethel, are you home? Nicholas called, breaking the silence from the doorway.
Yes.
Whats happening to you? Youve not been yourself lately, he said, chewing on a ham sandwich. Fine, warm up the dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, she whispered, and he left, the roar of a football match flooding the hallway.
The thought of escape surfaced on April twentieth, the anniversary of her mothers death. She spent the morning at the parish church, then the market, driven by her personal driver, Victor. By noon they turned back toward the village, but a sudden ring on Victors phone reminded him of a urgent task from Nicholas. They returned to fetch a heavy parcel of prison letters from the post office. Ethels heart clenched had they discovered her secret?
Vasilyevs letters now arrived twice weekly. The narrative swelled, approaching its climax. One careless moment, Ethel left a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Would Nicholas spy them? What would she say?
But the real worry was far simpler. As Victor and Ethel lugged groceries inside, a whiff of lily perfume drifted in. It brushed Ethels cheek, lingered, then vanished as the hallway door opened. Nicholas emerged, freshshaven, tying his civilian tie.
Called in for a briefing at SixBorough, he said to the driver. Well be on the road soon.
Just another day of toil, like a bee, he murmured, giving Ethel a quick kiss on the cheek. What are we celebrating?
My mothers fourth anniversary, Ethel managed, voice cracking.
Right, later, he replied, stepping out. The front door slammed.
Ethel shuffled to the bedroom, a wide, upholstered bed draped in a silk coverlet, two strangers sleeping side by side, a wedding photo turned into a tombstone on the nightstand. She opened the top drawer, pulling out a glittering hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
All the clues whispered glances from guards, sideways looks from the nightshift clerk had passed her by, as if shed chosen to ignore them, believing herself above prison gossip. Yet she felt no bitterness, no jealousy, no lingering love for Nicholas. Thinking of infidelity was repellent yet oddly freeing now she finally had a reason to leave. But where?
Where now? she thought, staring out the window. Home is far, but it still exists, and thats enough to aim for. Here is just a temporary shelter for the displaced. The word prison echoed in her mind.
For what had she clung all these years? The status of a married woman, the hope of children that never sprouted, the miles that justified her absence, the guilt toward a mother shed visited only a day before her death? Those shields, once sturdy, now felt as flimsy as cardboard. Nothing held her here any longer.
On the day the amnesty was announced, the prison posted a list of those to be released. Among the names, Ethel spotted Andrew Vasilyev. His sentence was cut by a third, with release set for 11 June just weeks away. She felt the climax drawing near.
She returned home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, the lights off, stepping through the flat shed inhabited for nine years. Dim twilight painted the rooms with shadows, the furniture looking like set pieces for a foreign life. She opened the wardrobe; the dresses inside seemed to sigh, heavy with memories. She slammed the doors, walked to the kitchen, and began to cook, determined to finish Vasilyevs manuscript before he walked out.
The final letter arrived a day before his release.
Mother, hello! Amnesty has been declared; in three days Ill be home. Ill probably read this myself, so no need to greet me Ethel didnt finish it. She gathered the last chapters, the small suitcase shed hidden under the bed a few clothes, a couple of books, the kettle and mug and a ticket back to Willowbrook tucked in her bag with her May payslip. She planned to leave a note for Nicholas, a quiet explanation, and a resignation letter no need to stir up more drama. She would simply walk away.
She spent the night awake, the kettle cooling on the stove. Nicholas didnt return that night, a hastily sent text claiming a sudden work trip to York. Ethels fate was sealed.
She opened the last envelope, only to find blank white sheets, neatly folded. She flipped back to Vasilyevs mothers letter, finding nothing new. Then a slip fell out:
Hello, dear reader!
I understand your confusion the ending is empty, no idots. But you can place those dots yourself. There wont be an epilogue. Tomorrow may be just one day, but it can change everything that follows. Can we go back in time? No. Can we return to the present? Yes, if its worth living without cardboard shields, without coldinduced emptiness, without false hopes
All night Ethel lay awake. At dawn she slipped the ring off, pressed the note into Nicholass pocket, and, pretending the door was closed, stepped into her own present.
That same hour a nondescript man in a dark coat left the prison gates, slung a backpack over his shoulder, and walked to the nearest bus stop.
On the platform Ethel saw a blue postbox, paint peeling, a spiderweb across the slot. She dropped the freedfromblankness letter inside. A strange bald figure watched from a distance.
Andrew Vasilyev and Ethel Belmore rode the same train, ten miles apart in an empty carriage, heading home to freedom, to the present.
