The old thermos was a battered tin, its glass belly swollen and its surface dulled by countless washes in the kitchen sink. It had survived from the days of garden tea parties, when the sweltering heat and the scent of jam drew the whole neighbourhoods children to the summer veranda to sample Mothers cherrytart pastries. Mother preferred a thermos to a teapot, insisting that tea brewed inside stayed hotter and lingered longer. The children cared little; they came for the tarts.
Eleanor twisted off the dented metal lid, feeling the worn threads under her fingers, and poured tea into a chipped mug that still bore the faded blue spot where a forgetmenot once had lived. The mug, as old as the thermos, came with a tarnished pewter spoon scratched by a nail Eleanor, then five, had used to scrape away stubborn grime relics from the cottage in Littleford that formed, for her, a bridge to a past that seemed three hundred years away. Littleford lay some three thousand miles from the prison town, and the memories of her childhood stretched back a lifetime.
She pulled a stack of fresh letters, delivered by the night clerk, and began flipping through envelopes until she found the one she needed. The familiar handscript read: To Andrew Vasil, Personal Delivery. But personal delivery meant nothing yet the envelope first had to pass the eyes of Inspector Charlotte Beaumont, before it could reach the intended hands. Eleanor was the censor of prison correspondence.
The job had come to her with a late marriage. Her husband, Charles Beaumont, the warden, was a stern, methodical man who never knew how to occupy his wifes longing for home. The settlement had little beyond the prison, a tiny medical outpost and the post office. The school had closed; the children of staff were bused to the county centre. Beaumont was offered a teaching post and a staff car, but his health would not tolerate the daily jolts of the country lanes. The Beaumonts had no children of their own. After six months of idleness, Eleanor agreed to read manuscripts not school essays, but letters from inmates. At first she corrected mistakes out of habit, then learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters felt intrusive, as if peeking through a keyhole, but she grew accustomed; the monotony dulled any pang of guilt. She hunted for forbidden topics, coded threats, and, lately, the occasional vulgarity that had just been allowed in literary works after being banned in prison correspondence. Some passages she excised, some she passed to the prison psychologist, others she flagged for the security office. The routine was a distraction from the endless churn of thoughts. Then, one day, a strange letter arrived.
That morning, after a quarrel with Charles over a spilled cup of coffee, she wiped the greasy puddle from the stove, filled the old thermos to the brim, and, abandoning the staff car, walked to work. Grey, snowless November dragged dry leaves across the frozen ground. The surviving leaves shivered on the wind, awaiting their fate. Beyond the railway, a bleak, leafless forest loomed, its trees stripped of snow. Eleanor knew that no matter how she layered herself, the chill would bite the climate demanded a thermos at her side.
She nodded to the night clerk, passed through the gate, climbed the echoing stairs to the second floor, unlocked the cold office with a key, and after a first warming sip of tea settled into the familiar routine. One letter contained a prison wife scolding her husband for hidden money; another held a daughters complaint about a stepfathers stinginess; a third featured a remote fiancée pleading for patience while her bunny secretly courted two other women in different towns. The letters were full of lists of contraband, stern admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce and swift remarriage, pregnancy announcements, threats, promises, petitions for a new life after release.
She lifted the cup, sliced open the next envelope with the practiced precision of a wellsharpened 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, the girl you saved might have perished. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you, pray, my son.
Eleanor reclined in her chair such letters were new to her. The return address read: York, not far from Littleford. She read on, but this time the words struck her differently.
Son, I have found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is failing and my hands are unsteady, so I keep mixing up the keys. Ill manage. You can keep sending me the manuscript by mail thats allowed. Ill retype it slowly. Dont stop writing, dear. This year will pass, life will go on.
She set the letter aside. Who could forgive all sins, even mortal ones, but a loving mother and God? Eleanor had no mother to forgive her now; it had been three years since hers died, and she had no one left to pardon herself. She dabbed at her dry eyes and dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Frederick, do you have anything on Vasil, inmate number three? she asked.
One moment, let me check, came the click of a keyboard. Nothing beyond the initial interview. Andrew Vasil, born 1970, convicted under Section 9, serving a year. Arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters? The psychologists tone hinted concern.
No, nothing. Just routine, Eleanor stammered, unsure why she was probing. Perhaps you could speak to the inmate named Telg, who left his wife penniless.
Very well, Eleanor Beaumont.
From that day on she awaited letters, but the envelopes only flew one way. Vasils mother wrote to her son about Sonia, an adult daughter living her own life, passing on greetings from acquaintances and sharing simple oldpeople news, always ending with: Im waiting for you, my son. I pray for you. The line often brought tears to Charlottes eyes, which she blamed on fatigue and nerves, drowning the sentiment in household chores.
The last days of November dragged on without snow. One dinner, Eleanor, halfdrunk from a full stomach, asked her husband:
Charles, could you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he set down his fork. Commit a crime in my honour?
Not on purpose. Say a bloke tried to mug me on the street would you step in?
Who needs you, old woman? he chided, patting her shoulder. And what if a mugger did appear?
Suppose we had a daughter and some thugs attacked her
Again with your whatifs! he snapped. We have no children just get a cat, then.
What does a cat have to do with it? she snapped back. Im asking about a man sentenced under Section9.
We have two inmates like that. So?
So being noble is punishable? Protecting the weak could land you in prison?
Only those whose nobility ends in death end up behind bars, through carelessness, he lectured, lifting a finger. Why are you suddenly interested in the criminal code? Planning a legal protest? Or just missing the manuals?
Enough, she waved away his plate. But imagine you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
Youre daft, Eleanor! I wont even picture it. Go make tea, he slumped onto the couch, grabbing the remote. What are you staring at? Brew it properly, not in that ancient thermos!
By winters end, a thin, foamlike snow fell onto the frostbitten ground. On her table lay a reply from Vasils mother. Eleanor, cutting the envelope, sliced her fingertip.
Mother, hello, the inmate wrote. Sorry for the long silence I couldnt gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go on, but what will it look like? If anyone needs my writing, its only you and me to pass the time. Sonia wont read it anyway, so dont force her. Its a burden to see her burden. Dont strain your eyes on the computer just stack the letters in the box, Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending two chapters; the envelope cant hold more. Its hard to write here
Inside the envelope lay a stack of thin, nearly translucent sheets, cramped with cramped script. Should she check them per protocol? She hesitated, tucked the stack back, and slipped the envelope into her bag, hoping no one would notice the missing day.
Thus the prisoner gained his first secret reader.
She read Vasils manuscript late at night, the wind of a wild winter howling outside her cramped kitchen, a checked lamp shade casting a warm glow. The thermos of tea sat nearby an excuse for Charles to see her, a plausible cough. Her throat ached, but her soul ached more, rattled by the strangers words.
The manuscript described Vasils life, the incident that landed him behind bars, and a fictional hero named Peter Andrews, a thinly veiled version of himself. The narratives breathtaking scenery felt vivid, as if the author walked beside Eleanor past the railway, through the barren forest, past the rusted signal boxes. When Peter recalled his own childhood, Eleanor imagined her own garden holidays, her mothers tea on the veranda, the sweet smell of pastries Their thoughts merged, their eyes saw the same world, bitterly admiring its flaws. The prose was clear and plain; the handwritten pages, not printed books, kept her anchored in reality. No mistakes marred the text; a red pen lingered over each line as if a scarlet memory. She set the page aside, noticing a scar on her middle finger that reminded her of school days, then teaching days, then, now, an irrevocable past.
Can we return to the past? Peter asked the cramped space between the barred window and the cell door. A foolish question. Should we even think about it, chew over our mistakes, blame ourselves for what cannot be changed? Eleanor paused, reflecting with him. If nothing can be altered, why does the ache persist? Why do we cling to relics of yesterday, tearing at our hearts, keeping reminders of times swift march? She glanced at the thermos, the faded mug with cooling tea.
She folded the pages back into the envelope, returned it to the pile of inspected letters the next morning, and waited for the next installment. Weeks passed; winter faded. The first signs of spring dripping icicles on the prison walls appeared both in Vasils manuscript and in the waking world. The story sprouted new characters like a budding apple tree. One chapter introduced a new heroine.
She came home exhausted, slipped off her coat in the hallway, slipped cold feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul
Eleanor, are you home? Charles called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong? Youve seemed off lately, he said, chewing his ham sandwich. Fine, warm up dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, she whispered, but he was already gone. A football match roared from the next room.
A thought of escape rose on the twentieth of April, the anniversary of her mothers death. She spent the morning at the county church, then the market. Her driver, Victor, took her back toward the village. Near noon, a phone rang; Victor, eyes darting over the dashboard, remembered an urgent errand from Charles. They turned back to collect a bundle of prison letters from the post office. Eleanor felt a knot tighten had they discovered her secret?
Vasils letters now arrived twice a week. The story surged toward its climax. One day, Eleanor left a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Charles spotted them. How could she explain? What would she say?
She worried less about that and more about the absurd scent that drifted through the hallway when she and Victor carried groceries inside: a whiff of lily of the valley. It brushed her cheek, then vanished. Slippers were turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. Charles emerged, freshfaced, fastening a civilian tie.
Were called to the solicitor today, he said to the driver. Well be off soon.
Youre always buzzing about work, like a bee, he said, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. What are we celebrating? he asked, weighing the grocery bag.
My mothers fouryear anniversary, Eleanor muttered, her voice caught in the doorway.
Alright, later then, he replied, stepping out.
She slipped into the bedroom, where a wide, satincovered bed loomed, its size enough for two strangers who had become strangers to each other. She opened the top drawer of the nightstand; among a jumble of his odds and ends lay a gleaming hairpin tangled in a thin chestnut thread.
Everything seemed as it had always been the whispers of colleagues, the sideways glances of guards, and Eleanor Beaumont, stubbornly ignoring the gossip, pretending she was above prison intrigue. She felt no fierce resentment toward Charles, no jealousy, no bitterness. The idea of infidelity repulsed her, yet also relieved her, for now she had a reason to leave. But where?
Where now? she thought, standing by the window. No one awaits me at home, but the house, though far, still exists and thats enough to pull me toward it. Here is only a temporary hostel for the alienated, detached from the world. One word prison.
What had she clung to all these years? The status of a married woman in her forties? A blind hope for children that withered with the dying ember of love? The distance of thousands of miles that justified her absence where she ought to have been? Guilt toward a mother she had visited only a day before she died, effectively killing her by accident? All these shields, once thought solid, proved as flimsy as cardboard. Now nothing held her back.
On the day the amnesty was announced, the prison bulletin listed those to be released. Among the names, Eleanor found Andrew Vasil. His sentence was cut by a third, with a release date set for 11 June. In a few weeks, the story would end. She felt the conclusion drawing near.
She returned home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, walked through the dimly lit flat she had inhabited for nine years, the shadows casting a theatrical backdrop to a life that now seemed foreign the quiet armchairs, the crystal glasses in the sideboard, the lowset furniture as if nailed to the floor. She opened the wardrobe; the evening light had already deepened, clothing hanging like a somber shroud, shoulders hunched under the weight of memories. She shut the doors, moved to the kitchen, and began to cook dinner. She would not leave until she finished Vasils manuscript.
The final letter arrived a day before his release.
Mum, its amnesty. Ill be home in three days. Ill probably get this letter myself, so no need to wait for me Eleanor didnt finish reading. She took the envelope home with the last chapters.
Time was short. She had packed a suitcase the night before, hidden under the bed: a few clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and the mug that was all. A ticket back to Littleford lay in her handbag with the May payslip. She decided to leave a note for Charles, explaining herself, and a resignation letter no need to make a fuss. She would not spend the night fearing discovery. Charles had sent a late text about an urgent work trip to BarrowuponSoar. Her fate seemed sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. Her trembling hands unfolded the sheets, only to find blank paper, neatly folded to the envelopes size. She flipped back to Vasils mothers letter, finding nothing of interest. From the envelope fell a slip of paper:
Hello, dear reader! I understand your confusion when the ending is just empty pages and no dots over the is. But you can place those dots yourself. There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow, even a single day, can change all that follows. Can you go back in time? No. But you can return to the present! As long as its a worthwhile present. Without cardboard shields, habitual cold, and empty illusions
She lay awake all night. At dawn she removed her ring, slipped the note into Charless pocket, and, pretending the door was closed, stepped into her own present.
At the same moment 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 Eleanor saw a blue, paintpeeled postbox cobwebbed at the slot. She dropped the freed letter inside. A strange bald figure watched from a distance.
VShe boarded the departing train, the empty pages fluttering like released birds, and watched the countryside dissolve into a horizon of unwritten possibilities.
