The old thermos was a battered Chinese model, its glass jar cracked and its surface worn smooth by endless washing. It had survived from the days of summer garden teas, when the porch would fill with the neighbourhoods ragtag children, dazed by heat and the smell of jam, all buzzing about Mums cherrytart pies. Why a thermos and not a kettle? Mum swore the tea stayed hotter longer in a thermos, and the kids didnt care they were there for the pastries.
Emma twisted off the dented tin lid, feeling the worn threads, and poured tea until the cup brimmed with a faint bluegray spot where the old cornflower had once been. The cup, as old as the thermos, came with a pewter spoon nicked by a nail that fiveyearold Emma had once tried to scrape the stubborn black grime off. These relics from the house in Hawthorne were, for Emma, a bridge to a past that felt both distant and intimate. Hawthorne was five thousand miles from London, and her childhood lay three decades behind her.
Emma shuffled a stack of fresh letters that the nightwatch clerk had delivered to her desk and began riffling through the envelopes until she found the right one. The familiar handwriting read: To Andrew Peter Vasily, (personal delivery). Personal delivery meant the envelope first had to be cleared by Inspector Helen Halford, and only then could it go into the intended hands. Emma was the censor of prison correspondence.
She had taken up the job after a late marriage. Her husband, Charles Halford, the warden of a modest local prison, was a nononsense sort of man and had no idea how to keep his melancholy wife occupied. Apart from the prison, the village only had a doctors outpost and the post office. The school had closed, and the wardens children were shuttled to the district centre by bus. Charles was offered a teaching post and a company car, but his frail health wouldnt stand the daily bumps. They had no children of their own. After six months of idle waiting, Emma agreed to read compositions not school essays, but inmates letters. At first she corrected every mistake out of habit, but soon learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters felt invasive, like peeking through a keyhole, yet the monotony dulled any sense of guilt. In the letters she hunted for forbidden topics, coded numbers, and, increasingly, for the occasional profanity prison mail had banned swearing just as literary circles were relaxing their standards. She would redact some parts, pass others to the prison psychologist, and flag the suspicious to the operations unit. The work had become a routine distraction from the endless churn of thoughts. Then, one day, a strange letter landed on her desk.
That morning, after a domestic spat with Charles over a wayward coffee mug, Emma wiped the greasy spill from the stove, filled the ancient thermos to the brim and, abandoning the car, walked to work.
A bleak, snowfree November rolled dry leaves across the frosty ground. The few surviving leaves shivered on the wind, awaiting their fate. Beyond the railway, a bleak, leafless wood stood stubbornly untouched by snow. Everything seemed frozen. Emma knew that no matter how she dressed, shed still feel the cold thats the English climate for you. Hence the thermos.
She nodded to the nightwatch clerk, passed the gate, climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, unlocked the chillfilled office, and after a first warming sip of tea, dived into the familiar routine. One letter featured a prisonwife scolding her husband for hidden money; another was a daughter complaining about a stepfathers stinginess; a third involved a penfriend begging her bunny to be patient for a few more months, unaware that the bunny already had two other penfriends in different towns. Prison letters were full of inventories of contraband, moralising relatives, demands for divorce, urgent marriage proposals, pregnancy news, threats, promises, pleas for a new life after release.
Finishing a cup, Emma expertly slit the next envelope:
Dear Andy! My dear 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 turned away, that girl you saved might have died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your unintentional sin. And you, pray, son.
Emma leaned back, surprised. Shed never seen such a letter. The return address was York not far from Hawthorne. She read on, but this time with a different mood.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is poor and my hands are clumsy, so the keys are a nightmare. Still, Ill manage. You can keep sending me manuscripts; its allowed. Dont stop writing, lad. This year will pass, life will go on
Emma set the letter down. Who could forgive every sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and perhaps the Good Lord. No one left to forgive Emma now her own mother had been gone for three years. She wiped her eyes and dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Fedor, do you have anything on Vasily from third wing?
Hold on, let me check, came the clack of keys. Nothing much, just the initial interview. Andrew Peter Vasily, born 1970, convicted under article 109, sentenced to a year. Arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters?
No, everythings fine, Emma stammered, trying to mask her curiosity. Talk to Telkin he left his wife penniless.
Alright, Lydia Halford.
From that day Emma began to anticipate letters. But they only ever came in one direction. Vasilys mother wrote about her adult daughter Sonya, passed on greetings from acquaintances, and always ended with: Im waiting for you, son. I pray for you. That simple line often brought tears to Emmas eyes, which she blamed on fatigue and nerves, drowning the sentiment with household chores.
The last days of November dragged on, still without snow. One evening, over dinner, Emma asked her slightly tipsy husband:
Charlie, would you go to prison for me?
What? Commit a crime on my behalf?
Not on purpose. Say a bloke mugged me on the street, would you step in?
Who needs you, old woman? he teased, patting her shoulder. And what if we had a daughter and some ruffians attacked her?
Youre being ridiculous! Charles snapped. We have no children. Get a cat perhaps?
Where does a cat fit in? Emma snapped back. Im asking about a man convicted under article 109.
There are two of those in our wing. So?
So bravery gets punished? Protecting the weak could land you behind bars?
Only those whose noble deeds end in death end up in prison, by accident, Charles said, raising a finger. Whats with the legal curiosity? Joining a law club?
Enough, Emma waved her plates. Imagine you saved me and accidentally killed someone.
Youre daft, Emma! I wont even imagine it. Go fetch the kettle, he muttered, flopping on the sofa, grabbing the remote. And brew it in a proper teapot, not that ancient thermos!
By winters end the frost had finally laid a thin, foamlike blanket of snow on the ground. On Emmas kitchen table lay a reply from Vasilys mother. Emmas finger slipped on the envelope, cutting her finger.
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 kind of life? If anyone needs my scribbles, its only you and me to pass the time. Sonya wont read them anyway. Dont force her to write to me; its a burden for both of us. Dont strain your eyes on the computer its unnecessary. Just stack the letters in the box; Ill collect them later. Im sending two chapters; I cant send more the envelope weight limit. Its hard to write here
Inside the envelope were a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, scribbled densely. Should she inspect them according to protocol? Emma hesitated, then, feeling rebellious, slipped the stack back into the envelope, tucked it into her bag and hoped no one would notice a days delay.
Thus the prisoner gained a secret reader.
Emma spent nights in the cramped kitchen, a chequered lamp casting a cosy glow, the thermos of tea at the ready in case Charles dropped by a handy excuse for a sore throat. In truth, it was her soul that ached, rattled by the strangers notes.
Vasilys manuscript fascinated Emma. He described his life, the event that landed him behind bars, and wove his story with a fictional hero named Peter Vernon Anderson a playful nameshuffle that underscored the autobiographical feel. The prose was clear, the countryside descriptions vivid, as if he were walking beside Emma along the railway, past the woods and the scattered signalboxes. When Peter reverted to his childhood, Emma recalled her own garden holidays, mums tea on the veranda, and the pies. Their worlds overlapped, their eyes saw the same scenes, and they mourned the worlds imperfections together. The language was pure; the only mistake was a red pen lingering over a line, reminding Emma of her days as a schoolteacher.
Can we ever return to the past? Peter asked, measuring the narrow space between the barred window and his cell door. A foolish question! Should we even think about it? Chew over our errors? Blame ourselves for what cant be changed? Emma set the page aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be altered, where does that endless longing come from? Why do we clutch relics of the past, bruising our hearts, keeping reminders of times swift march? She glanced at the thermos, the faded cup, the cooling tea.
She folded the pages back into the envelope each morning, returning it to the pile of checked correspondence, eagerly awaiting the next installment. Weeks passed, winter faded, and the first signs of spring icicles dripping like weeping beards from the prison walls appeared both in the manuscript and in reality. The narrative sprouted new characters like a budding apple tree.
One new heroine entered the story:
She came home exhausted, shed her coat at the hall, slipped cold feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul…
Emma, you there? Charles called, breaking the silence from the hallway.
Yes, she replied.
Whats wrong? Youve seemed off lately, he said, chewing a ham sandwich. Fine, warm up dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, Emma whispered, and he was already out the door, the TV blaring a football match.
On the twentieth of April the anniversary of her mothers death Emma set off for the district centre, first to the church, then the market. Her driver, Victor, the wardens personal chauffeur, took her back halfway when a sudden ring on his phone reminded him of a very important task from Charles. They turned back to collect a tight bundle of prison letters that the postman usually delivered. Emma felt a knot tighten had they been discovered?
Vasilys letters now arrived twice a week. The story swelled toward its climax. One careless afternoon Emma left a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Charles spotted them. How to explain? She never got that far.
But the real trouble was far more mundane. While unloading groceries, a waft of lily scent brushed Emmas cheek. Her slippers were turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. Charles emerged, freshshaven, fastening his tie.
Weve been summoned to the court, he said, pausing at the doorway. What are we celebrating? he asked, hefting the bag.
My mothers anniversary, Emma muttered, the words catching on her throat.
Right, later then, he replied, slamming the door. She trudged to the bedroom, opened the wide, satincovered bed, and pulled a drawer open. Among a jumble of mens odds and ends lay a shiny hair clip tangled in a thin chestnut thread.
It seemed everything was as it was. The glances of fellow officers, the sideways looks of the nightshift staff Emma, as Halford, chose to ignore them, telling herself she was above the prison gossip. She felt no burning jealousy, no bitter resentment toward Charles. The thought of infidelity was both repellent and oddly relieving finally she had a legitimate reason to leave. But where to go?
What now? she mused, standing by the window. No one waits at home, but home exists, however far, and thats enough to aim for. Here its just a temporary dormitory for the lost, a prison in its own right.
She wondered what shed clung to all these years the status of a married woman in her forties, the blind hope of children that never materialised, the thousands of miles that justified her absence, the guilt over a mother shed visited only days before she died. Those shields proved as flimsy as cardboard. Nothing now held her.
The amnesty day arrived. The prison posted lists of those to be released and sent copies to every office, including the censors. In the list Emma spotted Andrew P. Vasily, his sentence cut by a third, release set for 11 June. In a few weeks the story would end, and Emma felt certain of it.
She returned home with the latest chapters, switched off the lights, and walked through the flat shed lived in for nine years. A faint twilight painted the rooms in a shabby theatrical glow. The furniture worn armchairs, crystal glasses in a sideboard, lowset tables seemed like props for someone elses life.
She flung open the wardrobe, but the evening had already deepened, the clothes hanging like a gloomy sarcophagus. With a sigh she shut it, headed to the kitchen to rustle up dinner. She wouldnt leave until shed finished Vasilys manuscript.
The final letter arrived a day before his release.
Mother, hello! Amnesty announced, Ill be home in three days. So Ill probably read this myself. No need to meet me Emma didnt finish it, tucking it with the last chapters.
Time was short. She had packed a suitcase the day before and hidden it under the bed a few clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and the cup. Her train ticket to Hawthorne lay in her handbag with her pay slip for May. She drafted a note for Charles, explaining herself, and left a resignation letter for him why stir up a storm now? He would sort it out.
She had to get through the night without blowing her cover. Charles didnt return that night, sending a late SMS about an urgent business trip to Bristol. Emmas fate was sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she unfolded the pages, only to find them blank pristine white sheets folded to the size of the envelope. She flipped back to Vasilys mothers letter, found nothing of interest, then a slip of paper fell out:
Greetings, dear reader!
I understand your puzzlement when the ending is just empty pages and no dots over the is. But you can place those dots yourself, cant you? There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow, even a single day, can change everything that follows. Can we go back in time? No. But we can return to the present! A present worth living in, without cardboard shields, without the usual cold and empty fantasies
Emma lay awake all night. At dawn she slipped a ring off, pressed the note with a key into Charless pocket, quietly closed the door behind her, and stepped into her own present.
At the same moment a nondescript man in a dark coat, out of season, left the prison gates, slung a rucksack over his shoulder, and walked to the nearest bus stop.
On the platform Emma slipped a freshly freed letter into a grimy blue postbox, its little slot spiderwebbed with dust. A strange, balding figure watched from a distance.
Vasily and Emma boarded the same train, ten miles apart in a single empty carriage, heading home, free, into the present.
