The thermos was a weary Chinese model, its glass belly swollen and its dragon motif faded from years of washing. It had survived from the days of country tea parties, when the sweltering heat and the scent of jam drew the whole neighbourhoods children to the verandah, hungry for mothers cherry pies. Why a thermos instead of a kettle? Mother swore that tea brewed in a thermos stayed hotter longer. The children cared little they came for the pies.
Blythe Hart carefully unscrewed the dented tin lid, feeling the worn threads, and poured tea into a chipped cup that bore a vague blue spot where the original cobalt had faded. The cup, as old as the thermos, and a tin spoon scarred by a nail that fiveyearold Blythe had once tried to polish awaythese relics from the Hart house in Ashford were for Blythe the bridge that linked her to the past. Ashford lay some three thousand miles away, and childhood lay a third of a century behind her
Blythe slid a stack of freshly delivered letters to herself and began riffling through the envelopes until she found the right one. The familiar hand wrote: To Andrew Vasili, (handdelivered). But handdelivered never meant that the envelope reached the addressee directly first the prison inspector had to examine its contents, then the sheet could be handed over. Blythe was the censor of prison correspondence.
The odd job had come to her with a late marriage. Her husband, Nicholas P. Bellamy, the warden of Harrow County Prison, was a serious, methodical man who never knew how to occupy his wifes longing for home. In their small settlement the only public places besides the prison were the medical centre and the post office. The school had closed; children of staff were taken to the district centre by bus. Nicholas was offered a teaching post and a service car, but his frail health would not tolerate the daily bumps. They had no children of their own. After six months without work, Blythe agreed to read compositions not school essays, but prisoners letters. At first she corrected mistakes out of habit, but soon she learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters felt intrusive, like peering through a keyhole, yet she grew accustomed; the monotony dulled any sense of guilt. In the letters she hunted for forbidden topics, coded numbers, criminal plans, and occasionally for profanity the prison had banned swearing almost as soon as literature was allowed to use it. Some passages she shredded, others she passed to the prison psychologist, still others to the intelligence unit. The work had become routine, a distraction from the endless churn of thoughts. Then, one day, a strange letter landed on her desk.
***
That morning, after a quarrel with her husband over a spilled cup of coffee, she wiped the mug clean, filled the old thermos to the brim, and, abandoning the car, walked to work on foot. Grey, snowless November draped the cold earth in dry leaves. The few remaining branches shivered in the wind, awaiting their fate. Beyond the railway the bare, snowfree woods looked bleak. Blythe knew she would freeze no matter how she dressed that was the climate. Hence the thermos.
She nodded to the guard, passed the gate, climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, unlocked the chilled office with her key, and after the first comforting sip of tea settled into her routine. In one letter a prisoners wife berated him for hiding money; another featured a daughter complaining about a stepfathers greed; a third showed a secret bride coaxing her lover to wait a few months, unaware he already had two other brides in different towns. Prison letters contained inventories of contraband, moralising from ailing relatives, demands for divorce and remarriage, announcements of pregnancy, threats, promises, pleas, and plans for a new life after release.
Finishing her tea, Blythe deftly slit open the next envelope:
Dear Andy! My son! I love you and am proud of you! wrote a mother she had never met. 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 died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you pray, son.
Blythe leaned back. Such letters were new to her. The return address read: Belfast not far from Ashford. She kept reading, but now with a different feeling.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is poor and my hands tremble, so I keep mixing up the keys. Ill get the hang of it. You can send me the manuscript in letters thats allowed and Ill transcribe it slowly. Dont stop writing, son, keep going! This year will pass, life will go on.
Blythe set the letter aside. Who could forgive a man for every possible sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and God. And Blythe herself had no one left to forgive her her mother had been gone for three years. She rubbed her dry eyes and dialled the prison psychologist.
Dr. Fenton, do you have anything on Vasili from the third wing?
One moment, let me check, came a clicking voice. Nothing beyond the initial interview. Andrew Vasili, born 1970, convicted under article 109, sentenced to one year. He arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters?
No, nothing, Blythe stammered, unsure how to explain her sudden curiosity. You might talk to Telgin instead; he left his wife without money.
Very well, Ms. Hart.
From that day Blythe began to await letters. The envelopes, however, flew only one way. Andrews mother wrote about her grown daughter, passed on greetings, shared simple elderly news, and always ended: Im waiting for you, son. I pray for you. That line often brought Blythe to tears, which she blamed on fatigue and nerves, trying to drown the sentiment in household chores.
***
The last days of November dragged on without snow. One evening, over dinner, Blythe asked her husband, whose belly was full from a hearty meal:
Nick, would you ever go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he set down his fork. Commit a crime on my behalf?
Not on purpose. Say a man tried to mug me on the street, would you protect me?
Who do you think you are, old lady? he teased, patting her shoulder. And whats this about a mugger?
What if we had a daughter and she were attacked?
Thats your drama again, he snapped. No children, no problem. Get a cat perhaps?
What does a cat have to do with it? Blythe snapped. Im asking about a man sentenced under article 109.
We have two inmates like that. So what?
So noble deeds are punishable? Protecting the weak could land you in prison?
Only those whose bravery ends in death end up in prison, by accident, Nick said, lifting a finger for emphasis. Why are you suddenly interested in the penal code? Planning a protest? Need more instructions?
Enough, Blythe waved away his sandwich. But imagine you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
You fool, he laughed. Dont even think about it. Get the kettle going, he said, flopping onto the sofa and grabbing the remote. And stop looking at that antiquated thermos!
***
By winters end a thin, foamlike snow finally fell on the hardened ground. On Blythes kitchen table lay a reply from Andrews mother. Blythes finger slipped as she cut the envelope, nicking herself.
Mother, hello, the prisoner wrote. Sorry for the long silence I couldnt gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go on but which life? If anyone needs my writing, its only you and me to pass the time. Sonia wont read it anyway. Dont force her to write to me; it burdens her as it does me. Dont strain your eyes on the computer thats unnecessary. Just stack the letters in the box; Ill come and sort them. Im sending you two chapters, thats all I can fit. The envelope weight is limited. I cant write more here
Inside lay a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, densely scribbled. Should she inspect them according to protocol? Blythe hesitated, then slipped the bundle back into the envelope, tucked it into her bag, and hoped no one would notice the delay.
Thus the prisoner gained a secret reader.
Blythe read the letters at night, the wind howling through the winter, locked in the cramped kitchen beneath a checkered lampshade. The thermos of tea sat beside her an excuse if Nicholas asked why her throat was hoarse. In truth, her soul ached more than her throat, stirred by the unknown writers pages.
The manuscript fascinated Blythe. Its author described his life, the incident that landed him in prison, and wove his memories into vivid nature scenes that seemed to step out of the prison walls onto the tracks beside the railway. When he recalled his childhood, Blythe saw her own summer holidays, her mothers tea on the verandah, the pies. Their words spoke the same language, their eyes saw the same world, even as they mourned its imperfections. The prose was clear and pure; sometimes Blythe forgot she was reading a convicts letters, and the handwritten pages, not bound books, dragged her back to reality. No mistakes marred the text the red pen she habitually held hovered over each line. She set the page aside, feeling the familiar ridge on her middle finger, a reminder of her former teaching days.
Is it possible to return to the past? the prisoner asked, measuring the narrow space between the barred window and the cell door. A foolish question! Then why dwell on it? Ruminate over mistakes? Blame ourselves for what cannot be changed? Blythe paused, pondering with him. If nothing can be altered, why does the ache remain? Why do we cling to relics of the past, tearing at our hearts, keeping reminders of lifes fleeting and irreversible nature? She glanced at the thermos, its oncebright cup now lukewarm.
Finishing each chapter, Blythe slipped the sheets back into the envelope, and the next morning returned it to the pile of vetted correspondence, eagerly awaiting the next installment. Weeks passed; winter faded. The first signs of spring dripping icicles on the prison walls appeared first in the manuscript, then in reality. The story branched like a young apple tree.
One chapter introduced a new heroine:
She came home exhausted, threw her coat in the hall, slipped cold feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul
Blythe, are you home? Nicholas called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong with you? Youve seemed off lately, he said, chewing on a ham sandwich. Fine, warm up dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, Blythe whispered, and Nicholas left the room. The muffled roar of a football match drifted from the living room.
***
The thought of escape came on 20 April, the anniversary of her mothers death. Blythe spent the morning at the parish church, then the market. Her driver, Victor, took her back toward Ashford. Midafternoon a phone rang; Victor remembered a task from Nicholas and turned the car around to collect a heavy parcel of prison letters from the post office. Blythe felt a cold knot had she been discovered?
Letters from Andrew now arrived twice a week. The narrative swelled toward its climax. Blythes vigilance slipped one evening; a stack of pages lay on the kitchen table. Nicholas spotted them? What would he say?
But Blythes real worry was far simpler. While unloading groceries, a scent of lilies brushed her cheek. Her slippers were turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. Nicholas emerged, buttoning his civilian tie, smiling.
Called to the council today, he explained. Well be heading back soon.
Youve been as busy as a bee, he teased, planting a kiss on her cheek. What are we celebrating?
My mothers fourth anniversary, Blythe managed.
Right, later then. He left, the door closing behind him.
She walked to the bedroom, pulled open the dresser, and among the clutter found a shiny hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
It seemed everything was as it always had been the whispers, the sideways glances, the gossip of the guards, and Blythe, stubbornly blind to it all, thought herself above the prisons petty rumors. Yet she felt neither anger nor jealousy toward her husband, nor bitterness at a love that had faded. The idea of infidelity repulsed and strangely relieved her now she finally had a reason to leave. But where to go?
Where now? she thought, standing by the window. No one waits at home, but there is a home, however distant thats enough to aim for. Here is merely a temporary hostel for the estranged, a prison in all but name.
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 her waning love? The miles that justified her absence from where she ought to be? Guilt toward a mother she had visited only the day before she died, inadvertently causing her demise? All those shields, once examined, proved as flimsy as cardboard. Now nothing held her here.
***
On the day of the announced amnesty, the prison posted lists of those to be released. The list reached Blythes office, and she saw Andrews name. His sentence was cut by a third, with a release date set for 11 June. The finale was near, and Blythe felt it.
Returning home with new chapters, she walked through the flat she had inhabited for nine years. Dim evening light cast weary shadows on the familiar furniture, now feeling like a costume for a life she no longer owned. She opened the wardrobe, but the evening had already deepened, the clothes darkening like a somber shroud, shoulders slumped under the weight of memories. She shut the door, headed to the kitchen, and began preparing dinner. She would not leave until she finished Andrews manuscript.
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 meet me Blythe did not finish it. She tucked it away with the last chapters.
Time was short. Her suitcase, packed the night before, lay under the bed: a few clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and mug that was all. A ticket to Ashford rested in her handbag alongside her documents and Mays wages. She wrote a note to Nicholas, opting for a calm explanation, and left a resignation letter for him no need to stir the household.
She had to survive the night without exposing herself. Nicholas didnt return that night, sending a belated text about an urgent work trip to Bristol. Blythes fate seemed sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she opened the pages, only to find them blank pure white sheets neatly folded to the size of the envelope. She flipped back to Andrews mothers letter, finding nothing of interest. Among the empty pages lay a note:
Hello, 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 will be no epilogue. Tomorrow may bring a single day that changes everything that follows. Can we return to the past? No. But weShe stepped out onto the platform, tucked the empty pages into her coat pocket, and walked toward the sunrise, knowing that the future was hers to write.
