The old thermos was a battered Chinese model, its glass belly cracked and its dragondecorated lid worn thin from endless washing. It had survived from the summer tea parties at the cottage, when the sunbaked garden was filled with the scent of jam tarts and the whole neighbourhoods children gathered to hear stories of Mums cherry pies. Why a thermos and not a kettle? Mother swore that tea brewed in a thermos stayed stronger longer. The kids didnt care they came for the pastries.
Lucy carefully unscrewed the dented tin lid, feeling the worn threads, and poured tea until the cup brimmed with a vague bluegrey spot where the original cornflower had been. The cup, as old as the thermos, came with a pewter spoon nicked by a nail that fiveyearold Lucy had tried to use to scrape away stubborn stains those relics from the old house in Stonebridge were Lucys bridge to the past. Stonebridge was about three thousand miles from the city, and childhood felt a good century ago
Lucy dragged a stack of fresh letters, left by the nightshift clerk, to her desk and began riffling through the envelopes until she found the right one. The familiar handwriting read: To Andrew Petrovich Vasili (handdelivered). But handdelivered never happened first the prison inspector, Mrs. Bishop, had to scan the contents, then only could the slip reach the intended hands. Lucy was the prisons letter censor.
The job had landed on Lucys lap after shed married late. Her husband, Nicholas Bishop, the warden of the county prison, was a serious, steadfast man who never knew how to keep his wife occupied. The villages only public spots were the prison, the small health post, and the post office. The school had closed; the wardens children were shuttled to the district centre by bus. Nicholas had been offered a teaching post and a company car, but a shaky heart wouldnt tolerate the daily bumps. They had no children of their own. After six months of unemployment, Lucy agreed to read compositions not school essays, but prisoners letters. At first she corrected the errors out of habit, but soon she learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples correspondence felt like peeking through a keyhole, yet Lucy grew accustomed; the monotony dulled any lingering guilt. She hunted for banned topics, hidden codes, criminal schemes, even occasional profanity (the prisons had banned swearing just as literary circles were beginning to reallow it). She snipped some parts, flagged others for the prison psychologist, and sent the suspicious bits to the intelligence unit. The routine became a pleasant distraction from the endless swirl of thoughts. Then, one day, an odd letter landed on her desk.
***
That morning, after an argument with Nicholas over a spilled cup of coffee, Lucy wiped the stubborn stain from the stove, filled the ancient thermos to the brim, and, abandoning the car, walked to work.
Grey, snowless November drummed dry leaves across the frosty ground. The few surviving leaves shivered in the wind, awaiting their fate. Beyond the railway, a barren, snowfree forest gaped like a frozen mouth. Everything was cold. Lucy knew that no matter how many layers she wore, shed still feel the chill that was England in late autumn. Hence the thermos.
She nodded to the nightshift clerk, passed through the gate, climbed the echoing stairs to the second floor, unlocked the nightchilled office, and after a steaming cup of tea settled into her bones, dived into the usual paperwork. One letter featured a prisoners wife scolding him for hidden money; another was a stepdaughter complaining about her stepfathers stinginess; a third was a longdistance bride urging her bunny to wait a few months, unaware that he already had two bunnies in different towns. The letters ranged from inventories of contraband in parcels, to nagging relatives, divorce demands, pregnancy news, threats, promises, pleas for a fresh start after release.
She sipped from her mug, then, with the precision of a wellsharpened knife, slit the next envelope:
Dear Andy! My darling boy! Im so proud of you youve acted like a true gentleman. Your father would have done the same. Were all in fates hands your strength turned out fatal for the scoundrel. Had you passed by, that girl you saved might have perished. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you pray, son.
Lucy leaned back; shed never seen such a letter. The return address read Belfast not far from Stonebridge. She read on, but the tone shifted.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is poor and my hands are clumsy, so I keep mixing up the keys. Ill manage. You can keep sending me the manuscript its allowed. Ill type it slowly. Dont stop, lad, write on! This year will pass, life will go on.
Lucy set the letter aside who could forgive every sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and God. And Lucy herself had no one left to forgive her her own mother had been gone for three years. She wiped her dry eyes and dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Frederick, do you have anything on Vasili from Block Three?
Hold on a sec, let me check, came the click of keyboards. Nothing new, just a preliminary interview. Andrew Vasili, born 1970, convicted under Article 109 for one year. Arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters?
No, everythings fine, Lucy stammered, unsure how to explain her sudden interest. Maybe talk to the other inmate, hes the one who left his wife penniless.
Right, Miss Bishop.
From that day Lucy awaited letters. But the envelopes only ever travelled one way. Andrews mother wrote about her daughter Sonyas adult life, passed on greetings from neighbours, and always finished with, Im waiting for you, son. I pray for you. That simple line often brought Lucy to tears; she blamed it on fatigue and tried to drown the sentiment in household chores.
***
The last days of November dragged on without snow. One evening, over dinner, Lucy asked her comfortably drunk husband:
Nick, would you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he set down his fork. Commit a crime in my honour?
No, not on purpose. Just if someone tried to mug me on the street, would you step in?
What, you old fool? he patted her shoulder patronisingly. And whats this about? he asked, suddenly serious.
What if we had a daughter and some thugs went after her
Again with your fantasies! he snapped. We have no children settle down. Get a cat perhaps?
What does a cat have to do with it? Lucy snapped. Im asking about a man convicted under Article 109.
Weve got two such inmates. And?
So noble deeds are punishable? Protecting the weak could land you behind bars?
Only those whose nobility ends in death end up in prison by accident. Why the sudden interest in the criminal code? Planning to become a lawyer?
Enough, she waved off, stacking plates. But imagine you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
Dont be daft, Lucy! I wont even think about it. Go fetch the kettle, he said, flopping onto the sofa, remote in hand. And stop staring at that ancient thermos brew in a proper teapot!
***
By winters end, a feeble, styrofoamlike dusting of snow fell on the frosthardened ground. On Lucys kitchen table lay a reply from Andrews mother. Lucys fingers slipped on the envelope, nicking her thumb.
Mum, hello! 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 just you and me time to kill. Sonya wont read them anyway. Dont force her to write; it burdens her as much as it burdens me. Dont strain your eyes on the computer its useless. Just stash the letters in the box; Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending two chapters, thats all I can fit the envelope weight limit. And I cant write more here
Inside the envelope lay a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, densely covered in cramped handwriting. Should she inspect them per protocol? Lucy hesitated, then shoved the stack back into the envelope, slipped it into her bag, and pretended nothing had happened. One days delay wouldnt be noticed, after all. Thus Andrew gained his first secret reader.
Lucy read at night, while winter howled outside, locked in the cramped kitchen under a checkered lampshade. The thermos sat nearby an excuse for a sore throat when Nicholas dropped by. The throat hurt, but the soul hurt more, rattled by the strangers notes.
Andrews manuscript fascinated Lucy. He described his life, the mishap that led to his incarceration, and a protagonist called Peter Vasily Andrews a thinly veiled version of himself. The narratives twists made Lucys pulse quicken; the vivid countryside descriptions felt like walking beside him along the railway, past the forest and the scattered signal boxes. When Peter recalled his childhood, Lucy was whisked back to her own cottage holidays, mothers tea on the veranda, and the jam tarts. Their worlds merged, seeing the same scenes through similar eyes, admiring the same imperfect beauty.
The language was clear and pure; Lucy sometimes forgot she was reading a prisoners letters, and the handwritten pages, not printed books, kept her grounded. No errors marred the text; a red fountain pen hovered over each line. The scar on Lucys middle finger, a relic of her schoolteacher days, reminded her of the past.
Can we go back in time? Peter asked, measuring the narrow space between the barred window and his cell door. Stupid question! Does it matter to think about it, to chew over mistakes, to blame ourselves for things we cant change? Lucy set the page aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be changed, why does that ache linger? Why do we cling to objects of the past, tearing our hearts, keeping reminders of lifes fleeting irreversibility? She glanced at the thermos, the faded cup, the cooling tea.
She folded the pages back into the envelope, and the next morning returned it to the pile of vetted correspondence, waiting eagerly for the next installment. Weeks passed, winter melted, and the first hints of spring icicles dripping like tired beards appeared in the manuscript and then in real life. The story sprouted new characters like a young apple tree.
One new heroine appeared:
She came home exhausted. She slipped off her coat in the hallway, slipped cold feet into slippers. The house was empty. Her soul was empty too
Lucy, you at home? Nicholas called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong? Youve not been yourself lately, he said, chewing a ham sandwich. Fine, heat the dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, Lucy whispered, and Nicholas left the room. The television blared a football match.
***
The thought of escape surfaced on 20 April, the anniversary of Lucys mothers death. She spent the morning at the district centre, first at church, then the market. Volodya, Nicholass driver, took her back. Near noon they turned back to the village, but a phone call interrupted; Volodya remembered a task from Nicholas. They returned to the post office to collect a heavy bundle of prison letters that the postman usually delivered. Lucy felt a cold shiver had she been discovered?
Vasilis letters now arrived twice a week. The novel swelled toward its climax. One day Lucy left a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Nicholas spied them? How would she explain? But Lucys real fear was far more mundane. While unloading groceries, a whiff of lily of the valley brushed her cheek. Her slippers were oddly turned toward the door; the bathroom towel lay on the floor. Nicholas emerged, freshshaven, fastening his tie.
Called in for the Bishop case, he explained to the driver. Well be on our way soon.
Youre busy as a bee, he said, planting a quick kiss on Lucys cheek. What are we celebrating?
My mums fouryear anniversary, Lucy muttered, halflaughing.
Right, later. He swung the door shut. Lucy shuffled to the bedroom, lifted the mattress cover, and found a shiny hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
It seemed everything was as it was. Whispered glances from guards, sideways looks from colleagues, and Lucy Bishop stubbornly ignored them, assuming she was above the prison gossip. She felt no seething jealousy, no bitter resentment toward Nicholas. The idea of infidelity was both repellent and oddly relieving, because now she had a legitimate reason to leave. But where to go?
Where now? she thought, standing by the window. No one is waiting at home, but home exists, even if far away thats enough to aim for. Here its just a temporary lodging for the displaced, a prison in all but name. She wondered why shed clung all these years to the status of a married woman in her forties, to the vague hope of children, to the miles that justified her absence, to guilt over her mothers death. Those shields now felt as flimsy as cardboard.
***
On the day the amnesty list was posted on the prison notice board, Lucy spotted Andrews name. His sentence was cut by a third, and his release date set for 11 June. In a couple of weeks everything would be resolved. Lucy felt the ending draw near.
She returned home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, switched off the lights, and walked through the nineyearold flat. The dim twilight cast tired shadows over the mismatched chairs, the crystal decanters, the lowset furniture that seemed a setpiece from another life. Everything still felt foreign the quiet sofas, the glasses on the sideboard, the heavylooking wardrobe.
She flung open the wardrobe, but night had already deepened the colours; the clothes lay like a mournful shroud, shoulders slumped under the weight of memory. She slammed the door, headed to the kitchen, and set about making dinner. She would not leave until she finished Vasilis manuscript.
The final letter arrived a day before his release.
Mum, hello! Amnesty announced in three days Ill be home. So this letter will probably be read by me. No need to greet me Lucy didnt finish it, tucking the pages into her bag along with the last chapters.
Time was short. Her suitcase, packed the night before, was hidden under the bed. She took only a few clothes, a couple of books, the trusty thermos and mug that was all. Her train ticket to Stonebridge lay in the satchel with her documents and the May pay slip. Lucy planned to leave a note for Nicholas, then a formal resignation why make a fuss? Hed sort it out.
She had to survive the night without blowing her cover. Nicholas didnt return home, sending a late text about an urgent work trip to Birmingham. Lucys fate seemed sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she unfolded the pages, only to find them blank pure white sheets, neatly folded. She flipped back to Vasilis mothers letter, but found nothing of interest. Tucked among the empties was a note:
Greetings, dear reader!
I understand your confusion the climax is missing, just a blank page and no dot over the i. But you can place those dots yourself. No epilogue will be given. Tomorrow, even a single day, can change everything that follows. Can we go back in time? No. We can only return to the present make it worth living, without cardboard shields, the usual cold, and empty illusions
Lucy lay awake all night. At dawn she slipped the ring off, pressed the note into Nicholass mailbox, and, pretending the door was still shut, stepped into her own present.
That same hour a nondescript man in a dark jacket, out of season, slung a backpack over his shoulder and walked to the nearest bus stop.
On the platform Lucy spotted a blue post box, crudely painted, its slit spiderwebbed with dust. She dropped the freedfromblankpages letter inside. A strange, balding figure watched from a distance.
VasAs the bus rumbled away, Lucy watched the post box swallow the last of Vasilis empty pages, feeling at last that the future, however uncertain, was finally hers to write.
