June 4
The old thermos on the kitchen shelf still bears the faint smell of tea and the wornout patina of decades. It is a Chinese model, its glass flask dulled by countless washes and a dragonetched handle that has long lost its shine. It survived the long summer evenings when, at my parents’ cottage in the Cotswolds, the whole neighbourhood of children would gather on the veranda, the air thick with the heat and the scent of homemade jam. My mother always insisted on using a thermos rather than a kettle; she claimed the tea brewed stronger and stayed hot longer. The youngsters never cared they came for the scones.
Ethel, ever meticulous, unscrewed the dented tin lid, feeling the familiar thread with her fingertips, and poured tea into a chipped bluetinted mug that once held a bloom of cornflower. The mug, as old as the thermos, sat beside a pewter spoon nicked by a nail she once used to scrape stubborn residue from the porcelain. Those battered items from the old house in the Cotswolds formed, for Ethel, a bridge to a past that seemed a hundred years away. The cottage was about three thousand miles from the prison, and her childhood lay half a century behind her.
She pushed a stack of fresh letters, delivered earlier by the nightshift clerk, onto the table and began sifting through the envelopes until she found the one she needed. The familiar handwriting read: To Andrei Petrovich Vasilyev, (personal delivery). But personal delivery never actually happened; first the contents had to be inspected by the prison inspector, Mrs. Whitaker, before the note could reach his hands. Ethel was the prisons letter censor.
That odd occupation fell to her after her late marriage. My husband, Nicholas Broughton, the governor of Harlow Prison, was a serious, methodical man who never quite knew how to occupy a wife who missed home. Apart from the prison itself, the settlement offered only a medical centre and the post office. The school had closed, and the children of staff were bused to the district centre. They offered Ethel a teaching post and a service car, but a persistent back problem made the daily jolts over potholes impossible. They had no children of their own. After six months without work, Ethel agreed to read the inmates lettersnot school essays, but prison correspondence. At first she corrected the obvious errors, then she learned to ignore them. It was uncomfortable, like peering through a keyhole, but the monotony dulled any guilt. She hunted for forbidden topics, coded words, criminal plans, and, increasingly, for profanityonce banned in prison letters, now oddly allowed in literary works. Some passages she redacted, others she passed to the prison psychologist, still others she forwarded to the operations department. The job became a routine distraction from the swirl of her thoughts. Then, one day, a strange envelope landed in her hands.
***
That morning, after a quarrel with me over a missing mug of coffee, Ethel wiped the greasy spot from the stove, filled the old thermos to the brim, left the car at home and walked to work. A bleak, snowless November rolled across the frosthardened ground, stripping leaves of colour and leaving them to shiver in the wind. Across the railway, a leafbarren wood stood dark and lifeless. The cold seeped through any coat; Ethel knew she would feel it no matter what she wore, so she kept the thermos close.
She nodded to the nightshift clerk, passed the gate, climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, unlocked the chilly office, and after the first warming sip of tea settled into her routine. The letters she opened that day ranged from a prisoners wife scolding him for hidden money, to a daughter complaining about a stepfathers stinginess, to a penpalling fiancé urging patience while two other women waited in different towns. There were lists of contraband hidden in parcels, pleas for divorce, announcements of pregnancies, threats, and plans for a new life after release.
She lifted the lid of a cup and, with the precision of a seasoned knife, slit another envelope:
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 to the villain. Had you passed by, perhaps the girl you saved would have perished. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you pray, son.
Ethel leaned back. Such a letter had never appeared in her pile before. The return address read York, not far from the Cotswolds. She read on, but her tone shifted.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters into the computer. My eyesight is failing, my hands are clumsy, and I keep mixing up the keys. Ill manage. You can keep sending me manuscripts; its allowed. Ill transcribe them slowly. Dont stop writing, my boy! This year will pass, life will go on…
Ethel set the letter aside. Who could forgive every sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and God. As for her, forgiveness was long past Mum had been gone three years, and there was no one left to forgive her. She wiped her eyes, dialed the prison psychologist.
Dr. Fenton, do you have any files on Vasilyev from unit three?
Hold on a moment, let me check the click of keys sounded. Only an initial interview. Andrei Petrovich Vasilyev, born 1970, convicted under article 109, sentenced to one year. Arrived two weeks ago. Anything odd in the letters?
Nothing, just routine, Ethel replied, stumbling over her motive. Talk to Telegripov, he left his wife penniless.
Understood, Ethel.
From that day onward, Ethel waited for letters. The envelopes flew only one way. The mother of Vasilyev wrote about her daughter, now an adult living independently, sent greetings from acquaintances, and always finished with: I await you, my son. I pray for you. That line often brought tears to Ethels eyes, which she blamed on fatigue and nerves, burying the sentiment beneath household chores.
***
The November days dragged on without snow. One evening, over dinner, Ethel asked me, halfladen with wine, Nick, would you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? I put down my fork. Commit a crime on your honour?
Not on purpose. Say a bloke tries to mug you on the street would you intervene?
What, you old thing? I brushed my shoulder, halfjest. And what if we had a daughter and some thugs targeted her?
You always say Im a coward, I snapped, irritated. We have no kids, so why the fuss? Get a cat, maybe?
What does a cat have to do with this? I asked, bewildered. Im asking about a man convicted under article 109.
We have two such inmates. So what?
Are you saying chivalry is punishable? That defending the weak could land you behind bars?
Only those whose bravery ends in death get locked up, by mistake, I said, tapping my finger. Why are you suddenly interested in the criminal code? Planning to become a lawyer?
Enough, she waved a dishcloth. And Nick, imagine you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
Dont be daft, Ethel! I wont even imagine it. Go make tea, will you? I slumped onto the sofa, grabbing the remote. And stop using that antique thermos!
***
By winters end, a thin, foamlike snow finally fell on the frosthardened ground. On the kitchen table lay a reply from Vasilyevs mother. Ethel, trembling, slit the envelope and pricked her finger.
Mother, greetings! wrote the prisoner. Sorry for the long silence, I could not gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go on but what? If anyone needs my writing, its only you and me, to pass the time. Sonya wont read it anyway; dont force her. Its a burden for both of us. Dont strain your eyes on the computer its unnecessary. Just keep the letters in the box; Ill sort them when I return. Im sending two chapters, cant send more the envelope weight is limited. And its hard to write here
Inside lay a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, densely scribbled. Should she inspect them per protocol? She hesitated, then tucked the stack back into the envelope, slipped the envelope into her bag, and hoped the delay would go unnoticed. Thus the prisoner gained his first secret reader.
Ethel read the letters at night, the wind howling outside her cramped kitchen, a checkered lampshade casting a warm glow. The thermos sat within reach an excuse for a sore throat whenever I appeared, though the real ache was in her soul, stirred by the strangers words.
Vasilyevs manuscript fascinated her. He narrated his life, the mishap that led to his incarceration, and introduced a fictional hero, Peter Vernon Andrews, whose name subtly mirrored his own. The prose captured the bleakness of prison walls while simultaneously painting vivid countryside scenes that reminded Ethel of our Cotswold holidays. The language was clear, the punctuation flawless, the red pen she habitually held hovering over each line. She saw in the text a reflection of herself, a teacher once, now a censor, her finger scarred on the middle finger like a reminder of past lessons.
Can we ever return to the past? the protagonist asked, measuring the narrow space between barred window and cell door. A foolish questiondoes it matter to dwell on it? To chew over mistakes? To blame ourselves for what cannot be changed? Ethel set the page aside, pondering. If nothing can be altered, why does such a weary longing persist? Why do we cling to relics of yesterday, as if they could mend a heart bruised by the relentless march of time? She glanced at the thermos, its chipped cup, the tea long gone cold.
Weeks slipped by. Winter faded, and the first signs of spring icicles dripping like old tears appeared both in Vasilyevs narrative and in the prison corridors. New characters emerged, and the story branched like a young apple tree. One passage introduced a weary woman returning home, shedding her coat at the hall, her empty house mirroring an empty soul.
Ethel, are you home? I called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong with you? Youve not been yourself lately, I said, chewing a slice of ham. Fine, warm up dinner.
Ive felt off for years, she whispered, and I left the room, the football on TV blaring.
The idea of escape surfaced on April 20, the anniversary of my mothers death. Ethel visited the parish church, then the market, escorted by our driver, Victor. By noon we turned back toward the village, but a sudden phone call reminded Victor of a task from me. We returned to collect a heavy parcel of prison letters from the post officea routine delivery. Ethels heart raced; had they discovered her secret? The letters now arrived twice weekly. The tension built, especially when one afternoon I found a stack of sheets left on the kitchen table. What are these? I asked, eyes narrowing. Just some paperwork, she lied.
Yet the true cause of her anxiety was far simpler. While we were unloading groceries, a waft of lily of the valley brushed her cheek, the scent curling through the hallway. My shoes were off, a towel lay on the floor, and the bathroom door ajar. I emerged, adjusting my tie, and announced, Ive been called to the magistrates office; well go shortly.
My mothers fouryear anniversary, she muttered, clutching the edge of the doorway.
Ill be back tonight, I promised, kissing her cheek.
The night grew heavy, and Ethel slipped a silver hairpin from a drawer, its thin chestnut thread tangled inside. She stared at the empty space beside her, feeling as if the prison walls had become her own home a temporary hostel for the estranged, a place where the only exit was a gate.
She wondered what had kept her bound all these years: a marriage taken on in her forties, the thin hope of children that never blossomed, the distance of thousands of miles that justified her absence, the guilt over my mothers death that she felt responsible for. These defenses, once solid as cardboard, now seemed flimsy. No longer did anything hold her here.
On the day the amnesty was announced, a list of those to be released plastered the prison notice board. I, as governor, received a copy in my office. Among the names was Andrei P. Vasilyev, his sentence reduced by a third, with a release date of 11 June. The story was drawing to a close, and I sensed it.
Returning home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, I moved through the dimly lit flat we had inhabited for nine years. Shadows clung to the furniture, the room feeling like a set for a strangers life. I opened the wardrobe, the clothes inside a muted, mournful palette, each garment heavy with memories. I closed it, went to the kitchen, and set about making dinner, determined to finish the manuscript before the release.
The final letter arrived a day before his freedom.
Mum, hello! Amnestys been declared; in three days Ill be home. Ill probably read this myself, so you neednt wait for me I didnt finish it, taking the envelope with the last chapters instead.
Time was short. I had packed a suitcase the night before, stashed it under the bed: a few clothes, some books, the old thermos and mug all my belongings. My ticket back to the Cotswolds lay in my bag with the May payslip. I drafted a note for Nicholas, explaining my departure, and would leave my resignation in his hands no drama needed. He would sort the rest.
That night I could not sleep. Nicholas didnt return home; a delayed text claimed he was on urgent business in Birmingham. My fate seemed sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. My trembling hands unfolded the sheets, only to find blank pages pure white, neatly folded to fit the envelope. I flipped back to the mothers letter, found nothing of interest, and then a slip of paper fell out:
Greetings, dear reader!
I understand your confusion when the ending is just empty sheets. Perhaps you can place the dots yourself? There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow, even a single day, can change everything that follows. Can we return to the past? No. But we can return to the present if its a present worth living in, free of cardboard shields, bitter cold, and hollow dreams
I lay awake until dawn, then slipped the ring off my finger, pressed the note into a pocket, and, pretending the door was locked, slipped out into my own present.
At the gates of the prison a nondescript man in a dark coat lifted his backpack and walked toward the nearest bus stop. On the platform stood a blue postbox, its paint peeling, a spiders web across the slot. I dropped the freed letter inside. A stranger with a receding hairline watched from a distance.
Andrei and I rode the same train, ten miles apart, both in empty carriages, heading home. Freedom lay ahead, not in the past, but in the now.
Lesson: The past can be a comforting fire, but it is the present we must tend, for only there can we truly choose the shape of our lives.
