The thermos is old, Chinesemade, with its swollen glass inner tube and a surface dulled by years of washing. It survived from the days of garden tea parties when, under a sunheavy porch scented with jam, the whole neighbourhood of children gathered to hear about mums cherry scones. Why a thermos and not a teapot? Mum believes tea stays hotter and cooler longer in a thermos. The kids dont care they come for the scones.
Lily Harper carefully unscrews the dented tin lid, feeling the worn threads, and pours tea until the cup, once streaked with blue from a faded hyacinth pattern, fills to the brim. The cup, as old as the thermos, and the pewter spoon scarred by a nail Lily once used to scrape away stubborn tea stains, are the little bridges that link her to the house in Ashford. Ashford lies about three hundred miles from her childhood, a stretch of memory that feels like a century.
Lily pulls the box of fresh letters that the guard has left on her desk and flips through the envelopes until she finds the one she needs. The familiar hand writes: To Andrew Vasil, (handdelivered). Handdelivered never happens first the prison inspector must read the contents, then the sheet reaches Andrews hands. Lily is the censor of prison correspondence.
She took up this rare job after a late marriage. Her husband, Nicholas Bennett, the prison governor, is a serious, steady man who never knows how to occupy a wife who misses home. The settlement has only the prison, a small medical outpost and the post office. The school closed; the children of staff are bussed to the county centre. Nicholas is offered a teaching post and a service car, but his health wont let him endure daily bumps. They have no children of their own. After six months of unemployment, Lily agrees to read essays not school essays, but inmates letters. At first she corrects mistakes out of habit, then she learns to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters feels intrusive, like peeking through a keyhole, but the routine dulls any guilt. In the letters she looks for forbidden topics, coded words and numbers, illicit plans, and, more recently, profanity which the prison bans even as literature relaxes its standards. Some she destroys, some she passes to the prison psychologist, some she flags for the security unit. The job becomes a distraction from the swirl of unwanted thoughts. Then one strange letter lands on her desk.
On that morning, after an argument with Nick about the missing coffee, Lily wipes the greasy spot from the stove, fills the old thermos to the brim and, abandoning the car, walks to work.
Grey, snowfree November drifts dry leaves across the frozen ground. The few survivors shiver on the wind, waiting for their fate. Across the railway the bare trees stand stark in a snowless forest. Everything is cold. Lily knows that no matter how she dresses she will freeze thats the climate. She carries the thermos with her.
She nods to the guard, passes the gate, climbs the echoing stair to the second floor, unlocks the nightchilled office and, after the first warming sip of tea, dives into her familiar routine. One letter has a prisoners wife scolding him for hiding money; another has a stepdaughter complaining about her stepfathers greed; a third features a longdistance bride urging her bunny to wait a few more months, unaware that he already has two other brides in different towns. The prison letters are full of inventories of contraband, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce and remarriage, pregnancy news, threats, promises, pleas and plans for a new life after release.
Finishing a cup, Lily uses the practiced motion of a seasoned cutter to slit the next envelope:
Dear Andy! My dear son! I love you and am proud of you! writes an unknown mother. Know that you acted like a true man. Your father would have done the same. We are all in fates hands your strength was fatal to the villain. If you had walked away, perhaps that girl you saved would have died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you, pray, my son.
Lily leans back; she has never seen a letter like this. The return address reads Bramley, not far from Ashford. She continues reading, but the tone differs from the usual.
Son, I have found your notebook and am typing the first chapters into the computer. My eyesight is poor and my hands tremble, so the keys confuse me, but Ill manage. You can keep sending me the manuscript by post thats allowed and Ill type it slowly. Dont stop writing! This year will pass, life will go on.
Lily puts the letter down. Who can forgive every sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and God. No one can forgive her now her mother has been gone three years. She wipes her dry eyes and dials the prison psychologist.
Dr. Fenton, do you have anything on Andrew Vasil from the third wing? she asks.
Give me a moment, a click of keys answers. Nothing beyond the initial interview. Andrew Vasil, born 1970, convicted under article 109, sentenced to one year. He arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters? the psychologist asks, concern in his voice.
No, no, everythings fine, Lily stammers, unable to explain her sudden curiosity. Maybe you should talk to the other inmate, the one whose wife left without money.
Will do, Lily.
From that day Lily waits for new letters. The envelopes always travel one way. Andrews mother writes to her son about Sonia an adult daughter living her own life passing greetings from friends, sharing simple oldpeople news, and always ending: Im waiting for you, my son. I pray for you. That simple line often brings Nick to tears. Lily chalks it up to fatigue and nerves, keeping herself busy with household chores.
The last days of November stretch on without snow. During dinner Lily asks her slightly tipsy husband:
Nick, could you go to jail for me?
What do you mean? he pauses, fork in hand. Commit a crime in my honour?
Not on purpose. Say, if someone attacks me on the street, would you protect me?
Who needs you, old lady? he pats her shoulder condescendingly. What do you mean attack? he asks, suddenly serious.
If we had a daughter and some thugs tried her
Again with your drama! Nick snaps. No kids, calm down. Get a cat perhaps?
A cat? Im not talking about a pet! Lily snaps. Imagine a man convicted under article 109.
Weve got two of those in the prison. So what?
So noble acts are punishable? Does protecting the weak land you in prison?
Only those whose noble deeds end in death end up behind bars, Nick says, tapping his finger. Whats got you interested in the criminal code? Lawyers club? Missing instructions?
Enough, Lily waves plates away. But seriously, Nick, picture you defending me and accidentally killing someone.
Youre foolish, Lily! I wont even imagine it. Go make the tea, he says, flopping onto the sofa, remote in hand. And use a proper kettle, not that ancient thermos!
By the end of winter a thin, foamlike snow blankets the frozen ground. On the kitchen table a reply from Andrews mother arrives. Lilys finger slips on the envelope and she cuts it, nicking her finger.
Mum, hello, the prisoner writes. Sorry for the long silence I couldnt collect my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go on but what will it be? If anyone needs my writing, its only you and me to pass the time. Sonia wont read it anyway. Dont force her to write; it burdens her as much as it burdens me. Dont strain your eyes on the computer thats unnecessary. 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 wont let me write more.
Inside the envelope is a stack of thin, almost transparent sheets, densely written. Lily wonders whether she must check them against protocol. She doesnt ask, she doesnt read them in the official office; she tucks the stack back into the envelope, slips it into her bag, and hopes the delay goes unnoticed.
Thus Andrew gains his first secret reader.
She reads at night, the wind howling outside her cramped kitchen under a checkered lampshade. The thermos of tea sits ready in case Nick appears a handy excuse for a sore throat. Her throat hurts, but her soul aches more, rattled by the strangers notes.
Andrews manuscript grips Lily. He tells his life story, including the incident that landed him in prison. The protagonist, Peter Andrews, mirrors the authors own name, enhancing the autobiographical feel. The narratives rhythm makes Lilys pulse quicken, the descriptions of nature vivid as if the author walks beside her along the railway, past the forest and the crooked signal huts. When Peter drifts back to his childhood, Lily remembers her own garden holidays, the porch tea, the scones. Their world is viewed through the same eyes, appreciating it despite its flaws. Andrews language is clear and pure; Lily sometimes forgets she reads a prisoners letters, and the handwritten pages, not bound books, bring her back to reality. No errors appear; the red pen she habitually holds hovers over each line. Lily sets the page aside, noticing a scar on her middle finger that reminds her of school days and later teaching.
Can we go back in time? Peter asks, pacing between the barred window and his cell door. Stupid question. Does it even matter to think about it? To chew over mistakes? To blame ourselves for things we cant change? Lily pauses, reflecting with him. If nothing can be changed, where does that exhausting melancholy come from? Why do we cling to objects from the past, tearing at our hearts, keeping a reminder of lifes fleeting and irreversible nature? she wonders, glancing at the thermos and the faded cup of cold tea.
She finishes the chapters, folds the sheets back into the envelope, and returns the letter to the pile of inspected correspondence, awaiting the next installment. Weeks pass; winter fades. The first signs of spring weeping icicles on the prison walls appear first in Andrews manuscript, then in Lilys reality. The story sprouts new characters like a young apple tree. One chapter introduces a new heroine.
She comes home exhausted, drops her coat in the hall, shuffles her frozen feet into slippers. The house is empty, as is her soul
Nick calls from the kitchen, breaking the silence, Lily, are you home?
Yes, she replies.
Whats wrong? Youve seemed off lately, he says, chewing a sausage sandwich. Fine, heat the dinner.
Ive not been myself for years, Lily says softly, and Nick walks away. The roar of a football match filters from the living room.
On the twentieth of April, the anniversary of her mothers death, Lily spends the morning at the town centre first the church, then the market. Her driver, Victor, takes her back. Near noon they return, but a sudden phone call reminds Victor of a task from Nick. They turn back to collect a heavy parcel of prison letters from the post office. Lilys stomach tightens have they discovered her secret?
Andrews letters now come twice a week. The story builds toward a climax. One day Lily leaves a stack on the kitchen table. Nick spots them. How will she explain?
She worries less about that and more about the simple, tearjerking moment that follows. While putting groceries away, a whiff of lily of the valley brushes her cheek. Her slippers are turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. Nick appears, buttoning a civilian suit, and says, Theyve called me to the SevenBrothers case. Well be leaving soon. He kisses her cheek, Dont worry, Ill be back tonight. Lily mutters, Mom would be four now, and he replies, Alright, see you later.
She walks to the bedroom, pulls open the top drawer of the nightstand, and finds a shining hair clasp tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
Everything seems as it has always been the sideways glances of the guards, the whispered rumors, Lily Bennett refusing to notice them, pretending to rise above prison gossip. She feels no bitter anger toward Nick, no jealousy, no resentment. Thinking of an affair feels both repulsive and oddly relieving; now she finally has a reason to leave. But where to go?
Where now? she wonders, looking out the window. Home isnt waiting, but the house, though far, still calls. Here Im just a temporary shelter for the estranged, cut off from the world basically a prison.
She weighs all the reasons that have held her: her marriage, the hope of children, the distance of miles that excuse her absence, the guilt toward a mother she visited only a day before she died. All those shields crumble, leaving her free.
On the day the amnesty board posts the list of those to be released, the names are sent to every department, including Lilys office. She spots Andrew V. on the list; his sentence is reduced by a third, his release set for 11 June. In a few weeks the story will end. Lily feels the conclusion approaching.
She returns home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, walks through the dim apartment she has lived in nine years, the faint light casting tired shadows on furniture that now looks like a set for someone elses life. She opens the wardrobe, sees the clothing draped like a mournful shroud, and, after a moments hesitation, shuts it and heads to the kitchen to make dinner. She will not leave until she finishes Andrews manuscript.
The final letter arrives a day before his release.
Mum, theyve announced amnesty, Ill be home in three days. Ill probably get this letter myself. No need to meet me, the note reads. Lily does not finish it. She grabs the last chapters, packs the suitcase she hid under the bed the night before a few clothes, a couple of books, the old thermos and cup and slips the train ticket to Ashford into her bag with her May payslip. She decides to leave a note for Nick, and the resignation will be his to read. She must survive the night without being discovered. Nick never returns, sending a belated text about an urgent assignment in Barrow. Lilys fate is sealed.
She only needs to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she opens the sheets, but they are blank plain white paper folded to the size of the envelope. She flips back to Andrews mothers letter, finds nothing new, and then a short note falls out:
Hello, my dear reader! I understand your confusion when the ending is just empty pages. You can place the dots yourself. There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow may be the one day that changes 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, familiar cold, or empty illusions
Lily does not sleep the whole night. At dawn she removes her wedding ring, presses the note to Nicks file with a key, pretends to lock the door and steps into her own present.
At the same moment a nondescript man in a dark coat leaves the prison gate, slinging a backpack over his shoulder and heading for the nearest bus stop.
On the platform Lily spots a blue postbox, paint peeling, spiderwebbed at the slot, and drops the freedofblankpages letter inside. A strange, balding figure watches from a distance.
Andrew and Lily travel on the same train, ten kilometres apart, each in an empty carriage. They are heading home. Freedom. The present.
