The battered flask was an old tin one, its glass belly dulled by years of washing and its metal body scarred from countless trips to the garden tea parties of my childhood. It had survived the days when the porch, thick with the heat of July and the scent of jam, gathered every child from the hamlet, all eager for Mothers cherry pies. Mother preferred the flask over a kettle, insisting that tea brewed within kept its strength longer and never grew cold. The youngsters cared little for the reasoningthey came for the pastries.
Lily carefully unscrewed the dented lid, feeling the worn threads, and poured tea until the cup, its faded blue spot where the old hyacinth had once lived, was brimming. The cup, as old as the flask, matched the pewter spoon, its surface nicked from a nail Lily, then five, had once used to scrape away stubborn stains. Those relics from the house in Littleton formed a bridge for Lily, linking her present to a past that lay three hundred miles away and some twentyodd years behind her.
She set the box of freshly delivered letters on the table and began sorting through the envelopes until she found the one she sought. The familiar hand was that of a bureaucrat: Watson, Andrew Peter, (personal delivery). The personal delivery never happened directly; first the inspector, Miss Belgrave, had to read the contents, then the sheet would reach Andrews hands. Lily was the censor for the prisons correspondence.
The job had come to Lily after a late marriage. Her husband, Nicholas Paul Bramwell, the warden of the local gaol, was a solemn, methodical man who never quite knew how to occupy a wife who missed home. The settlement offered little besides the gaol, a small medical outpost, and the post office. The school had closed; the wardens children were taken each morning to the district centre by bus. Nicholas was offered a teaching post and a service car, but his frail health would not endure the cobbled roads. They had no children of their own. After six months without work, Lily agreed to read the inmates essaysonly they were prison pieces, not schoolwork. At first she corrected the errors out of habit, but soon she learned to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters felt intrusive, like peering through a keyhole, yet Lily grew accustomed; the monotony dulled any sense of guilt. In Watsons letters she hunted for forbidden topics, coded numbers, and, increasingly, for profanityonce banned in prison mail, now oddly permitted in literary circles. She erased some lines, forwarded others to the prison psychologist, and sent the suspicious bits to the operations department. The work became a routine that distracted her from the swirling thoughts that haunted her mind. Then, one day, a strange letter reached her desk.
That morning, after a quarrel with Nicholas over a spilled cup of coffee, she wiped the greasy spot from the stove, filled the old flask to the brim, left the car at home and walked to work. A bleak, snowfree November draped the frosthardened fields. Leaves, long dead, rustled over the frozen ground; the wind sent the few remaining branches shivering. Across the railway, a skeletal wood stared back, its branches bare of snow. The cold seeped into the bones, no matter how many layers Lily wore. She tucked the flask under her arm, knowing she would need it.
She nodded to the guard, passed the gate, climbed the echoing stairs to the second floor, unlocked the chilly office, and after a first warming sip of tea settled into the familiar routine. Among the letters she read a wifes scolding of her husband, a daughters complaint about a stepfathers stinginess, and a longdistance bride urging her bunny to wait a few more months, unaware that he had two other brides in other towns. Prison correspondence was full of inventories of contraband, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce, frantic announcements of pregnancy, threats, promises, pleas, and plans for a new life after release.
She emptied a cup, then, with the precision of a wellused penknife, slit open the next 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 scoundrel. 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, my son.
Lily leaned back; she had never seen a letter so tender. The return address read: Belford not far from Littleton. She read on, but the tone shifted.
Son, I have found your notebook and am transcribing the first chapters onto the computer. My eyesight is failing and my hands are clumsy, so I keep mixing up the keys. Ill manage. You can keep sending me the manuscript by post; that is allowed. Ill type it slowly. Dont stop, son, write! This year will pass, life will go on.
Lily set the letter aside. Who could forgive all sins, even mortal ones, but a loving mother and the Almighty? She had no mother nowshe had been dead three yearsand no one left for her to forgive. She wiped the dry tears from her eyes and dialed the prison psychologist.
Frederick, do you have anything on Watson from the third wing? she asked.
Hold on a moment, let me check, came the click of keys. Nothing beyond the initial interview. Andrew Peter Watson, born 1970, convicted under article 109, sentenced to one year. He arrived two weeks ago. Something odd in the letters? The psychologist sounded uneasy.
No, everythings fine, Lily stammered, unable to explain her sudden curiosity. Perhaps speak to Telgine, the one who left his wife penniless.
Very well, Lily Bramwell.
From that day Lily awaited letters, but the envelopes flew only one way. Watsons mother wrote to her son about Sonia an adult daughter living her own life sent greetings from friends, and shared the modest news that only old people could muster. She always closed with, I await you, my son. I pray for you. Those words often brought Lily to tears, which she blamed on fatigue and nerves, trying to drown the sentiment in household chores.
The final days of November stretched on without snow. One evening, over dinner, Lily asked her husband, halfdrunk from a full belly:
Nick, would you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? he set down his fork. Commit a crime in my honour?
Not on purpose. Say a fellow tried to assault me on the streetwould you step in?
Who needs you, old woman? he said patronisingly, patting her shoulder. What, theyd attack you?
If we had a daughter and some thugs tried her
Again with you! he snapped. We have no children, so settle down. Get a cat perhaps?
A cat? Lily snapped. Im asking about a man sentenced under article 109.
There are two of those here. So what?
Does noble conduct get punished? Is it dangerous to protect the weakcould it land you in gaol?
Only those whose bravery ends in death end up in gaol, Nicholas said, raising a finger for emphasis. By accident. Why this sudden interest in the criminal code? Are you joining a law society? Or are the guidelines missing?
Enough, Lily waved away his plates. But imagine you defended me and unintentionally killed someone.
You fool, Lily! I wont even imagine it. Go fetch the kettle, he said, flopping onto the sofa, grabbing the TV remote. And make tea in a proper pot, not that ancient flask!
By winters end a thin, foamlike snow fell on the frostbitten ground. On Lilys kitchen table lay a reply from Watsons mother. Lilys hand slipped while opening the envelope, pricking her finger.
Mother, hello, the prisoner wrote. Sorry for the long silenceI could not gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go onwhat will it be? If anyone needs my writing, its only you and meto pass the time. Sonia wont read it anyway. Dont force her to write; it burdens her as it does me. Dont strain your eyes on the computerthats unnecessary. Just put the letters in the box; Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending two chapters; the envelope cant hold more. I cant write much here
Inside lay a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, densely scribbled. Lily wondered whether she should inspect them per protocol, but she tucked the stack back into the envelope, shoved it into her bag, and hoped the delay would go unnoticed.
Thus the prisoner gained his first secret reader.
Lily read in the night, while the winter wind howled, locked in the cramped kitchen beneath a checked lampshade. The flask of tea sat nearbyan excuse, she told herself, for a sore throat when Nicholas dropped by. Yet her throat was less the problem than her soul, rattled by the unknown writers notes.
Watsons manuscript fascinated Lily. He described his life, the incident that landed him in gaol, and a protagonist named Peter Whitaker Andersona simple reshuffle of names that underscored the autobiographical tone. The heros fate was breathtaking; the authors digressions echoed a quiet awe that made Lilys pulse quicken, even in the tips of her fingers. The descriptions of the countryside were vivid, as if the writer walked beside Lily along the railway, past the forest and the scattered signal huts. When Peter recalled his own childhood, Lily was reminded of her own garden holidays, mothers tea on the veranda, and the pies. Their worlds merged, their eyes saw the same things, they admired the same scenes, and accepted the worlds flaws with a bitter smile. Watsons language was clear, and Lily sometimes forgot she was reading a prisoners letters; the handwritten pages, not bound books, kept her anchored to reality. No mistakes marred the text; a red pen hovered over each line as she read, a reminder of the past as a schoolteacher and later a lecturer. She set the pages aside, noticing a scar on her middle finger that recalled both schooldays and teaching daysan irreversible mark.
Can we return to the past? the hero asked, pacing the narrow space between his barred window and the cell door. A foolish question! Then should we even think about it? Relive mistakes? Blame ourselves for what cannot be changed?
Lily set the leaf aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be altered, why does that ache persist? Why do we cling to objects of the past, tearing at our hearts, holding reminders of lifes fleeting and irrevocable nature?
She glanced at the flask, its oncebright cup now lukewarm.
She kept folding the sheets into an envelope, returning the bundle to the general pile each morning, waiting for the next installment. Weeks passed, winter yielded to spring. First signs of the new seasonicicles dripping from the gaols eavesappeared in Watsons manuscript and then in real life. The story branched like a young apple tree. A new heroine emerged in one chapter:
She came home exhausted, stripped her coat in the hall, slipped cold feet into slippers. The house was empty, as was her soul
Lily, are you home? Nicholas called, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats happening to you? Youve seemed off lately, he said, chewing a ham sandwich. Fine, heat the dinner.
Ive not been myself for many years, Lily whispered, and Nicholas left, the television booming with a football match.
The thought of escape surfaced on the twentieth of April, the anniversary of her mothers death. Lily spent the morning at the parish church, then the market. Her driver, Victor, took her back toward the village, but midway a ringing phone reminded him of a urgent task Nicholas had left him. They turned back to collect a bundle of prison letters from the post office. Lily felt a cold knothad they discovered her secret?
Watsons letters now arrived twice a week. The novel swelled toward its climax. One day Lily left a stack on the kitchen table; Nicholas spotted them. How could she explain? What would he say?
She worried less about that than about a mundane, tearinducing detail. While Victor and Lily were loading groceries, a faint scent of lily of the valley brushed Lilys cheek. Her slippers were turned the wrong way, a towel lay on the floor, the bathroom door ajar. Nicholas emerged, freshshaven, adjusting his tie.
Theyve called me to Semibridge, he said to the driver. Well be on our way.
Youre always buzzing about work, like a bee, he said, planting a quick kiss on Lilys cheek. What are we celebrating?
My mothers fouryearanniversary, Lily managed, voice cracking.
Right, later then, he replied.
He closed the front door, and Lily, feeling the wood under her hand, moved toward the bedroom. The wide, satincovered bed stood empty, a silent monument to the years in which two strangers had shared a roof without touching. She opened the top drawer of the nightstand; among a jumble of mens odds and ends lay a shiny hairpin caught on a thin chestnut thread.
It seemed everything was as it always had beenglances exchanged in the corridor, whispered rumors among the guards, Lilys stubborn denial of gossip. Yet she felt no burning jealousy, no bitter resentment toward her husband, no lingering hope of an affair. Thinking of infidelity felt both repellent and oddly relievingthe thought gave her a reason to leave. But where to go?
Where now? she wondered, standing by the window. No one awaits me at home, yet the house, though distant, still calls. Here I am merely a guest in a public lodging for the displaced. One word: prison.
What had she clung to all these years? The title of a married woman, given to her in her forties? The blind hope of children that never bloomed? The miles separating her from where she ought to be? The guilt toward a mother she visited only on the eve of her death, inadvertently causing her demise? All these rational shields, once sturdy as cardboard, now lay in tatters. Nothing held her here any longer.
On the day the amnesty was announced, a notice on the gaol wall listed those to be freed. The list reached Lilys desk, and she read Watsons name: Andrew P. Watson, reduced by a third, to be released on the 11th of June. In a few weeks the story would close. Lily felt the ending drawing near.
She returned home with fresh chapters in an envelope, the lights off, and walked through the flat she had inhabited for nine years. The dim, twilight glow cast weary shadows on furnishings that now seemed like set pieces for a life she no longer belonged toquiet chairs, crystal glasses, low, builtin furniture. She opened the wardrobe; the evenings colours had deepened, the clothes hanging like a mournful shroud, shoulders drooping under the weight of memory. She shut the doors, went to the kitchen, and set about making dinner. She would not leave until she finished Watsons manuscript.
The final letter arrived the day before the amnesty.
Mother, hello! Amnesty has been declared; in three days Ill be home. So Ill probably read this myself. No need to meet me Lily did not finish it. She took the last chapters home.
Time was short. She had packed a suitcase the night before and hidden it under the bedjust a few clothes, a couple of books, the old flask and cup. A ticket back to Littleton lay in her purse with documents and Mays wages. She would write a note to Nicholas, explaining her departure, and leave the resignation for himno need to stir up more trouble. She needed to survive that night without being discovered. Nicholas never returned that night, sending a latehour text about a sudden assignment in Barnton. Lilys fate seemed sealed.
All that remained was to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she opened the pages, only to find blank sheets. She flipped back to Watsons mothers letter, finding nothing of interest. Amid the emptiness lay a note:
Hello, dear reader! I understand your bewilderment when the ending is just blank pages and no dots over the is. But you can place those dots yourself. There will be no epilogue. Tomorrow, even a single day, can change everything that follows. Can we go back to the past? No. But we can return to the presentif its a worthwhile present, free of cardboard shields, cold habits, and empty illusions
Lily lay awake all night. At dawn she removed her wedding ring, pressed the note into Nicholass mailbox, and, pretending the door was closed, stepped into her own present.
That same hour a nondescript man in a dark coat left the gaol gates, slung a backpack over his shoulder, and headed for the nearest bus stop. On the platform Lily spotted a roughly blue-painted postbox, its slot spiderwebbed, and slipped the liberated, blankpage letter inside. A strange, balding figure watched from a distance.
Watson and Lily travelled on the same train, ten miles apart, each in an empty carriage, heading home, free, into the present.
