З життя
Ти наказала Гені мене покинути. Чого ж ти тепер від мене хочеш?
“За вашим наказом Гриць мене залишив. Що ви тепер від мене хочете?” – голос Одарки тремтів від льодяного гніву, коли вона дивилася у вічі жінці, яка колись розбила її серце. Колишня свекруха, колись грізна і владна, тепер стояла перед нею – згорблена, беззахисна старенька. Десять років тому ця жінка зруйнувала її життя. А тепер просить про допомогу. Що це – доля грає свої жорстокі ігри чи шанс нарешті поставити крапку?
Одарка зайшла в темний передпокій і застигла. Шаркаючі кроки, тяжке дихання, запах старості та самотності. Двері відкрила не та Віра Петрівна, яку вона пам’ятала – статна завідувачка лікарні з холодним поглядом. Перед нею стояла незнайома старенька в застарілому халаті, ледве тримаючись за стіну. “Одарко, я боялася, що ти не прийдеш!” – голос тремтів, але Одарка впізнала його. Це була вона. Та сама. Але що з нею сталося? І чому саме зараз, після десяти років мовчання, вона покликала її?
Кухня зустріла її гулою тишею і крапаючим краном – наче метроном відраховував останні секунди перед чимось невідворотним. “Інсульт. Місяць тому. Одна не впораюсь”, – Віра Петрівна впала на стілець, її руки тремтіли. Одарка оглянула занедбану квартиру. Де Григорій? Де її ідеальний син, заради якого вона колись розчавила їхний шлюб? “В Німеччині. З Владою. Їм не до мене”, – голос свекрухи став тихішим, майже розчинився в повітрі. Одарка стиснула кулаки. Її покинули. А тепер покинули і цю жінку. Але чому серце все одно стискається від жалю?
Вчора ввечері, отримавши повідомлення від Віри Петрівни, Одарка мало не видалила його одним рухом пальця. “Приїзджай. Пробач мені”. Десять років – ні слова, ні звуку. З того дня, як Григорій, її перше кохання, сказав: “Пробач. Так буде краще”. Вона пам’ятала все: лікарняні коридори, запах хлорки, його м’яку усмішку, коли він просив підготувати перев’язувальну. Молоденька медсестра і лікар-ординатор – їхня історія могла б стати гарною казкою. Але Віра Петрівна вирішила інакше. “Зосередься на кар’єрі, Гриць. Вона не твого рівня”. І він послухав. Як завжди. А тепер Одарка стояла тут – перед жінкою, яка вкрала в неї мрію. Чи… подарувала нове життя?
“Розкажіть, що сталося”, – Одарка сіла навпроти, намагаючись не видати тремтіння в голосі. “Зранку не змогла підвестися. Права сторона відмовила. Думала, впораюсь сама, але…” – Віра Петрівна раптом замовкла. А потім додала: “Я ж не відразу зрозуміла, що наробила. Коли зруйнувала ваш шлюб, думала – роблю краще для Гриця. А тепер він у Німеччині, живе в тіні Влади. І я залишилася одна”. Одарка застигла. Що? Це визнання? Жінка, яка завжди вважала себе правою, тепер дивиться на неї з благанням і… жалем? “Я зруйнувала не тільки твоє життя, Одарко. Але й своє”. У цю мить щось клацнуло. Усе, що Одарка знала про минуле, перекинулась догори дригом. Невже той біль привів її до щастя, а Віра Петрівна сама стала жертвою своїх амбіцій?
Телефон у кишені Одарки завібрував. “Дмитро”. Її чоловік, її опора. “Любий, затримаюсь. Куплю все, цілую”. Вона усміхнулася, згадавши, як він з’явився в її житті – високий, розгублений, з букетом квітів через тиждень після випадкової зустрічі в клініці. У них дочка, друга дитина на підході. Щасливе життя, про яке вона й не мріяла після розлучення. А перед нею – старенька, яка це життя зруйнувала. І тепер просить: “Допоможи. Більше нікому”. Одарка склепила очі. Допомогти тій, яка її зрадила? Чи піти й залишити її тонути в самотності? Крапаючий кран ніби шептав: “Вирішуй. Вирішуй. Вирішуй”.
Одарка згадала ті сімейні обіди, де Віра Петрівна хвалила Владиславу. “Гриць, вона публікує третю статтю!” А потім розлучення. Григорій пішов до тієї, кого вибрала мати. Але тепер Одарка бачила: він не став щасливим. “Чужий став”, – тихо сказала Віра Петрівна. А Одарка? Вона знайшла Дмитра – чоловіка, який не живе в чиїйсь тіні, а будує їхнє спільне майбутнє. І раптом свекруха запитала: “Ти щаслива?” – “Так”, – відповіла Одарка, поклавши руку на живіт. “А я ні”, – голос Віри Петрівни здригнувся. У цю мить Одарка зрозуміла: пробачення – не для неї. Для себе.
“Давайте подивимося виписки”, – Одарка взяла папку з документами. Вона залишилась. Не з жалості – з почуття обов’язку. Медсестра в ній перемогла. Через тиждень вона привела сиділку, домовилася про медсестру для уколів. Віра Петрівна мовчала, мнучи серветку. Горда жінка, яка колись називала її “недолікованою медичкою”, тепер приймала допомогу. Але в її очах було щось ще. Не вдячність. Туга. “Гриць дзвонив. У Влади премія”, – сказала вона одного разу. “А про вас запитав?” – “Ні”. Тиша. Одарка раптом зрозуміла: цій жінці потрібно не лише догляд. Їй потрібне тепло. Але чи заслужила вона його?
Зима змінилася весною. Віра Петрівна зміцніла, почала ходити з тростиною. Одарка заходила рідше – живіт ріс, вдома чекали Дмитро та донька. Останній візит був коротким. “Гриць дзвонив. Влада знову відзначилася”, – свекруха дивилася в порожнечу. “А ви як?” – “Краще. Дякую”. Одарка пішла, залишивши її у тиші з крапаючим краном. Вдома вона переповіла все чоловікові. “Ти впевнена, що вчинила правильно?” – запитав Дмитро. “Так. Не для неї. Для себе”, – Одарка лягла поруч із ним, відчуваючи, як поворухнулася дитина. А в порожній квартирі Віра Петрівна дивилася на падаючий сніг і думала: “А що, якби я тоді вибрала інакше?” Два світи, дві долі. Один біль – і одне прощення, яке змінило все. Але чиє життя все ж було зруйновано? Її? Чи тієї, хто пішла, щоб жити далі?
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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