З життя
Наш новий сусід поділився труднощами в пошуку дружини: чому його зацікавленість привертає переважно жінок старшого віку?
В нашому будинку з’явився новий сусід, йому 53 роки. Він жаліється, що не може знайти собі дружину, бо всі жінки, які його цікавляться, — «бабці» за сорок.
Після його переїзду рік тому я познайомилася з ним. Спочатку ми просто віталися в ліфті, потім я тримала двері в під’їзді, коли він заносив у квартиру кухонні меблі, розібрані на частини з машини. Та кухня була вжита й сильно зношена. Він сказав, що її йому віддав товариш, з гаража свого привіз, а на завтра планує перевезти диван.
Він запросив мене на чай, щоб подякувати за допомогу, але я відповіла, що моєму чоловікові це не сподобається. Більше запрошень не було. Ми часто перетинались у ліфті, він завжди був привітним і намагався пригостити мене морозивом чи яблуком, я ж чемно відмовлялась.
Цей чоловік здавався спокійним і ввічливим, з звичайною зовнішністю. Я спостерігала з вікна, як він на своєму старенькому автомобілі приїжджав і від’їжджав у різний час. Це здавалося через його специфічний графік роботи.
Пізніше ми розговорилися на лавці біля дому. Сусід вийшов покурити, а я чекала доставку товару. Під час розмови він розповів, що купив двокімнатну квартиру в іпотеку за 1,8 мільйона гривень, живе один. Він працює в сфері ремонтів квартир та офісів, оскільки звільнився з попереднього місця. Розведений, без власних дітей, але виховав двох дітей своєї колишньої дружини, які його тепер відсторонили.
Купити житло йому допомогла сестра, що живе в Києві, вона позичила гроші на початковий внесок. Але через нестабільні заробітки йому важко отримати зароблене вчасно, а іпотеку потрібно платити. Ще й на їжу потрібно залишати. Він сказав, що зараз голодний, а холодильник вимкнений.
Я помітила, що він схуд з моменту нашого останнього спілкування. В цей час прийшла моя доставка, і я зайшла додому, попросивши його зачекати. Зібравши продукти — пів курки, макарони, гречку, чай, помідори, пляшку олії, — я віднесла їх сусіду.
Радісний, він став відвертішим, і я поставила йому декілька питань: «Як ти справляєшся з виплатами іпотеки з такими заробітками?» Він відповів, що коли грошей не вистачає, дзвонить сестрі, і вона переводить потрібну суму. «А комунальні теж сестра платить?» — запитала я. «Ні, комуналка накопичується», — відповів він.
Я запитала, чому він не обрав дешевшу квартиру, адже за 1,3 млн можна було купить однокімнатну на околиці. Він пояснив, що хоче одружитися і мати дітей, тому потрібно більше місця.
Він мріє знайти господиню, яка могла б працювати і народжувати, але йому трапляються жінки «за сорок». Я здивувалася: «Жінки в сорок — це ж не бабці». Але він стояв на своєму, що йому потрібна здорова жінка до тридцяти років.
Я не стрималася і розсміялась: «Ти ж у 53-х роках сам у сестри гроші випрошуєш, та й зі мною їжу ділиться». Він відреагував обурено, піднявся з лавки і пішов, прихопивши пакунок із продуктами.
Тепер, при зустрічах у ліфті, він вітається сухо і мовчить. Знаю, він поки живе один, а сусідки виявляють інтерес до нього. Вони й не здогадуються, що шансів у них нема — адже їм кому вже під сорок, а кому й більше. А мрії, може, таки здійснюються…
Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman—a bit of a wallflower, not attractive, not blessed with a great figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be, because I believe most men are all the same—interested only in stuffing their faces and lounging on the sofa. Not that anyone’s ever proposed or asked me out, for that matter. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child—no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins, but I don’t keep in touch. Nor do I want to. I’ve lived and worked in London for 15 years, in a regular office job. Each day is work and home, work and home. I live in a standard block of flats in a typical residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical—I don’t love anyone. I don’t like children. At Christmas, I went to visit my parents in Newcastle, as I do once a year. When I got back, I decided to clean out my fridge, throwing away old frozen food—dumplings, burgers, things I’d bought and never liked. I bundled it all up in a box to toss it out. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven; I’d seen him with his mum and a baby sibling before. I even thought, “Some people—she’s gone and had another one!” The boy stared at my box. When we got out, he quietly followed me to the bins and asked in a timid voice if he could have the food. I warned it was old, but let him take it—none of it was rotten, after all. As I turned to leave, I watched him gently pick up the packets, close them up, and clutch them to his chest. I asked where his mum was. He told me she and his sister were ill—couldn’t get out of bed. I went back home and started cooking dinner, but couldn’t get that boy out of my mind. I’m not usually inclined to help, but something nudged me. I grabbed what I had in the kitchen: sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even some meat from the freezer. I realised I hadn’t a clue what floor their flat was on, but knew it was above mine, so I worked my way up, floor by floor. I got lucky; after two flights, the boy opened the door. He hesitated, but let me in. The flat was poor but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to her youngest, a bowl of water and cloths on the table. High fever, trying to cool her daughter down. The medicine they had was long out-of-date. I felt her mum’s forehead—hot as a stove. She woke and stared at me in confusion, then suddenly sat up, asking where her son was. I explained I was a neighbour and quickly got the details before calling for a paramedic. While we waited, I gave her tea and sausage—she wolfed it down, must have been starving. Barely able to feed herself, yet still breastfeeding her baby. The ambulance came, checked them over, wrote out a long list of medicines and injections needed for the little girl. I went out, picked up everything from the pharmacy and groceries for them, plus—on a whim—a ridiculous neon yellow monkey toy. I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name’s Anna, she’s 26. She grew up in Manchester’s outskirts. Her mum and gran were Londoners, but her mum married a local and moved up there to work in a factory. Anna’s dad died in an accident at work. Her mum was left alone, jobless, and quickly spiralled into trouble. By the time Anna was three, neighbours contacted her granny in London, who took her in. When Anna was 15, her gran told her the truth—her mother died of tuberculosis. The gran hardly spoke, was miserly, and chain-smoked. At 16, Anna took a job at the nearest shop, first as a shelf-stacker, then at the till. Her gran died a year later. At 18, Anna dated a boy who promised everything but disappeared as soon as she became pregnant. She kept working, saving up, knowing there was no one to help. When her son was a month old, she’d started leaving him on his own so she could clean stairways and make ends meet. As for her daughter—the shop owner she went back to, when her son was older, raped her repeatedly and threatened to have her fired so she could never work again. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back. Anna told me all this that night—thanked me, said she’d repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her, said goodnight, and left. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking, “Why do I live like this? Why am I so cold? I don’t care for anyone, not even my own parents. I have all this money saved with no one to spend it on, and here’s a little family with nothing—not even enough to get well.” The next morning, the little boy, Anton, brought me a plate of homemade pancakes and dashed off. I stood there, plate in hand, feeling warmth coming from the food, spreading through me as if I were thawing out. 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DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
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