З життя
Давно омріяна заміна мотокоси Клари Іванівни: стара вже зовсім віджила своє.
Лариса Дмитрівна давно мріяла замінити свою газонокосарку. Стара вже зовсім не годилася. І ось, нарешті, здійснилося! Привітний продавець сам завантажив яскраву коробку в її візок. Лариса Дмитрівна якось не задумалася, що доведеться самій цю коробку вивантажувати і якось запихувати в багажник.
Вона котила візок на стоянку, як раптом почула за собою приємний чоловічий голос:
— Дозвольте, я вам допоможу!
— Дякую, дуже доречно! — поправляючи зачіску, усміхнулася Лариса Дмитрівна.
Поки чоловік везти візок до її «Славути», вони встигли познайомитися. Чоловіка звали Олександром, йому нещодавно виповнилося шістдесят. Враховуючи вік Лариси Дмитрівни, а їй за місяць мало виповнитися сімдесят три — це був молодий чоловік.
— А моя жінка зірвалася та вилетіла, немов осінній вітер! — жестикулював Олександр, показуючи як це відбулося. — І тепер от, я сам-самісінький. Але працюю, так.
— Справді? А я на пенсії. А де ви працюєте? — запитала Лариса Дмитрівна, щоб підтримати розмову. Вона овдовіла майже тридцять років тому, і за цей час вже встигла побувати в стосунках, після яких вирішила, що краще їй жити самій. Ні від кого не залежиш, живеш собі для власного задоволення.
— Я-то? Працюю електриком. В керуючій компанії.
— Чудово. На такій роботі, мені здається, влаштувати особисте життя простіше простого! — підморгнула йому Лариса Дмитрівна.
— Ну що ви! Мені не абихто потрібен. Я шукаю жінку мудру, симпатичну. Як ви. Ваш телефончик я би взяв!
— Дякую, звісно, за лестощі, Олександре, але ні. Я більше на ці граблі не наступлю. Ось моя машинка. Зараз відкрию багажник.
Вона натиснула сигналку і відкрила багажник. Поки Олександр завантажував коробку, вона думала:
«А може, й справді, зважитися. Дати телефончик, але щоб без проживання. Просто проводити час разом. Чоловік, здається, не дурний. І в господарстві стало важко самотужки. На дачі постійно доводиться сусіда просити: то яблуню підрізати, то бочку на душ водрузити… А тут свій чоловік».
Немов прочитавши її думки, Олександр сказав:
— Напевно, важкувато самій? Іноді йдеш селищем, бачиш хатинку непоказну… і доріжка вся заросла. Там бабуся живе, і сама вже не може косями махати. Я, бува, допомагаю.
Лариса розгнівалась від цього порівняння. Яка така бабуся? І обкосити свої чотири сотки вона ще може.
— Добре, Олександре. Ось і допомагайте бабусям! Я ж поки, слава Богу, сама впораюся! Дякую вам за допомогу!
Вона зачинила багажник і сіла за кермо своєї маленької машини.
— Почекайте! А хто вам це все вивантажить? Коробка ж важка?! — крикнув він услід, але вона вже завела двигун і, зробивши вигляд, що не почула, з милою усмішкою помахала загадковому шанувальнику рукою.
«Все одно косарку лише на дачі вивантажувати, там сусіди — Василь чи Роман… допоможуть», — думала вона, дивлячись в дзеркало на все меншу фігуру Олександра.
Вона захотіла дістати смартфон, і тут її пробив холодний піт: сумки не було! Вона завжди клала її на пасажирське сидіння! А в сумці все: карточка, паспорт, смартфон, гаманець, ключі від квартири… Жах! Ось негідник цей Олександр! Заговорив її і вкрав сумку! Куди бігти? До поліції?! Там же мають бути камери на стоянці! Треба ж таке! Ні, ну треба ж! — Лариса Дмитрівна ледве не плакала.
Вона зупинилася й зробила глибокий вдих. «Спокійно. А то так і інфаркт можна отримати… так вдих… видих… я дістала з сумки ключі… глибокий вдих… вимкнула сигналізацію… видих. КУДИ Я ПОКЛАЛА СУМКУ??»
Олександр тужливо думав, що він нікому не потрібен. Навіть із пропозицією пари своїх рук, які, по розповідям деяких, були золотими. І тут він побачив, що червона, схожа на іграшкову, машина повертається.
«Передумала!» — подумав він.
Коли «Славута» пригальмувала біля нього, він галантно відчинив двері і був здивований, що жінка, якій він так люб’язно допоміг, була в обуренні.
— Поверніть сумку, Олександре! Інакше я змушена буду звернутися в поліцію! — накинулася на нього Лариса Дмитрівна.
— Я не розумію… — опешив чоловік.
— Вас, напевно, тут ціла банда? Один відволікає, інший тягне сумки з пасажирських сидінь! А я-то думала, ви — порядна людина!
Чоловік задумався. Мені здається, що ви, відкривши багажник, поклали сумку туди.
Лариса Дмитрівна тремтячими руками відкрила багажник. Сумка була там.
Вона схопила її, а тоді нервове напруження вилялося сльозами. Вона притулилася до чоловіка і, крізь сльози, сказала:
— Пробачте, заради Бога! Я так злякалася… Там все, все… Ох, яке полегшення!
— Буває. — усміхнувся Олександр. — Можливо, все ж зайдемо випити по чашці кави?
— Я не п’ю кави, мене від нього печія.
— Я і сам віддаю перевагу чаю. Але, може, по морозиву?
— Давайте завтра. Зустрінемося в міському парку, біля входу, о сьомій вечора. Добре?
— Прекрасно! Але, може, все ж дасте тепер свій номер? Раз я реабілітований у ваших очах?
— Може й дам. До завтра, Олександре. — помахала йому рукою Лариса Дмитрівна.
Вона їхала знайомими вулицями, настрій у неї був відмінний.
Головне, сумка знайшлася!
Наступного дня Лариса Дмитрівна довго думала, що одягти. У гардеробі було чимало вбрань, але їй хотілося виглядати особливо. Зрештою, вибрала світлу сукню в маленький квіточок, яка вдало підкреслювала її струнку фігуру, і накинула легкий жакет.
До сьомої вечора вона прибула в парк. Олександр вже чекав біля входу з невеликою коробочкою в руках.
— Доброго вечора, Ларисо Дмитрівно! Ось, це вам.
— Що це?
— Цукерки. Мені здається, ви любите шоколад.
— Дякую, вгадали, — усміхнулася вона.
Вони неспішно прогулювалися парком, розмовляючи про все на світі. Виявилося, що у них багато спільного: обоє любили дачу, природу, книги. Олександр розповідав історії з молодості, Лариса Дмитрівна згадувала кумедні випадки з життя. Вони сміялися, наче старі друзі.
У якийсь момент вони підійшли до кафе з літньою терасою. Олександр запропонував морозиво, і Лариса Дмитрівна, трохи збентежуючись, погодилася.
— Ніколи б не подумала, що отак випадково можна зустріти хорошу людину, — зізналася вона.
— Я також. Ось така доля буває.
Після морозива він проводив її додому.
— Мені дуже сподобався вечір, — сказав Олександр, трохи бентежно.
— Мені теж.
— Може, повторимо? Наприклад, у суботу?
Лариса Дмитрівна задумалася. А чому б і ні?
— Давайте. Тільки вже до мене на дачу. Перевірю, чи вмієте ви рубати дрова.
Олександр розсміявся.
— Домовилися!
Так почалася їхня дружба, а потім і щось більше. Звісно, Лариса Дмитрівна не поспішала з висновками, але відчувала, що Олександр став для неї важливою людиною. А через кілька місяців, коли вона вийшла на подвір’я дачі і побачила, як він вправно косять газон її новою косаркою, зрозуміла — вона більше не одна.
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You’re the Big Brother, So You Must Help Your Little Sister—You’ve Got Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister! Not long ago, we celebrated my sister-in-law’s birthday. Alina has never had any friendly feelings towards me, and I’ve always felt the same about her. The celebration brought together all our relatives: grandparents, nephews, and of course the birthday girl. Each relative felt obliged to congratulate my husband on his sister’s birthday, while also admiring his generosity. My husband and I graciously accepted the congratulations, but couldn’t grasp what was happening. In my hand was an envelope containing £100 as a present. I thought it was a decent gift for the occasion, though hardly a display of extraordinary generosity. Everything became clear when my mother-in-law began her birthday speech for Alina. “Mark,” she said, “it’s your sister’s birthday today. She’s still single and without a partner, so as her older brother you should look after her and guarantee her security. Now that you own two flats, you’ll give one to Alina.” The room burst into applause while I nearly fell off my chair at the cheekiness of it all. But it didn’t end there. “Brother, make sure you give me the one in the new build! So, when can I move in?” Alina pressed, and I decided it was time for some clarification. My husband and I actually have two flats. One I inherited from my grandmother; we did a bit of redecorating and now rent it out. The money from that pays the mortgage for our flat in the new building—where we actually live. My husband has no rights to the flat I inherited; I’ve always planned to pass it on to our child—my sister-in-law isn’t even in the picture. “Forget it, the rented flat is mine and the one you’re dreaming about is our home.” “Child, you’re quite mistaken. You’re my son’s wife, so all your assets are jointly owned and should be managed by your husband,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “I have no issue with you helping, but not with my assets!” I said. “Mark, do you have anything to add?” “Darling, you and I will earn more money and buy another flat. Let’s just give this one to Alina; it’s her birthday today.” “Are you serious?” I asked, astonished. “If it ever comes to that, you can give her half of our flat after we file for divorce!” “Aren’t you ashamed to speak to your husband like that? If you want a divorce, you’ll get one! Son, pack your things and come home. And you—you’re vile and greedy!” my mother-in-law snapped. After that, I left that crazy house. I wasn’t going to stick around with people who think they have the right to dispose of my property.
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Never Fully Forgotten Every day, Prokhor commuted home from work—first the London Underground, then the bus, until finally arriving at his flat. The journey took over an hour each way. His car spent more time parked than driven, as morning and evening traffic in London was so dreadful that taking the tube was much quicker. About two years ago, his family life changed—he and his wife quietly separated. Their daughter, who was seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. Prokhor wasn’t one for loud arguments—he’d always disliked drama. He noticed his wife had changed for the worse; she grew irritable without reason, disappeared for hours, sometimes coming home late, always claiming she’d been with a friend. One day, Prokhor asked: “Where do you go so late? Most wives are home by this hour.” “None of your business. Those ‘normal wives’ are hens. I’m different—clever and sociable. Being home all the time suffocates me. And I’m not a country bumpkin like you. You were born that way and never changed.” “Then why did you marry a country boy?” “I chose the lesser of two evils,” she snapped, refusing to elaborate. After filing for divorce, she kicked Prokhor out of their flat, so he rented a place instead. He’d gotten used to it, wasn’t in a rush to remarry, but kept his options open. Prokhor travelled by tube, never wasting time, scrolling through his phone just like everyone else. He browsed the usual news, laughed at jokes, watched short clips—until an image made him stop and go back. He peered closer at the advert: “Folk Healer Mary—herbal remedies.” Prokhor stared into the eyes of his first love, gazing out from his mobile. An unrequited, hopeless first love—impossible to forget. He remembered the girl well from their school days. She was a bit eccentric, but beautiful. He nearly missed his stop, hurried off the train, walked home instead of waiting for a bus—he was driven by sudden nostalgia. When he got home, he left his coat in the hallway and sat on the low bench, still staring at his phone screen in the dark. He quickly scribbled down the number from the advert before his phone demanded charging. While waiting for his phone to charge, he tried to eat dinner, but had no appetite. Sitting in his lounge, old memories began to well up. Mary always stood out from day one. A quiet, modest girl with long braids and a skirt below the knee—unlike other girls. In their small village, everyone knew everyone, but nobody really knew anything about her. Mary lived with her grandparents just outside the village, in a beautiful, unusual timber house with ornate windows. As soon as Prokhor saw her, he fell for her—childishly, but seriously, or so he thought. Everything about her was unique. Mary would wear a headscarf outdoors, and had a small, hand-embroidered rucksack, which no one else owned. Instead of “Hello,” she’d say, “Good health to you,” as if from an old fairy tale. She never shouted on break, never ran in the halls; always polite, always calm. One day Mary didn’t come to school—the kids went to check on her after class, worried she might be ill. Prokhor went with them. As they turned the lane, they saw her fairy-tale house, but also a crowd—Mary’s grandmother had passed away. Mary stood, headscarf on, wiping away tears. Her grandfather stood beside her, somber and silent. The procession headed to the cemetery, and the children followed, even joining them for tea afterwards. That day stuck in Prokhor’s mind; it was the first funeral he’d ever attended. Mary returned to school after a day. Time marched on. The girls blossomed, wore makeup, competed with clothes—but Mary remained the same, upright, never painted, radiantly blushing. Boys began courting the girls, and Prokhor tried his luck with Mary. At first, she didn’t react, but at the end of Year 9, he asked: “Let me walk you home from school?” Mary looked at him seriously and quietly replied so no one else could hear: “I’m promised, Prokhor. It’s tradition.” He was disappointed, but didn’t understand the tradition, nor who “they” were. Later, he found out Mary was raised by her Old Believer grandparents—her parents had died long ago. Mary was an excellent student, never wore jewellery. Her classmates whispered behind her back, but Mary never cared and held herself with dignity. She grew more beautiful every year. By Year 10, she was striking. The boys admired her quietly, but never teased. After graduation, everyone scattered. Prokhor left for London to attend university. He knew only that Mary had married—never came home in holidays, went off to work on summer crews. Mary married her betrothed and moved to a rural area, living as a farmer’s wife, raising cattle and hay, running the household. She had a son—none of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does,” thought Prokhor, sitting in the lounge. “She heals with herbs. She’s even more beautiful now.” He barely slept that night. At work, memories wouldn’t leave him—Mary’s beauty lingered in his mind. First love really does stir the heart. It never, ever fades. For days, he wandered in a haze, until he couldn’t help himself—he messaged her. “Hi, Mary.” “Good health to you,” she replied, unchanged in this. “What’s on your mind, or is something troubling you?” “Mary, it’s Prokhor—your old classmate. Remember, we used to sit together at school. I saw you online and wanted to write.” “Yes, I remember you, Prokhor. You were the best of the boys in class.” “Mary, your phone’s here—can I call?” “You may. I’ll answer.” That evening, he rang her. They talked, caught up on each other’s lives. “I live and work in London,” he explained. “You’d better tell me about yourself, Mary. Big family? Is your husband good to you? Where are you now?” “I live in my old house—the one I walked to school from. I came back after my husband died. A bear in the woods… And Grandfather passed long ago.” “I’m so sorry, Mary, I never knew…” “That’s alright, it was years ago. I’m at peace about it now. We don’t know about each other’s lives, do we? And you’re only calling as a friend, not looking for herbs? I sometimes advise…” “Just as a friend. I don’t need herbs. I saw you online and nostalgia hit me. I miss our village—mum’s been gone for years.” They talked of this and that, remembered old classmates, and said goodbye. Then silence—work, home, and after a week, Prokhor grew lonely and called Mary again. “Hello, Mary.” “Good health, Prokhor! Missing me, or are you unwell?” “Missed you, Mary. Please don’t be cross, but may I visit you?” he asked, quietly but hopefully, his heart racing. “Come along,” she said, unexpectedly. “Come whenever you wish.” “I’ve got holiday next week,” he said, delighted. “That’s great—come! You know the address.” He sensed she was smiling. He spent the week preparing, buying gifts for Mary, anxious—wondering if she’d changed, or if she was the same. After a week, he set off from London for his childhood village. Six hours on the road, but he didn’t mind—he loved a long drive. He was surprised by the changes when he arrived—new houses, a bustling town centre. He pulled over near a shop. “Wow, I thought our village was like so many others—run down. But it’s thriving!” he said aloud, looking around. “We’re not just a village—it’s a proper borough now,” said an elderly man proudly. “Been that way a while. You mustn’t have visited in years.” “Years, mate. Years,” replied Prokhor. “We’ve got a good mayor—cares about the place. That’s why the old village has blossomed.” Mary waited for Prokhor in the garden—he’d rung her as he approached the borough. Soon, as his car turned into the lane, Mary’s heart thumped wildly. Nobody ever knew she’d secretly loved Prokhor since schooldays. She’d kept it hidden; if he hadn’t come back, it would have remained buried forever. Their reunion was joyful; they talked for hours in the gazebo. The timber house had aged, but was still warm and inviting. “Mary, I’ve come to see you for a reason,” he said, and she looked at him seriously, a little afraid. “I’m listening—what is it?” she asked, tense. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Won’t you answer my love now?” he said, at last. Mary jumped up and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Prokhor—I’ve loved you since childhood, too!” Prokhor spent his holiday with Mary, promising as he left: “I’ll sort everything at work, go remote, and return. I’m never leaving here again. I was born here—here’s where I belong!” he laughed.
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