З життя
«Як віднайдений сміттєвий бак змінив життя вимогливої вчительки»
Уявіть собі: жінка, яку все життя називали «одиницею» — худа, строга, незламна, як математична формула. Іраїда Владленівна, колишня вчителька математики, звикла до точності й порядку. Учні її боялись, колеги поважали, але ніхто не знав, що ховалося за цією прямою, як лінійка, спиною. А потім — бах! — життя викинуло її на пенсію, як непотрібний чорновик. І ось вона, самотня, у порожній квартирі, де тиша звучить гучніше, ніж дзвінок у школі. Але це тільки початок. Незабаром усе перевернеться з ніг на голову.
Рік тому її «звільнили» зі школи. Молодий учитель з блиском в очах зайняв її місце, а Іраїду відправили «відпочивати». Вона пручалася, але що можна зробити проти наказу згори? Перші дні вдома були, як кошмар: вона вставала за будильником, хапала сумку і тільки біля дверей згадувала — йти нікуди. Потроху звикла. Гуляла, читала, розбирала старі зошити. Учні заходили спочатку, але швидко забули. Колеги? Ні дзвінка, ні листівки. Іраїда залишилася одна зі своїми думками. Але самотність — це ще не найстрашніше, що на неї чекало.
Все почалося з дрібниць. Зір підводив — букви розпливалися, як крейда на мокрій дошці. Пішла у поліклініку за окулярами, а вийшла з направленням в онкодиспансер. Діагноз вразив, як грім: рак. Лікар, сухий і небагатослівний, дав їй півроку, максимум рік. Іраїда не повірила. Вона ж почувалася нормально! Щороку проходила огляди, і все було в порядку. Але онкологія, їй сказали, підступна — може рвонути за кілька місяців. Операцію робити вже пізно. Додому її відпустили з порожніми руками і важким серцем.
Страх приходив ночами. Вона лежала в темряві, слухаючи, як цокають годинники, і уявляла, як час витікає, як пісок з долоней. Дітей у неї не було — не встигли з чоловіком, а потім його не стало, розрив аорти, раптовий, як постріл. Два тижні Іраїда ридала, не їла, не хотіла жити. А потім щось клацнуло. Вона дістала з шафи сукні, які берегла «на потім», і почала вбиратися. Раз вже вмирати — то гарно. Але це був лише пролог до справжнього повороту.
Одного вечора вона потягла до смітника важкий пакет зі старими конспектами. Руки тремтіли, пакет грюкнув у бак, і раптом — жалісне скиглення. Іраїда завмерла. Хтось плакав за контейнерами. Собака? Людина? Вона обійшла огорожу і в темряві побачила клубок — хлопчик, років десяти, обіймав тремтячого пса. «Дік прив’язаний. Я не можу його покинути», — схлипнув він. Виявилося, тато хлопчика, щойно повернувшись із в’язниці, викинув собаку на вулицю. Іраїда, сама не знаючи чому, принесла ножа, перерізала мотузку і забрала обох — хлопчика Сашка і пса Діка — до себе додому.
Сашко розповів: батько ненавидить собак, а Діка купила мама. Тепер цей чоловік повернувся і поставив ультиматум — або собака, або вони з матір’ю. Сашко благав Іраїду взяти пса. Вона погодилася, але за умови: хлопчик буде приходити гуляти з Діком. Так у її життя увірвалися двоє — дитина з заплаканими очима і пес з розумним поглядом. Іраїда почала вчити Сашка математики — він виявився кмітливим, хоч і не любив цифр. А Дік став її тінню, чекав біля дверей, махав хвостом. Але тінь хвороби ще висіла над нею.
Зима принесла нові турботи. Голова хворіла, тиск скакав. Іраїда пішла в поліклініку, готова почути найгірше. Сиділа перед терапевтом, як перед суддею. Лікарка гортала карту, хмурилася, а потім спитала: «Вам робили операцію? Хімію?» Іраїда похитала головою — ні, сказали, пізно, дали півроку. Терапевтка здивувалася: «Треба ж, диво». Виявилося, онкологія зникла. Чи її й не було? Може, у диспансері переплутали аналізи? Іраїда вийшла на вулицю, відчуваючи себе дівчиною, а не старою. Дік зустрів її вдома, ніби знав, що вона повернулася до життя.
Школа покликала її назад — молодий учитель звільнився, заміни немає. Іраїда повернулася до дошки, а вдома на неї чекав Дік. Сашко з мамою поїхали в інше місто — батько, напившись, побив їх, і вони втекли до бабусі. Пес залишився з Іраїдою. Вона часто думала: не піди вона тоді до смітника, не знайди Сашка і Діка, все було б інакше. Може, вона й не дізналася б, що здорова. Життя — дивна річ: варто повірити в кінець, як воно підкидає початок. І тепер, дивлячись на Діка, на шкільні зошити, на дзвінки від Сашка, Іраїда усміхається. Може, варто перечитати цю історію ще раз — раптом у ній заховано секрет?
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The Carer for the Wife — What do you mean? — Lida thought she must have misheard. — Where am I supposed to go? Why? What for? — Oh, can we just skip the dramatics, please? — he grimaced. — What’s not clear here? There’s no one left for you to take care of. Where you go is none of my concern. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? Weren’t we planning to get married…? — That was your idea. I never said any such thing. At 32, Lida decided to turn her life around and leave her small hometown. What was left for her there? Endure her mother’s nagging? Her mother simply couldn’t stop scolding Lida about the divorce, constantly asking how she managed to “lose” her husband. Yet Vas’ka wasn’t worth a kind word—drunk and a womaniser! How did she end up marrying him all those eight years ago? Lida wasn’t at all upset about the divorce—in fact, she felt she could finally breathe again. But she argued constantly with her mum about it, and they also fought about money, which was always in short supply. So, she’d head off to the county town and land a great job there! Look at Svetka—her old school friend—she’d been married for five years to a widower. Who cares if he’s 16 years older and hardly a heartthrob, at least he has a flat and a decent income. And Lida reckoned she was just as good as Svetka! — Well, thank heavens! You’ve come to your senses! — Svetka encouraged her. — Pack your things, you can stay with us for a bit, and we’ll sort out the job situation. — Won’t your Vadim Petrovich mind? — Lida was unsure. — Don’t be silly! He does whatever I ask! Don’t worry, we’ll get by! Still, Lida didn’t want to stay long at her friend’s place. After just a couple of weeks and her first wages, she rented her own room. And just a couple of months later, she had a stroke of luck. — Why is a woman like you working in the market? — said one of her regulars, Edward Boris, with concern. Lida knew all her regulars by name by now. — It’s cold, it’s hard work—not ideal. — Gotta earn money somehow, — she shrugged, — unless you have another offer? Edward Boris wasn’t exactly a dreamboat in her eyes—twenty years older, a bit pudgy, starting to bald, and with a shrewd look in his eye. He was always particular about choosing his vegetables and paid to the penny. But he dressed well and drove a nice car—definitely not a down-and-out, not a drunk. He also had a wedding ring, so she never considered him as husband material. — You strike me as responsible, steady, and clean, — Edward Boris switched to a familiar tone, — have you ever cared for anyone who was ill? — I used to look after a neighbour, actually. She had a stroke, her children live far away, so they paid me to help. — That’s great! — he exclaimed, and then put on a somber face: — My wife, Tamara, has had a stroke too. The doctors say she has little chance of recovery. I’ve brought her home, but I haven’t got time to look after her. Will you help? I’ll pay you properly. Lida didn’t have to think long—much better to be in a warm flat changing bedpans than freezing on the market for ten hours a day serving picky customers! He even suggested she live there, so no more rent. — They’ve got three spare rooms! You could play football in there! — she delightedly told her friend. — No children either. Tamara’s mother was a real madam—even at 68, she acted half her age. She’d just remarried and was busy with her husband. No one else to care for the invalid. — Is she really that sick? — Oh yes, poor thing can’t move or speak. She won’t get better. — You almost sound happy about it, — Svetka eyed her. — Of course not, — Lida looked down, — but once Tamara’s gone, Edward Boris would be free… — Are you for real, Lida? Wishing someone dead for a flat?! — I’m not wishing anyone dead—I’m just not going to miss my chance! Easy for you to say, you’ve got it made! They had a huge fight and didn’t speak for half a year—until Lida confessed to Svetka her romance with Edward Boris. They couldn’t live without each other, but of course, he’d never leave his wife—not that type! So for now, she’d remain his lover. — So you’re shacking up with him while his wife is dying in the next room? — her friend was appalled. — Do you even see how vile that is? Or are you that blinded by his money—if he’s even got it? — Trust you to never say a kind word, — Lida retorted. They stopped talking again, but she barely felt guilty—well, perhaps just a bit. She cared for Tamara with real diligence, and since her affair with Edward Boris began, she took on all the housework too. After all, a man needs more than just a woman in his bed—he wants a good meal, crisp shirts, a clean flat. Lida thought her lover was very content, and she was enjoying her life too. She barely noticed Edward had stopped paying her for caring for his wife. Not that it mattered now—they were almost like husband and wife! He gave her money for shopping, and she managed the budget, not realising it was tight. And his job paid well enough—but never mind, once they got married it would all become clear. With time, the spark between them dulled, and Edward lingered less at home, but Lida put it down to the strain of having a sick wife. She pitied him, even though he barely spent a minute a day checking on Tamara. Even so, Lida wept when Tamara finally passed away. She’d given a year and a half of her life to that woman—you can’t get that time back. She organised the funeral too—Edward was “too grief-stricken.” He gave her the bare minimum for expenses, but she did everything properly. No one could accuse her of a thing. Even the neighbours, gossiping about her and Edward—nothing escapes them!—nodded approvingly at the funeral. His mother-in-law too seemed satisfied. So Lida never expected what Edward said next. — You understand there’s no need for your services anymore, so I’m giving you a week to move out, — he said on the tenth day after the funeral. — What do you mean? — Lida’s voice faltered. — Where should I go? Why? — Please, do we have to have this scene? — he sighed. — There’s no one left for you to care for, and where you go is none of my business. — Ed, what’s wrong with you? We were supposed to get married… — That’s your fantasy. I never said anything of the sort. Next morning, after a sleepless night, Lida tried to talk again, but he just repeated the same words and urged her to move quickly. — My fiancée wants to renovate before the wedding, — was all he said. — Fiancée? Who’s that? — None of your business. — Oh, none of my business?! Well, I’ll move out, but you’ll pay me for my work first. You were meant to pay forty grand a month. I only got paid twice. So you owe me £8,000. — You can do the sums, can’t you! — he snorted. — Don’t get carried away… — And you owe for cleaning too! I won’t nit-pick, just pay me ten grand and we’ll call it even. — Or what? You’ll go to court? There’s no contract. — I’ll tell Tamila—remember, your mother-in-law owns this flat. Edward’s face changed, but he recovered quickly. — Who’d believe you? — he huffed. — You know what? I don’t want to see you. Get out now. — You’ve got three days, darling. No ten grand, and there’ll be a scandal, — Lida replied, heading for a cheap hostel. She’d managed to save some of the housekeeping money. On the fourth day, having had no answer, Lida went back to the flat. Tamila, the mother-in-law, was there. Lida could see from Edward’s face she’d never get paid. So she told Tamila everything. — She’s making it all up! Don’t listen! — the widower protested. — Well, well, I’d heard rumours at the funeral, but I didn’t believe them — Tamila’s stare was fierce. — Now it all makes sense. And you, my dear son-in-law, don’t forget who owns this flat? Edward froze. — So, I want you out of here within the week. No—within three days. Tamila turned to leave, then paused at Lida. — And you, standing there like you expect a prize? Get out! Lida bolted from the flat, realising there’d be no money for her—not now. Back to the market again; there’d always be work there… **The Carer’s Devotion: Betrayal Behind Closed Doors in Suburban England**
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