З життя
Катастрофа літака в горах: не Гімалаї, але досить високо
Високо в Карпатах розбився літак. Хоч це й не Гімалаї, але достатньо високо, щоб замерзнути. Але замерзати вже нікому було. Всі загинули. Всі, окрім великої рудої собаки та маленького сірого кота. Собака була в багажному відділенні у клітці, і це, напевно, її врятувало. А кіт просто лежав на колінах свого господаря.
Після удару він вилетів з розламаного на шматки літака. Пролетівши метрів п’ятдесят, кіт упав у м’який замет. Отямившись через кілька хвилин, він похитуючись пішов до обгорілих уламків, бо там залишився його господар. Біля купи розкиданих крісел сидів великий рудий пес.
– Не йди туди, – сказав він коту. – Туди не можна. Там нікого не залишилося живим.
Кіт подивився на нього невпевнено і пішов далі. Він ще не відійшов від шоку. Тоді пес підійшов до нього, взяв його зубами за загривок і підняв, тримаючи, поки кіт не перестав махати лапами і шипіти. Потім поставив поруч із собою і сказав:
– Всі загинули, окрім нас. – Пес оглянувся довкола і здригнувся. – Скоро й ми замерзнемо чи зголодуємо, якщо тут залишимося. Треба йти.
– Куди йти? – запитав кіт. – Мені нікуди, адже мій господар тут. Я, напевно, нікуди не піду, залишуся поруч із ним. Ми прожили весь мій вік разом. Кому я тепер потрібен? Ні, я не піду.
Пес уважно вислухав, а потім знову взяв його за загривок і поніс. Він йшов вниз. Туди, де закінчувався сніг і холод, і де були люди. Пес не розумів, чому саме туди йде і звідки йому відомо напрямок. Але це не було головне зараз. Головне — не стояти на місці, а йти.
Коли лапам стало зовсім нестерпно від колючого снігу і льоду, він поставив поруч із собою кота і викопав велику нору, в якій і приліг відпочити. Кота поклав собі під живіт, щоб той не замерз.
Вранці вони продовжили шлях. Пес ніс сірого попутника всю дорогу. А той тихенько скавучав і плакав. Він ні на що не був здатен, крім як сидіти на колінах у свого люблячого господаря.
Коли вони вийшли на велику, залиту сонцем галявину, без жодного снігу, то кіт задихнувся від тепла, запахів і раптового голоду. Навколо метушилося багато людей. Вони всі були в помаранчевих куртках і касках. Всі кричали і метушилися.
– Рятувальники, – сказав пес коту. – Сиди поруч, подивимось, а потім вирішимо, що робити. Може, хтось і їсти дасть.
Високий міцний чоловік з рацією на поясі кричав у переговорний пристрій. Він вимагав точніших координат.
– Ми не можемо просто йти, куди-небудь. Ми не можемо обшукати всі гори. Вишліть ще вертольоти. Нехай шукають дим.
Пес уважно дивився на високого, худого і засмаглого від гіркого сонця чоловіка. Всі пробігали повз. Нікому не було діла до двох тварин посеред цього натовпу.
– Ей, ей! – раптом споткнувся чоловік з рацією. Він як вкопаний зупинився біля кудлатої пари. Потім присів і уважно подивився на собаку.
– Звідки ви? – спитав він, наче сподівався, що собака відповість. І вона відповіла. Пес негучно сказав: – “Гав!”- потім завив і вказав головою вгору.
– Всі тихо! – раптом страшенно голосно закричав високий чоловік.
– Ви ж з літака, так? Як же ж ви, бідолахи, сюди дісталися?!! А покажеш шлях наверх? – говорив чоловік, не зупиняючись, а потім…
Потім взяв на руки кота і пішов у великий намет, а пес пішов сам за ними. Всі рятувальники стовпилися навколо, а ті, кому не вистачило місця, залишалися зовні та обговорювали цей випадок.
За годину високий засмаглий чоловік, який виявився керівником рятувальної групи, вийшов з намету, ведучи на повідку великого рудого пса. За ними, через щілину, спостерігав кіт, який раптово закричав від страху. Він не хотів тепер втратити і цього рудого великого пса.
Чоловік і собака зупинилися і подивилися назад.
– Ну що ти кричиш? Що ж ти так кричиш? – сказав високий чоловік. – Я обіцяю, що ми повернемось. Обов’язково повернемось.
Пес обернувся і тихенько ласкаво гавкнув коту.
Той повернувся в намет і ліг на розкладну ліжко високого чоловіка. Він буде чекати.
А пес знову піднявся на висоту, ведучи рятувальників до розбитого літака. Після того, як з вершини евакуювали останнє тіло, він повернувся вниз.
У наметі їх чекав кіт, і, першою справою, кинувся на пса, почав об нього тертися.
– Ох вже ці котячі ніжності, – зніяковіло сказав пес, глянувши на чоловіка.
– Все добре, – сказав високий міцний чоловік. – Це чудово. Справжній кіт. Буде нас з тобою чекати з прогулянок і подорожей.
Пес усміхнувся своєю широкою собачою усмішкою. Тепер усе було добре.
– Бачиш! Бачиш, – говорив він коту, коли вони разом летіли на вертольоті вниз. А ти не хотів іти, а я тобі казав!
Кіт притискався до нього своєю сірою головою і тихенько муркотав.
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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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