З життя
Ми розійшлися місяць тому. Ти точно пам’ятаєш?
“Ми розійшлися з тобою ще місяць тому. Ти нічого не забув?”
– Максиме, ти не забув, що живеш в моєму будинку останній день? – запитала його Олеся.
– Тобто як? Уже?
– Так, а чому тебе це дивує? Ми домовлялися, що до 26 травня ти вирішуєш питання з квартирою, а поки можеш пожити тут.
– Якось час швидко пролетів…
Справа в тому, що Максим і Олеся розійшлися місяць тому. Проте для її колишнього чоловіка не було зовсім де жити. Ніяк не міг знайти підходяще житло. Чи, може, не намагався? Це вже зовсім інше питання.
– Не засмічуй мені голову. Завтра ти виїжджаєш!
– Але куди?
– Не знаю. Це вже не мої проблеми.
Максим тут же схопився з крісла.
– Як так, Олеся? Ми ж сім’я.
– Ми? Та немає вже ніяких “ми”. Ми розійшлися місяць тому. Ти нічого не забув?
– Кажу ж, час летить дуже швидко.
– Ще раз… Не відволікай мене.
Насправді, Максимові справді було нікуди йти. Друзів у нього не залишилося, бо час зі багатьма розвів. А хтось виявився далеко не найприємнішою людиною.
Родичі живуть в області, а до знайомих явно не підеш ночувати. І як тепер бути? Єдина надія була переконати Олесю.
І якщо ночувати можна хоч на вокзалі, то була ще одна причина, через яку її колишній чоловік не хотів залишати квартиру.
– Ти знаєш, а я ж до останнього сподівався.
– На що?
– Що ми ще будемо разом.
Тут Олеся розсміялася, а Максима це явно зачепило.
– Хіба я сказав щось смішне?
– А хіба тобі самому не смішно?
– Мені – ні.
– А мені – так. Слухай, годі вже грати комедію і грати в дитячий сад. Зрештою, ми дорослі люди.
– Ось саме! Тому я й хочу поговорити по-дорослому. Олеся, ти зрозумій, через дурниці ми розійшлися.
Колишня дружина навіть підняла брову від здивування.
– На твою думку, постійно обманювати людину – це дурниця?
– Ні, я не це мав на увазі.
– Я зрозуміла тебе!
– Та ні ж! Ми погарячкували, таке буває. Олеся, та ми ж можемо почати все спочатку. Будь ласка!
Олеся була просто вражена таким. Тільки вона одного зрозуміти не могла – її колишній чоловік з глузду з’їхав чи йому справді жити ніде.
– Я сказала, годі мені голову морочити. Збирай свої речі. Завтра ти покидаєш цю квартиру.
Але Максим ніяк не вгамовувався. Він продовжував стояти на своєму і наводив усі нові й нові аргументи. Один з них став просто нонсенсом!
– Та як ти не розумієш, я ж вірним тобі залишився!
– Це ти на що натякаєш?
– А до того, що з моменту нашого розлучення я ні з ким і ні-ні.
Тут вже Олеся схопилася за голову. Здається, Максим справді почав з глузду з’їжджати.
– Мені-то яке до цього діло? Якщо чесно, зовсім не цікавить з ким ти там спиш!
– А мене це хвилює. Ну, не можу я, Олеся, ні з ким, окрім тебе. І з тобою зараз не можу… Бо…
Тут Олеся перебила його.
– Так, все, не продовжуй.
Вона зібралася і пішла прогулятися. Тільки б очі не бачили цього Максима.
Насправді сталося ось як. Розійтися з ним вона планувала давно. Але все відтягувала, бо якось було шкода. Все-таки прожили вони разом 5 років і важко було прийняти таке рішення.
Проте постійна брехня чоловіка не давала їй спокою. Причому він брехав стосовно роботи. Постійно вигадував, що його начальник підвищив і став він тепер на престижній посаді працювати. А насправді залишився все тим же рядовим менеджером з зарплатою 20 тисяч гривень на місяць. Це й стало останньою краплею в їхніх стосунках.
Навіщо було брехати? Непонятно!
Олеся розмірковувала протягом всього вечора. Їй не хотілося йти додому. Тому вона вирішила залишитися у подруги. Звісно ж, Максим обірвав їй весь телефон дзвінками. Але брати трубки вона не збиралася, так само як і звітувати перед ним.
– Я не розумію, Олеся. Ну, що ти за матір Тереза така?
– У якому сенсі?
– Та я про твого Макса. Сама ж винна. Ось тепер він і не хоче йти.
– Так, вже. Сама розумію, що зглупила. Ну, не виганяти ж на вулицю…
– Так завтра все одно виженеш. Чи ні?
– Вижену. Бо слово завжди тримаю.
– Шкодуєш?
– Ні, немає про що шкодувати. Я ж не дитину виганяю, а дорослого чоловіка, який сам у змозі розібратися зі своїм життям.
Наступного дня Олеся повернулася додому, але так і не побачила валізи колишнього чоловіка біля свого порога.
– Ти все ще тут?
– Олеся! Де ти була? – вигукнув Максим.
– Це тебе вже не стосується.
– Ти ночувала у чоловіка?
– Ще раз повторюю: не твоє діло! Збирай речі і вимітайся звідси!
Тут Максим мало не почав ходити навколо колишньої дружини.
– Олеся, послухай, ну, я правда так не можу. Я ж хвилювався за тебе!
– Досить! Вимітайся, я сказала.
Але на Максима здавалось не діяли її слова. Або робив вигляд, що не чує її.
– Я ж тобі вірність зберігаю, як ти не розумієш?
Олеся зрозуміла, що ця розмова безглузда і ні до чого не приведе.
– У тебе 5 хвилин. Інакше я дзвоню у поліцію.
Але Максим не повірив і Олесі довелося зробити те, що вона обіцяла. Колишнього чоловіка швидко випровадили з речами на вихід. Бо у цій квартирі він не мав частки і прописаний тут не був.
Добре, що Олесі ця житлова площа дісталася у спадок. Страшно навіть уявити що могло бути, якщо би квартира належала їм обом.
У такому разі Максим точно ніколи звідси не з’їхав би. А що, дуже зручно. У нього ж завжди був на все залізний аргумент. Він вірний колишній чоловік…
A Life Put Right: “Lydia, I forbid you from speaking to your sister or her family! They have their own life, we have ours. Did you ring Natalie again? Complain about me? I warned you—don’t blame me if anything happens,” snapped Brian, gripping my shoulder painfully. As always, I quietly retreated to the kitchen, blinking back bitter tears. No, I’d never complained to my sister about the life I shared with my husband. We just talked. We still had elderly parents; there was always something to discuss. That infuriated Brian. He despised my sister Natalie—her family enjoyed a peace and comfort that ours never had. When I married Brian, I was the happiest girl in England. Swept up in a whirlwind romance, I hadn’t given a thought to his lack of height—Brian barely reached my chin—or to his mother, who turned up at the wedding barely able to stand. I later learned she was a longtime alcoholic. Blinded by love, I ignored the warnings. But a year into our marriage, I began to question my happiness. Brian drank heavily, staggering in late and reeking of cheap whisky. Then came the string of affairs. I worked as a nurse at the local hospital. My pay was measly. Brian preferred the company of the pub over supporting his wife. I stopped dreaming of children. Instead, I doted on our pedigree cat. I wanted no child with an alcoholic for a father, even if I still loved Brian. “You’re a fool, Lydia! Look at all the men watching you while you waste yourself on that little tyrant. What do you see in him? You’re always covered in bruises from his fists. Think no one notices those black eyes under all that concealer? Leave him before he actually kills you, silly girl,” scolded my colleague and friend. Indeed, Brian often unleashed his anger in violence. Once he beat me so badly I couldn’t manage my hospital shift. Worse: he locked me in the flat and took the keys. After that, I grew to fear him. My soul shriveled; my heart raced whenever Brian turned his key in the lock. I thought he blamed me: for childlessness, for being a poor wife, for everything. So I never resisted when he lashed out. Why did I still love him? I remembered his mother’s advice, witch-like as she was: “Listen to your husband, love him with all your heart, forget your family and so-called friends. They’ll never do you any good.” So I left behind my friends, my family, and surrendered to Brian’s will. But I liked Brian’s melodramatic apologies. On his knees, kissing my feet, covering our bed with stolen rose petals from the neighbour’s garden. I soared in those moments. Of course, I knew the roses were pilfered, sold for cheap by a drinking mate to win his own wife’s forgiveness. But I forgave, too. Perhaps I’d have spent my life as Brian’s doormat, always picking up the pieces, had fate not intervened… “Let go of Brian, I’ve had a son with him. You’re barren; it’s time you stepped aside for our child’s sake,” demanded an impertinent stranger at my door. “I don’t believe you! Leave now, before things get worse!” I shouted back. Brian denied everything, but I pressed on: “Swear he’s not your son!” I knew he couldn’t. Brian was silent. I understood everything then. “Lydia, I’ve never seen you smile. Is everything alright?” asked Mr. Harrison, our hospital’s consultant, who I’d assumed barely noticed me. “Everything’s fine,” I replied shyly. “It’s wonderful, when people’s lives are in order. That’s when life is beautiful,” he said mysteriously. Mr. Harrison had once divorced his cheating wife and now lived alone, with a grown daughter. He was unremarkable: glasses, balding, short. Still, his aftershave sent a shiver through me; I found him strangely irresistible. After his kind words, I realised my life was chaos. Time was marching on, and I was running out of it to sort myself out. I left Brian and returned to my parents. Mum was astonished: “Lydia, what happened? Did he kick you out?” “No, Mum, I’ll explain later.” I was too ashamed to describe my married life. Later Brian’s mother rang, cursing and blaming me. But I had already begun to breathe again, thank goodness to Mr. Harrison. Brian raged, stalked me, threatened me. But he didn’t know I was finally free. “Brian, stop wasting your time on me—your son needs you. I’ve turned the page. Goodbye,” I told him calmly. I returned to Natalie and my parents. I became myself again—not a puppet. “Goodness, Lydia, I barely recognise you! You’re glowing, happier,” my friend exclaimed. Then Mr. Harrison proposed: “Lydia, let’s get married. I give you my word—you won’t regret it. Just call me by my first name at home; save the formal titles for work.” “But do you love me, Harrison?” “Oh, forgive me—I forget women need to hear it. I believe I do. But actions matter more.” “I do, Harrison. I know I’ll love you for certain,” I replied, overjoyed. Ten years passed. Every day, Harrison showed me his gentle devotion. No empty promises or theatrical apologies like Brian. He cared for and cherished me, always surprising me with his generosity. We never had children together—perhaps I was truly “barren.” But Harrison never blamed me, not once. “Lydia, it seems it’s our destiny to just have each other. That’s more than enough for me,” he reassured me whenever I mourned lost motherhood. Harrison’s daughter gave us our darling granddaughter, Sarah, who became the centre of our world. As for Brian, he drank himself to death before fifty. His mother still scowls at me across the market, but her anger no longer reaches me. I almost pity her. And as for us—Harrison and me? Our life is in order now. Life is wonderful.
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I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”
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