З життя
Ранок в очікуванні свята: приїзд доньки з родиною на тижневий відпочинок.
Василь Петрович зранку був у передчутті свята. Вчора приїхала донька із сім’єю на власному автомобілі, в гості на тиждень у рідне курортне містечко. Зупинилася у брата — сина Василя Петровича. У батька однокімнатна квартира, особливо не розгорнешся. Вони колись залишили її синові, коли ще дружина була жива. Вчора донька навідалася до батька — обійнялися, вона поцілувала його в щічку, поцікавилася здоров’ям і поспішила на зустріч із подругами. А сьогодні сім’ї сина і доньки вирішили поїхати на море. Надумали виїхати на двох машинах. Попередили батька, щоб був готовий до восьмої ранку — заїдуть, заберуть. Радість від прийдешнього спілкування з дітьми та онуками хвилювала. Ще вчора він почав готуватися до поїздки — придбав гумові капці-шльопанці, нову футболку з якимось іноземним написом, шорти. Недорогі, зате нові. Розтягнувся з витратами, звичайно, але якось переживе до пенсії. Не кожен день таке свято!
Від самого ранку він навів на собі лад і сів у крісло, навпроти настінного годинника — чекати. Час тягнувся повільно. Він прислухався до шуму за вікном — чи не під’їжджає машина до під’їзду? Ожидання перервав телефонний дзвінок. Дзвонив син.
– Тату, — голос звучав винувато. — Справа така — не виходить тебе забрати — місць в машинах немає. Розумієш, забили багажники, салони, самі ледве розмістилися. Тебе посадити нікуди.
Василь Петрович мовчав, відчуваючи, як радість зникає, а на її місце приходить гірке розчарування. Проте, совладуючи з собою, він відповів:
– Нічого, синку, їдьте без мене, — і, знімаючи з сина почуття провини, додав: — я і сам думав відмовитися — відчуваю себе якось не дуже…
– От і добре! — зрадів син, не поцікавившись у батька причиною недомагання. — Тоді ми поїхали…
Так і не переодягнувшись, Василь Петрович сидів у кріслі, тупо вдивляючись у порожнечу. Роїлися в голові невеселі думки:
– От так. Колись був потрібен, було таке, що без мене не могли жодного дня. Тепер — їм не до мене. На що їм старий батько? Старі люди нікому не потрібні…
Одне добре — син і донька не забувають одне про одного. В дитинстві їм пояснив, що брат і сестра — найрідніші на світі люди. Рідніше — не буває. Навіть чоловік з дружиною — по суті абсолютно чужі одне одному люди, а інша рідня — ще далі. А брат і сестра — від одного батька і матері — одна кров, спільні предки. Добре вони це засвоїли. І в дитинстві одне одного в образу не давали, і зараз не забувають.
– Ну і нехай, — зітхнув Василь Петрович. — Чого вже ображатися? Може насправді місця не було? Не дітей же висаджувати. — Він гнав від себе думку, що міг би син зробити ще одні рейс — до місця відпочинку година їзди. Але думка поверталася, піднімаючи з дна душі осілу образу.
– Є ж причіп у сина, перевантажити на нього речі з салону — не довелося б тіснитися. І мені місце б знайшлося. Та це ж зайві проблеми — причеп причепити, вантажити в нього речі. Видно, не вартий батько цієї турботи…
Сонце за вікном припікало. Василь Петрович зачинив балконні двері, задрав щільну штору, рятуючись від денної спеки.
– Коли ж спека спаде? Хоч би дощ пройшов, усе легше стане. А на березі моря зараз добре — прохолода від води і вітерець свіжий… Може, піти на лавочку, поки там тіньок. Подихати свіжим повітрям.
Він важко підвівся, розім’яв затерплі ноги і рушив до виходу.
На лавочці вже сиділа Петрівна — сусідка з першого поверху, подруга покійної дружини Василя Петровича.
– Здрастуй, Петрівна, — привітався він. – Сидяча прогулянка?
– Привіт, Петрович, — усміхнулася сусідка. — Ти сьогодні, ніби на пляж зібрався, капелюха солом’яного тільки не вистачає. — Вона, стримуючи сміх, читала напис на новій футболці. — Ти знаєш, що тут написано?
– Та звідки? — махнув рукою той. — Зручна, легка — і добре!
– I want to make love, — прочитала вона. – Я хочу займатися коханням!
– Хто? — здивувався Василь Петрович.
– Ти! — засміялася Петрівна. — На футболці у тебе так написано!
– Тьфу ти! — обурився Петрович. — Добре хоч діти не побачили! Сховаю її кудись подалі.
Посміялися. Настрій старого трохи поліпшився.
– Давно сидиш? — поцікавився він. Не те що йому це було треба знати. Просто — зав’язати розмову.
– Вийшла Бродягу з котенятами погодувати, — кивнула вона головою в бік куща бузку. Під кущем, у тіньку, дремав старий кіт.
Мешканці під’їзду поважали кота, колись домашнього, але примхами долі став бездомним. Був він ненав’язливий, акуратний і по-доброму ставився до своїх родичів, які жили у квартирах. Нарекли його Бродягою, підгодовували. Зиму він проводив у підвалі, благо зими тут теплі. Місяць тому у нього з’явилися вихованці — два котенята, невідомо звідки взялися — може, сам знайшов сироток, а може хтось із жителів йому підкинув. Бродяга взяв на себе опіку над ними і виконував свої обов’язки дивовижно відповідально. Захищав від бродячих собак, водив на прогулянки, учив премудростям бродячого життя. За їжу брався, коли котенята відходили від мисок, ситі.
– Бродяга тут, а де котенята?
– Забрали сьогодні, — зітхнула Петрівна. — Хороші люди, з сусіднього будинку.
– А його, значить, залишили?
– Та кому він потрібний, старий? Я думала взяти його до себе, щоб пожив як людина. Та моя Матильда мені такий скандал влаштувала! Все життя зі мною прожила, улюбленою і єдиною кішкою! Хіба вона когось чужого в домі потерпить? Тиждень потім ще на мене ображалася.
– Так. — Опустив голову Василь Петрович. — Старі нікому не потрібні. — І знову його захлиснула хвиля образи. Хоча чого ображатися? Кому і гірше доводиться. Ось — старий кіт, який нікому у житті злого не зробив. Був добрим домашнім котом, дітей, напевно, любив, господарів веселив. А тепер із заздрістю дивиться на домашніх родичів, згадує своє минуле, щасливе життя. Розуміє, що нікому він не потрібний. Був потрібний кошенятам — і тих забрали.
– Бродяга, — покликав він. — Підеш до мене. Хоч і залишився нашого життя лише хвостик, але все ж краще його дожити, знаючи, що є кому про тебе подбати.
Кіт, ніби не довіряючи йому, подивився сумними очима і відвернувся. Василь Петрович обережно підняв його на руки, притиснув до себе і щось зашепотів на вухо. Тіло кота розслабилось, він притулився до старого, закрив очі і замурчав, ніби кошеня.
– От і добре, Бродяга, — шепотів Василь Петрович, погладжуючи кота, — хоча, який ти Бродяга? Ти тепер справжній домашній кіт. Пішли додому. Скучив за домом?
– Футболку забрудниш, Петрович! — покачала головою Петрівна.
– Та облиш ти, ту футболку…
У квартирі телефонував телефон. Не відпускаючи кота з рук, він натиснув кнопку відповіді.
– Тату! Тату, що сталося?! — плачучи кричала у слухавку донька. — Я дзвоню, дзвоню, а ти не відповідаєш! Я вже подумала…
– Все нормально, доню, — заспокоїв її Василь Петрович. — Вийшов на лавочку, телефон вдома залишив.
– Ми тут мало не збожеволіли! Я чоловіка за тобою послала, — все ще схлипуючи, розповідала донька. – Скоро повинен під’їхати. Ми тут на тебе чекаємо, збирайся.
– Добре, тільки футболку переодягну. Зі мною ще кіт буде. Мій, домашній! — недавньої образи на дітей ніби і не було!
– Та хоч усі коти міста! — вже сміялася донька. — Лише приїжджай, тату!
– От так, Бродяго! — Василь Петрович відключив телефон. — Нужні ми ще деяким!
Бродяга згодом підморгнув і… Посміхнувся!
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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.”
ILL REMIND YOU Miss Mary, the swirl here just isnt working. The quiet, sad words came from little Tom, a...
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A Life Back in Order – “Lada, I Forbid You From Speaking to Your Sister and Her Family!” My Husband Gave Me an Ultimatum, Enraged at My Bond With My Sister Natasha, While His Own Drinking and Cheating Tore Our Marriage Apart – But When a Stranger Turned Up With His Secret Son, I Finally Found The Strength To Break Free and Discover True Happiness with Kind-Hearted Dr. Herman Lewis
LIFE, SORTED Lydia, Im forbidding you from seeing your sister and her family again! They’ve got their life, weve got...
Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
SORROW AT THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART Youve needed a childrens home for years! Get out of our family! I...