З життя
– Тепер у тебе з’явиться нова мама, – сказав тато урочисто, наче виступав на сцені.
— Тепер тітка Оксана буде твоєю новою мамою, — сказав тато так урочисто, наче виступав на сцені.
— Ні! Не буде! — різко вигукнула Марічка і, ледве стримуючи сльози, вибігла з-за столу.
Нова дружина і тепер господиня цього дому не встигла навіть рота відкрити, як дівчинка повернулася з портретом, знятим зі стіни:
— Ось моя мама! Інша мені не потрібна! Самі їжте свій торт.
— Повернися за стіл, — розсердився батько. — Негайно!
Але Оксана раптом голосно засміялась:
— Прекрасно! Не треба кричати на дитину. Для цієї впертої дівчинки я згодна бути тіткою Оксаною. А для тебе — виключно Оксаною Чарівницею…
— Домовилися, — усміхнувся Ігор. — І Марічка, впевнений, з часом відтане і теж тебе полюбить.
— Ніколи! — тут же пролунало з коридору. — Ніколи не полюблю.
Батько одразу встав і в гніві пішов за донькою. Вона вже встигла грюкнути дверима дитячої. Коли він увірвався, Марічка сиділа в сльозах, обіймаючи портрет:
— Ти будеш мене карати за те, що я люблю маму?
Ігор розгубився. Гнів розвіявся. Чоловік сів на ліжко і став пояснювати:
— Марічко, я розумію, що ти сумуєш за мамою. Минуло мало часу. Але і ти мене зрозумій — мені потрібно більше часу проводити на роботі. Тобі потрібна поруч жінка, яка навчить тебе різним жіночим премудростям.
— Як Василина у казках?
— Так, так, саме так! Як Василина.
— А ти хіба їх не знаєш?
— Ні, чоловікам зовсім інші премудрості потрібні. Пам’ятаєш, ти ж обіцяла мамі мене слухатися?
— Пам’ятаю, — всхлипнула Марічка.
Той день вона пам’ятала дуже добре. Мама вже довго хворіла, і вони з татом прийшли до неї в лікарню. Марічка ледве-ледве маму впізнала. Вона зовсім схудла, була дуже бліда, майже нічого не говорила, просто дивилася на Марічку, гладила її по голові і вже на прощання попросила в усьому слухатися тата.
Більше Марічка маму не бачила.
Вони стали жити з татом удвох. Він водив її у садочок, читав казки на ніч, гуляв із нею. Іноді приїжджала бабуся, мамина мама. Тоді тато працював до самої ночі, зате вихідні вони проводили разом.
А потім все змінилося.
З’явилася тітка Оксана. Вона голосно розмовляла, часто сміялася, яскраво фарбувала губи й нігті — Марічка не пам’ятала, щоб у мами були такі руки. Бабуся стала з’являтися зовсім рідко, і ось тепер тато каже, що ця тітка Оксана — її нова мама.
Усі ці думки промайнули в голові дівчинки за секунди. Вона подивилася татові в очі, побачила там сльозинку… Шумно вдихнула, витерла сльози йому й собі, та глибоко кивнула:
— Добре, тату, я буду тебе слухатися.
— І тітку Оксану?
— Я старатимусь. Слухатися, — уточнила Марічка. — А любити буду маму.
— Добре. Дякую.
Батько обійняв її і пішов у зал — до Оксани Чарівниці. Та дивилася у вікно.
Обернувшись, сказала:
— Та вже, намучимося ми з нею.
— Не думаю. Просто зачекай. Не треба лізти до неї в душу. Потрібен час, вона рано втратила маму, і, знаєш, вона вже доросла не за роками.
— Ну не знаю, не знаю. Подивимось.
Життя потекло своєю чергою.
Оксана й справді прекрасно ладнала з чоловіком, а з падчеркою вирішила не загравати: ну, не любить, що тут поробиш? Головне, щоб істерик більше не влаштовувала.
Шестирічна Марічка, на подив мачухи, беззаперечно виконувала всі її прохання, не вступала більше в суперечки, не капризувала. Але тепла між ними не з’явилося і через кілька років, хоча Оксана піклувалася про дівчинку, наряджала як ляльку, купувала іграшки й книжки. Марічка сухо говорила «дякую», однак тримала дистанцію — намагалася не торкатися, запитання ставила лише в разі крайньої потреби, всі новини розповідала татові.
Не сталося мук і в школі.
Дівчинка з першого класу стала улюбленицею вчительки — старанна, спокійна, тямуща. Її любили і однокласники. Вдома з нею теж не було жодних проблем. Вона нічого не вимагала, без протестів допомагала Оксані по господарству, спочатку по дрібницях, потім більше. І все більше подобалася своїй мачусі, яка й рада була б її обійняти, побалакати про секрети, але просто не могла подолати холодну стіну, що вони між собою збудували.
До п’ятого класу дівчинка почала називати мачуху Оксаною Петрівною, і це ще більше їх віддалило. На той час, правда, Марічка вже перестала ревнувати мачуху до мами. Їй подобалося, що Оксана Чарівниця — так її тато називав — завжди весела, життєрадісна. Подобалося, що вона смачно готує, що не свариться з Ігорем, що тато щасливий. Ну і особливо Марічка цінувала те, що вона не читає їй нотацій.
А Оксана мріяла народити сина. Лікувалася, переживала. Коли нарешті вдалося, багато місяців лежала під наглядом лікарів. Хвилювалася, звісно, як прийме братика пасербиця. Навіть запропонувала їй обрати ім’я для малюка. Марічка запропонувала назвати хлопчика Ігорем — як тата.
Коли Ігорчик з мамою опинилися вдома, дівчинка стала Оксані першою помічницею. Вона так вправно і з такою любов’ю справлялася із братом, що в мачухи стискалося серце: «Боже, як холодна я була з зовсім маленькою дівчинкою, яка втратила матір, — картала вона себе. — Ображалася на неї, навіть ігнорувала, мов сама дитина. Я ж навіть не намагалася знайти ключик до її пораненого серця. А тепер у мене могла б бути така чудова донька…».
Десь після року Ігорчик сильно захворів. Почалися безсонні ночі, Марічка допомагала мачусі як могла. Одного разу вона зайшла в кімнату і побачила, що Оксана Петрівна задрімала, сидячи в кріслі біля ліжка сина.
Малюк спав. Дівчинка доторкнулася до його чола і зрозуміла, що жар спав. Вона тихенько торкнула Оксану за лікоть:
— Ігорчику краще.
Оксана Петрівна прокинулася, встала, губами перевірила лоб малюка, а потім раптом притиснула до себе Марічку і розридалася:
— Доню, прости мене! Мені так шкода, моя дівчинко, так шкода. Прости мене, прости.
Дівчинка обійняла її у відповідь:
— Ну, перестаньте плакати, мамо. Ігорчику стало краще, тепер усе в нас буде добре.
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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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