З життя
Тонка рука тягнеться до спілої полуниці через парканну сітку, а я роблю вигляд, що не бачу, поки прополюю цибулю.
На місце вільного простору в паркані прослизає тендітна ручка і тягнеться до стиглих полуниць. Я роблю вигляд, що не помічаю, продовжуючи прополювати грядку з цибулею.
— Добрий день, тітко Аня, — гукнув тоненьким голосом Лесик.
— Привіт, сонечко, — усміхаюсь я. — Іди сюди, допоможеш мені збирати полуницю.
Паркан провис, і я легко піднімаю нижню частину, дозволяючи Лесику увійти до мене в гості. За ним, важко дихаючи, пролазить великий пес Буй, який майже вдвічі більший за свого господаря. У центр полуничної грядки ставлю велику посудину. Лесик збирає найстигліші ягоди. У нього світле волосся і блакитні очі, а лопатки стирчать, мов крила. Ось чому я називаю його Ангелом. Йому п’ять років. Цікавий та добрий хлопчик.
— Лесику, чому мама зранку сварилася?
— Просто вона хотіла табуретку пофарбувати, а я фарбу пролив, — відповів Лесик. — Хотів Буйові будиночок пофарбувати, і випадково банки розлив.
— Ну, це не страшно. Зараз поп’ємо чаю, а потім купимо іншу фарбу.
Мій маленький Ангел без нагадувань миє руки і сідає за стіл. Його улюблене місце — біля вікна. З обраних страв вибирає полуницю з молоком і ще теплу ватрушку. Ватрушка посипана цукровою пудрою, і над верхньою губою у Лесика утворюються білі солодкі вуса. На килимку біля порога лежить Буй. Це для нього не вперше, він знає правила й терпляче чекає на частування. До нього йде сирник. Буй з жалем дивиться на єдиний сирничок, потім, не приховуючи розчарування, на нас із Лесиком, ніби питаючи: це все!? Я очікував більше… Ми сміємося, і я ставлю перед волохатим сусідом миску з супом. Буй нас пробачає і, не поспішаючи, береться за частування.
Через годину повертаємося з магазину з двома банками фарби: білої та зеленої. Небо синє, сонце високо, гаряче. Я заходжу переодягтись, збираю в пакет залишок полуниці та ватрушки. На ґанку будинку Лесика сидить бабуся. Вона осліпла два роки тому. Маленький Ангел дбайливо виправляє хустку на її голові, щоб усе було рівно і красиво, заправляє вибиту пасмо волосся. Ставлю бабусі на коліна чашку з полуницею, знаю — вона її любить.
На відкритій веранді разом з Лесиком фарбуємо табуретки білою фарбою, а потім з другої банки — будку Буяна. Тепер вона буде зелена. Лесик задоволений, а Буй — байдужий.
З роботи повертається Ліна, мама Ангела. Хвалить сина за виконану роботу, запрошує всіх до столу. Лесик бере бабусю за руку і веде в дім. Потім він годує її рисовою кашею, обережно і терпляче. Чай старенька п’є самостійно, з карамелькою. По хаті пересувається сама, знає, де яка дошка скрипить. Ліна працює в придорожньому кафе, за два кілометри від дому. Якщо друга зміна, повертається пізно. Уся надія на сина.
Краєм ока слідкую за Лесиком, він із задоволенням їсть кашу, присмачуючи шматком масла. Випивши кухоль солодкого чаю, зникає дивитися мультики. Дитина і вже чоловік. Або навпаки: чоловік, але ще дитина?
Замітає підлогу, може помити посуд, допомагає бабусі правильно одягтися, годує її, носить у дім дрова (по два шматочки), воду (маленьким відерцем). А ще, він любить свого пса і може іноді гірко плакати, коли мати несправедливо накричить. Він може щасливо сміятися, коли купається в річці, і бризки води піднімаються високо-високо і сяють на сонці.
Ліна проводжає мене до хвіртки. Я прошу не кричати на Лесика. Він чоловік, не принижуй його. Бережи. Знайди причину, щоб похвалити.
Ліна починає скаржитися на важке життя, на сліпу матір, на малу зарплатню.
Я відповідаю: власний дім, мама жива і поряд, є робота, сином-помічник, здорова. Умій цінувати те, що маєш, і не дивись на інших.
Ліна усміхається і махає на прощання рукою.
Мої заняття з Лесиком даром не проходять, у п’ять років він уже вільно читає бабусі «Снігову королеву». А в тихі безвітряні вечори ми ідемо з вудками на річку. Сонце — як стиглий соняшник, повільно йде в ліс, відпускаючи останні теплі промені. Підсвічені знизу хмари відливають золотом. Все навколо затихає, відпочиває від метушні і звуків. Наше спілкування з Лесиком зовсім не відлякує зацікавлену рибу, і скоро пара, блиснувши лускою, вже плескається в банці. Вечеря моєму котові забезпечена…
…Сьогодні до мене завітав Ангел. Він уже дорослий, йому 42. Поважний лікар, хірург. Кілька разів на рік відвідує могилки матері та бабусі, а потім, навантажений гостинцями, заходить у мій дім. Всі називають його Олексій Миколайович, але я-то знаю, що це Ангел! Великий, широкоплечий і дуже добрий Ангел. У будь-яку пору року він ставить на стіл кошик з полуницями, сідає на улюблене місце біля вікна і щасливо усміхається. П’є чай з теплими ватрушками, викурює на ґанку цигарку, а прощаючись, обіймає мене двома великими, теплими крилами…
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
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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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