З життя
Трохи не встигнувши: Алёнка з мамою пропустили старенький трамвай.
Всього кілька кроків не встигли зробити Оксанка та її мама на трамвай. Старенький вагон дзенькнув, закрил двері та рушив зі зупинки. Тепер доведеться чекати хвилин п’ятнадцять, не менше.
– Вічно ти вовтузишся! Скільки разів я тобі казала: прийдемо з садка з прогулянки – повісь речі акуратно, взуття постав на місце, щоб потім не витрачати стільки часу на збори. І навіщо тобі знадобилось шукати свої олівці? Невже без них не впораєшся вдома?
– Мамо! Ну як ти не розумієш! Я ж вчора обіцяла Насті. А ти сама казала, що якщо пообіцяла, то треба обов’язково виконати! – Оксанка хитро примружилася, – казала ж?
– Ну… Казала. Так що тепер, на трамвай спізнюватися?! А мені в ніч на роботу. Я ще тобі плаття не випрасувала, вечерю та сніданок не приготувала. Хто це буде робити? Бабуся Ліда?
– Мамусю, ти не хвилюйся. Все вийде, тільки не треба нервувати. Бабуся Ліда так каже. Ой! Дивись, мамо! Квіточки! Як вони називаються? – на лавочці лежав маленький засохлий букетик.
– Це дзвіночки. Вони у лісі ростуть. Хтось нарвав, а потім викинув. Або забув.
– Мамусю, вони такі гарні, дзвіночки! Давай їх заберемо!
– Трохи тобі сміття… Гаразд, забирай, й ходімо, он наш трамвай підходить.
Увесь шлях до своєї зупинки, Оксанка не випускала букет з рук. Ніжки у дзвіночків були зламані, бутони зім’яті, проте для Оксанки це були найгарніші квіти. Ніжно-лілові, з тонким, ледь помітним ароматом, вони здавалися їй чимось чарівним, як з казки.
Один дядько сказав, що якщо посадити букетик у землю, то дзвіночки оживуть. А жінка з великим животом похитала головою й впевнено заявила: «Ніякої землі. Їх у воду треба. Лише у воду». А інша жінка, виходячи з трамваю, зло шепотіла: «Нісенітницею займаються, краще б гвоздики купили!». Оксанчина мама мовчки дивилася у вікно, а Оксанка нюхала квіти і шепотіла: «От приїдемо, і я вас сховаю. Хай кажуть, що хочуть!».
Оксанка з мамою мешкають на другому поверсі. А під ними – бабуся Ліда з чоловіком, якого всі шанобливо називають «Кузьма Іванович». А Оксанка його називає «дідусь Кузя». І всі до цього звикли. Бабуся Ліда з Кузьмою Івановичем не рідня Оксанці та її мамі. Вони просто сусіди.
Але стосунки у них кращі, ніж у рідних. Бабуся Ліда завжди допомагає Оксанчиній мамі по господарству, а дідусь Кузя – по дому. Якщо, наприклад, двері у шафи відвалилися або замок зламався, то дідусь легко полагодить. А якщо з пирогом допомогти, або Оксанку до садка відвести, то це вже бабуся Ліда. Самі вони, бабуся та дідусь, ніколи допомоги не просять. Вважають, що у них все є, і вони поки ще самі усе можуть. Так і живуть.
У бабусі Ліди та дідуся Кузьми під балконом росте бузок. А під бузком – таємний Оксанчин секретик. Це таке затишне містечко, про яке ніхто не повинен знати. Тільки Оксанка. По правді кажучи, дідусь Кузя теж про нього знає. І бабуся Ліда. Але вони мовчать і нікому не кажуть. Інакше, який же це секретик?
Від зупинки до дому Оксанка бігла підстрибом. Треба швидше набрати воду в пляшку та якнайшвидше посадити дзвіночки у землю. І полити. А то вони зовсім засохнуть, як сказала одна жінка з трамваю. Поки мама готувала вечерю та сніданок, а потім прасувала Оксанчине плаття для садка, Оксанка лопаткою викопала ямку під бузком, посадила туди свої дзвіночки і полила водою. Дзвіночки чомусь не оживали. «Мабуть, вони ще не прокинулись, – подумала Оксанка, – гаразд, ви поки поспіть, а я збігаю до мами, проведу її на роботу і повернусь, гаразд?».
Оксанка провела маму, повечеряла, помила за собою посуд і побігла до своїх дзвіночків. Навіть про олівці для Насті забула.
***
Сонце закотилося за горизонт. Сутінки сірим ковдром огорнули місто. Бабуся Ліда завершила свої вечірні справи і збиралась вже було за Оксанкою. Коли мама Оксанки працювала в нічну зміну, Оксанку забирали дідусь Кузя з бабусею Лідою до себе. Але тут дідусь Кузя покликав дружину на балкон, показавши пальцем, щоб та не шуміла. Дідусь махнув рукою в бік Оксанчиного секретика. Там, навприсядки, сиділа Оксанка. І плакала. Перед нею в калюжці лежали зів’ялі дзвіночки. Бабуся Ліда все зрозуміла. Вона тихенько вийшла з квартири, прокралася за бузковий кущ до Оксанки.
– Що сталося, Оксаночко?
– Бабусю Лідо! – Оксанка схлипнула, – бабусю Лідо, мої дзвіночки не хочуть оживати! Я їм вже стільки водички налляла, а вони все лежать і лежать! Бабусю Лідо, вони засохли?
– Ну що ти, моя хороша, вони просто хворіють. Усі квіти, якщо їх зірвати, хворіють.
– Я їх не зривала, бабусю Лідо. Вони на лавочці лежали. Хтось їх кинув.
– Ну, тепер що, таке буває. Ти не плач. Ми ось що з тобою зробимо. Десь у мене був чарівний порошок. Ти сиди тут, я скоро.
Бабуся Ліда пішла додому. Дістала з полиці банку з борошном, насипала борошна в сірникову коробку і повернулася до Оксанки.
– Ось, моя хороша. Зовсім трохи залишилось, але цього вистачить.
– А що це?
– Чарівний порошок для квітів. Витратила я його, але він же чарівний. Ось, дивись, – бабуся Ліда дістала щіпку борошна, посипала ним дзвіночки, примовляючи: «Чаруй баба, чаруй дід, усім на радість сто років!». Потім висипала залишки борошна навколо калюжки. – Ну, ось, Оксаночко. Тепер їм треба відпочити. А чарівний порошок свою справу зробить.
– Бабусю Лідо, він справді чарівний?
– Справді, моя хороша.
– А коли дзвіночки прокинуться?
– А от ми вранці подивимось. А зараз ходімо. Час пізній, дітям спати пора.
Оксанка зітхнула, із тривогою подивилася на свої дзвіночки та пішла з бабусею Лідою спати.
***
Оксанка вже бачила десятий сон, коли дідусь Кузя, крекчучи, витягував з балкону свій старенький велосипед.
– Кузю, ти ліхтарик поклав?
– Та поклав, звісно, що ти!
– А лопатку свою?
– Ну як без неї-то?
– Кузю, я тобі чаю налила в термос.
– Лідо, чай-то навіщо?
– Ну як! Утомишся – вип’єш.
– Не треба. Я ж не у похід.
– Ти тільки не затримуйся в лісі, я хвилюватися буду.
– Та ладно тобі! Я швидко. Плівку-то поклала?
– Поклала, Кузю, поклала. Давай, з Богом.
Дідусь обережно вивів велосипед з під’їзду, а бабуся тихо закрила за ним двері та повернулася до Оксанки.
***
Ранок. Прокинулися ранні горобці, і разом з ними Оксанка. Надівши капці, прямо в піжамці побігла вона до свого секретика. А там її чекало справжнє диво: на місці брудної калюжки ріс красивий кущик справжніх, живих дзвіночків. Оксанка обережно нюхала їх, тихенько гладила лілові голівки, щось ласкаво їм шепотіла. А з балкона за нею з усмішкою спостерігали дідусь Кузя і бабуся Ліда.
І ще невідомо, хто в ці хвилини був щасливіший – Оксанка зі своїми «ожилими» дзвіночками чи бабуся Ліда з дідусем Кузею, які подарували дитині радість…
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Never Fully Forgotten Every day, Prokhor commuted home from work—first the London Underground, then the bus, until finally arriving at his flat. The journey took over an hour each way. His car spent more time parked than driven, as morning and evening traffic in London was so dreadful that taking the tube was much quicker. About two years ago, his family life changed—he and his wife quietly separated. Their daughter, who was seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. Prokhor wasn’t one for loud arguments—he’d always disliked drama. He noticed his wife had changed for the worse; she grew irritable without reason, disappeared for hours, sometimes coming home late, always claiming she’d been with a friend. One day, Prokhor asked: “Where do you go so late? Most wives are home by this hour.” “None of your business. Those ‘normal wives’ are hens. I’m different—clever and sociable. Being home all the time suffocates me. And I’m not a country bumpkin like you. You were born that way and never changed.” “Then why did you marry a country boy?” “I chose the lesser of two evils,” she snapped, refusing to elaborate. After filing for divorce, she kicked Prokhor out of their flat, so he rented a place instead. He’d gotten used to it, wasn’t in a rush to remarry, but kept his options open. Prokhor travelled by tube, never wasting time, scrolling through his phone just like everyone else. He browsed the usual news, laughed at jokes, watched short clips—until an image made him stop and go back. He peered closer at the advert: “Folk Healer Mary—herbal remedies.” Prokhor stared into the eyes of his first love, gazing out from his mobile. An unrequited, hopeless first love—impossible to forget. He remembered the girl well from their school days. She was a bit eccentric, but beautiful. He nearly missed his stop, hurried off the train, walked home instead of waiting for a bus—he was driven by sudden nostalgia. When he got home, he left his coat in the hallway and sat on the low bench, still staring at his phone screen in the dark. He quickly scribbled down the number from the advert before his phone demanded charging. While waiting for his phone to charge, he tried to eat dinner, but had no appetite. Sitting in his lounge, old memories began to well up. Mary always stood out from day one. A quiet, modest girl with long braids and a skirt below the knee—unlike other girls. In their small village, everyone knew everyone, but nobody really knew anything about her. Mary lived with her grandparents just outside the village, in a beautiful, unusual timber house with ornate windows. As soon as Prokhor saw her, he fell for her—childishly, but seriously, or so he thought. Everything about her was unique. Mary would wear a headscarf outdoors, and had a small, hand-embroidered rucksack, which no one else owned. Instead of “Hello,” she’d say, “Good health to you,” as if from an old fairy tale. She never shouted on break, never ran in the halls; always polite, always calm. One day Mary didn’t come to school—the kids went to check on her after class, worried she might be ill. Prokhor went with them. As they turned the lane, they saw her fairy-tale house, but also a crowd—Mary’s grandmother had passed away. Mary stood, headscarf on, wiping away tears. Her grandfather stood beside her, somber and silent. The procession headed to the cemetery, and the children followed, even joining them for tea afterwards. That day stuck in Prokhor’s mind; it was the first funeral he’d ever attended. Mary returned to school after a day. Time marched on. The girls blossomed, wore makeup, competed with clothes—but Mary remained the same, upright, never painted, radiantly blushing. Boys began courting the girls, and Prokhor tried his luck with Mary. At first, she didn’t react, but at the end of Year 9, he asked: “Let me walk you home from school?” Mary looked at him seriously and quietly replied so no one else could hear: “I’m promised, Prokhor. It’s tradition.” He was disappointed, but didn’t understand the tradition, nor who “they” were. Later, he found out Mary was raised by her Old Believer grandparents—her parents had died long ago. Mary was an excellent student, never wore jewellery. Her classmates whispered behind her back, but Mary never cared and held herself with dignity. She grew more beautiful every year. By Year 10, she was striking. The boys admired her quietly, but never teased. After graduation, everyone scattered. Prokhor left for London to attend university. He knew only that Mary had married—never came home in holidays, went off to work on summer crews. Mary married her betrothed and moved to a rural area, living as a farmer’s wife, raising cattle and hay, running the household. She had a son—none of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does,” thought Prokhor, sitting in the lounge. “She heals with herbs. She’s even more beautiful now.” He barely slept that night. At work, memories wouldn’t leave him—Mary’s beauty lingered in his mind. First love really does stir the heart. It never, ever fades. For days, he wandered in a haze, until he couldn’t help himself—he messaged her. “Hi, Mary.” “Good health to you,” she replied, unchanged in this. “What’s on your mind, or is something troubling you?” “Mary, it’s Prokhor—your old classmate. Remember, we used to sit together at school. I saw you online and wanted to write.” “Yes, I remember you, Prokhor. You were the best of the boys in class.” “Mary, your phone’s here—can I call?” “You may. I’ll answer.” That evening, he rang her. They talked, caught up on each other’s lives. “I live and work in London,” he explained. “You’d better tell me about yourself, Mary. Big family? Is your husband good to you? Where are you now?” “I live in my old house—the one I walked to school from. I came back after my husband died. A bear in the woods… And Grandfather passed long ago.” “I’m so sorry, Mary, I never knew…” “That’s alright, it was years ago. I’m at peace about it now. We don’t know about each other’s lives, do we? And you’re only calling as a friend, not looking for herbs? I sometimes advise…” “Just as a friend. I don’t need herbs. I saw you online and nostalgia hit me. I miss our village—mum’s been gone for years.” They talked of this and that, remembered old classmates, and said goodbye. Then silence—work, home, and after a week, Prokhor grew lonely and called Mary again. “Hello, Mary.” “Good health, Prokhor! Missing me, or are you unwell?” “Missed you, Mary. Please don’t be cross, but may I visit you?” he asked, quietly but hopefully, his heart racing. “Come along,” she said, unexpectedly. “Come whenever you wish.” “I’ve got holiday next week,” he said, delighted. “That’s great—come! You know the address.” He sensed she was smiling. He spent the week preparing, buying gifts for Mary, anxious—wondering if she’d changed, or if she was the same. After a week, he set off from London for his childhood village. Six hours on the road, but he didn’t mind—he loved a long drive. He was surprised by the changes when he arrived—new houses, a bustling town centre. He pulled over near a shop. “Wow, I thought our village was like so many others—run down. But it’s thriving!” he said aloud, looking around. “We’re not just a village—it’s a proper borough now,” said an elderly man proudly. “Been that way a while. You mustn’t have visited in years.” “Years, mate. Years,” replied Prokhor. “We’ve got a good mayor—cares about the place. That’s why the old village has blossomed.” Mary waited for Prokhor in the garden—he’d rung her as he approached the borough. Soon, as his car turned into the lane, Mary’s heart thumped wildly. Nobody ever knew she’d secretly loved Prokhor since schooldays. She’d kept it hidden; if he hadn’t come back, it would have remained buried forever. Their reunion was joyful; they talked for hours in the gazebo. The timber house had aged, but was still warm and inviting. “Mary, I’ve come to see you for a reason,” he said, and she looked at him seriously, a little afraid. “I’m listening—what is it?” she asked, tense. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Won’t you answer my love now?” he said, at last. Mary jumped up and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Prokhor—I’ve loved you since childhood, too!” Prokhor spent his holiday with Mary, promising as he left: “I’ll sort everything at work, go remote, and return. I’m never leaving here again. I was born here—here’s where I belong!” he laughed.
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