З життя
— Ти, паразит! Негайно йди сюди!!!
— Васько! Шибенику ти, лісовий дияволе! Ану швиденько йди сюди!!!
Баба Ганя звично змітала з підлоги розбиту чашку і продовжувала вичитувати Ваську, знавши, що він до ранку завтра на очі їй не з’явиться. Раніше, коли Василь був ще молодий і дурний, він прибігав на бабині викрики. Але, отримавши декілька разів ганчіркою і віником по задку, став мудрішим. Зараз він по інтонації і силі децибелів безпомилково розпізнавав ступінь небезпеки. Коли можна з’явитися ввечері, а коли краще за день-два.
Цього разу в погоні за мишею він випадково збив зі столу забуту чашку. Минулого разу розсипав пакет з крупою, а до цього ще багато дрібних клопотів натворив. І все через шкідливих мишей. Але баба Ганя чомусь продовжувала дорікати Васьці, хоча, за великим рахунком, він був ні до чого. Він просто виконував свою роботу і старанно звітував, приносячи бабусі на подушку задушених мишей, кротів і щурів.
Зранку, прокинувшись і побачивши черговий “звіт”, баба Ганя тихенько перехрестилася і почала стару пісню:
— Васько! Шибенику! Навіщо ти мені це знову в ліжко несеш? Вижену ж тебе, чортяка!
А побачивши розбиту чашку, завелась іще більше. Але, правду кажучи, на людях господиня хвалила свого кота. Мовляв, і мишолов чудовий, і чистун, і ніжний. Василь старався не підвести і захищав невеликий бабусин урожай з великою старанністю. Інакше миші в погребі знищили б весь картоплю і моркву. Так і крупою не погордили б.
А розбитий посуд та інші негаразди Василь філософськи списував на супутні неминучі втрати.
Того вечора баба Ганя налила в блюдечко молока і довго кликала кота, але він де-небудь зник і відмовлявся виходити:
— Кис-кис-кис, Васю, шибенику. Куди ж ти зник? Молоко ж скисне. Ну й нехай…
Бабця вирішила на вечерю підсмажити собі картоплі. Відкрила кришку погреба і, стогнучи, почала спускатися вниз по сходинках. Схилившись у три загиби і примружуючись, вона дісталася до відділу з картоплею. Коли очі звикли до напівтемряви, баба Ганя побачила Ваську.
Він тяжко дихав. Права передня лапа набрякла, ставши вдвічі товщою за ліву. А поруч на картопляних клубнях лежала здоровенна мертва гадюка.
«Господи! — вигукнула баба Ганя, уявляючи, як в неї впиваються отруйні зуби. Лише від цього одразу підскочив тиск, а серце почало битись хаотично. — Васенька, рятівниче мій. Ти що, вмирати задумав? Я зараз, зараз. Потерпи. Ах ти, шибенику, як же так стається. Як же я без тебе?».
Схопивши кота, баба Ганя вибралася з погреба, схопила сумку з гаманцем і прямо в капцях побігла до сусіди.
— Пашко! Пашко! Рятуй! Терміново відвези мене в райцентр.
— Що сталося, бабцю Ганю? Що за поспіх, у такий час?
— До ветеринарки мені треба. Ваську гадюка вкусила. Відвези, благаю. Я з тобою потім розрахуюсь і за бензин, і за клопоти.
— Зараз, бабцю Ганю. Жені скажу й їдемо.
Біля ветеринарної клініки баба Ганя вийшла з машини. Постійно охкаючи і причитаючи, дістала кота, який тяжко дихав і був як ганчірка, й швиденько зайшла у приймальню.
— Дочко, — звернулась вона до чергової. — Допоможи, будь ласка. Врятуйте Васеньку, бо в мене більше нікого нема.
Короткого погляду на нещасного кота вистачило, щоб одразу поставити діагноз.
— Змія? Коли був укус?
— Сьогодні. А точно сказати не можу. Знайшла його в погребі та й одразу до вас.
— Терміново під крапельницю.
Ваську віднесли.
Приблизно через двадцять хвилин лікар вийшла у приймальну і звернулася до баби Гані:
— Давайте оформимо документи. Ви, значить, господиня? Як вас звуть?
— Ганна Степанівна. Смірнова.
— Так, як звуть кота? Скільки йому років?
— Вася, мабуть шість. Врятуйте його, будь ласка. З Васенькою і поговорити можна, і фільм подивитись, а взимку з ним тепліше. Хіба ж де ще я такого мишолова знайду? І від змії ж мене врятував.
Баба Ганя заплакала.
— Спокійно. Ми зробимо все можливе. Його доведеться лишити у нас на ніч у стаціонарі. Завтра приїжджайте, будемо знати: що і як.
— Донечко, скажіть, а дорого це?
— Не хвилюйтеся. Заплатите тільки за ліки. Я впевнена, все буде добре. Ваш кіт — богатир! Видужає.
— А вас-то як звати?
— Віра Анатоліївна.
— Дай вам Бог здоров’я, Вірочко.
В машині баба Ганя запитала Пашу:
— Пашо, ти мене завтра зранку сюди довезеш?
— Бабцю Ганю, я завтра на роботу о сьомій виїжджаю…
— Ось і я з тобою.
— Але ж клініка з дев’ятої.
— Нічого, я почекаю.
— Ну добре. Завтра під’їду.
Наступного дня Віра Анатоліївна, йдучи на роботу, побачила на лавочці біля клініки вчорашню клієнтку. Старенька бабуся з надією піднялася їй назустріч:
— Як там мій шибеник?
— Зараз подивимося.
Через півгодини баба Ганя, притискаючи до грудей кота, йшла до автобусної зупинки, гладила голову Ваську і говорила:
— Ось, Васю, Вірочка сказала, що за три дні будеш як новенький. Я тобі сметани куплю. І не магазинної, а домашньої, і ковбаси. Заслужив. Ти тільки живи довше, шибенику ти такий!
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She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. 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