З життя
Вони ледь не встигли на трамвай, тепер доведеться зачекати.
Всього півтора кроки не встигли зробити Оленка і її мама до трамваю. Старий вагон деренчав-звякнул і від’їхав від зупинки. Тепер чекати хвилин п’ятнадцять, не менше.
– Знову ти копирсаєшся! Скільки разів я тобі говорила: прийшли з прогулянки – повісь речі акуратно, взуття на місце постав, щоб потім не витрачати стільки часу на збори. І чому тобі треба було шукати свої крейди? Невже без них вдома не можна обійтися?
– Мамо! Ну як ти не розумієш! Я ж вчора Насті обіцяла. А ти ж сама казала, що коли обіцяєш, то обов’язково треба виконати! – Оленка хитро примружилася, – казала ж?
– Ну… Казала. Так що тепер, на трамвай запізнюватися?! А мені на ніч на роботу. А я ще тобі сукню не попрасувала, вечерю і сніданок не приготувала. Хто це буде робити? Бабуся Ліда?
– Мамо, ти не переймайся. Все вийде, тільки не нервуй. Бабуся Ліда так каже. Ой! Дивись, мамо! Квіточки! Як вони називаються? – на лавці лежав маленький зів’ялий букетик.
– Це дзвіночки. Вони в лісі ростуть. Хтось нарвав, а потім викинув. Або забув.
– Мамо, вони такі красиві, дзвіночки! Давай їх заберемо!
– Мало тобі сміття… Ну добре, забирай, і пішли, он наш трамвай під’їжджає.
Усю дорогу, до самої своєї зупинки, Оленка не випускала букет із рук. Ніжки у дзвіночків були зламані, бутони зім’яті, але для Оленки це були найкрасивіші квіти. Ніжно-бузкові, з тонким, ледь помітним ароматом, вони здавалися їй чимось чарівним, як із казки.
Один дядечко сказав, що якщо посадити букетик у землю, то дзвіночки оживуть. А тітонька з великим животом похитала головою і впевнено заявила: «Жодної землі. Їх треба у воду. Лише в воду». А інша тітонька, виходячи з трамваю, злобно прошипіла: «Дурницями займаються, краще б гвоздики купили!». Мама Оленки мовчки дивилася у вікно, а Оленка нюхала квіти і шепотіла: «От приїдемо, і я вас сховаю. Нехай тоді говорять, що завгодно!».
Оленка з мамою живуть на другому поверсі. А під ними – бабуся Ліда з чоловіком, якого всі шанобливо називають «Кузьма Григорович». А Оленка його називає «дідо Кузя». І всі до цього звикли. Бабуся Ліда з Кузьмою Григоровичем не рідні Оленці і її мамі. Вони просто сусіди.
Але стосунки у них кращі, ніж у рідних. Бабуся Ліда завжди допомагає мамі Оленки по господарству. А дід Кузя – по дому. Якщо, наприклад, дверцята шафи відвалилися або замок поламався, то дід легко полагодить. А якщо пирогом допомогти, або Оленку в садочок відвести, то це вже бабуся Ліда. Вони самі, бабуся й дід, ніколи не просять допомоги. Вважають, що у них все є, і вони поки самі з усім можуть впоратися. Так і живуть.
У бабусі Ліди і діда Кузьми під балконом росте бузок. А під бузком – таємничий Оленчин секретик. Це таке затишне місце, про яке ніхто не повинен знати. Тільки Оленка. Чесно кажучи, дід Кузя теж про нього знає. І бабуся Ліда. Але вони мовчать і нікому не кажуть. Інакше, який же це секретик?
Від зупинки додому Оленка бігла стрибаючи. Треба якомога швидше набрати води в пляшку і дуже швидко посадити дзвіночки в землю. І полити. А то вони зовсім загинуть, як сказала одна тітка з трамвая. Поки мама готувала вечерю і сніданок, а потім прасувала праскою Оленчину сукню для садочка, Оленка совком викопала ямку під бузком, посадила туди свої дзвіночки і полила водою. Дзвіночки чомусь не оживали. «Мабуть, вони ще не прокинулися, – подумала Оленка, – добре, ви поки поспіть, а я збігаю до мами, проведу її на роботу і повернуся, добре?».
Оленка провела маму, повечеряла, помила за собою посуд і побігла до своїх дзвіночків. Навіть про крейди для Насті забула.
***
Сонце зайшло за горизонт. Сутінки сірим покривалом обійняли місто. Бабуся Ліда закінчила свої вечірні справи і зібралася вже було за Оленкою. Коли мама Оленки працювала в нічну зміну, Оленку забирали дід Кузя з бабусею Лідою до себе. Але тут дід Кузя покликав дружину на балкон, показуючи пальцем, щоб та не шуміла. Дід махнув рукою в бік Оленчиного секретика. Там, навпочіпки, сиділа Оленка. І плакала. Перед нею в калюжі лежали зав’ялі дзвіночки. Бабуся Ліда все зрозуміла. Вона тихенько вийшла з квартири, крадучись пробралася за бузковий кущ до Оленки.
– Що трапилося, Оленочко?
– Бабусю Лідо! – Оленка вискнула, – бабусю Лідо, мої дзвіночки не хочуть оживати! Я їм вже стільки водички налила, а вони все лежать і лежать! Бабусю Лідо, вони вмерли?
– Ну що ти, моя хороша, вони просто хворіють. Усі квіти, якщо їх зірвати, хворіють.
– Я їх не зривала, бабусю Лідо. Вони на лавці лежали. Хтось їх кинув.
– Ну, що тепер, і таке буває. Ти не плач. Ми ось що з тобою зробимо. Десь у мене чарівний порошок був. Ти посидь тут, я незабаром.
Бабуся Ліда пішла додому. Дістала з полички банку з борошном, відсипала борошна в сірникову коробочку і повернулася до Оленки.
– Ось, моя хороша. Зовсім трохи лишилося, але цього вистачить.
– А це що?
– Чарівний порошок для квітів. Попросили мене, але на те він і чарівний. Ось, дивись, – бабуся Ліда взяла дрібку борошна, посипала ним дзвіночки, шепочучи: «Чаклуй баба, чаклуй дід, всім на радість сотню літ!» Потім висипала залишки борошна навколо калюжі. – Ну, все, Оленко. Тепер їм треба відпочити. А чарівний порошок свою справу зробить.
– Бабусю Лідо, він правда чарівний?
– Правда, моя хороша.
– А коли дзвіночки прокинуться?
– А от ми вранці й подивимося. А тепер ходімо. Час пізній, дітям спати пора.
Оленка зітхнула, з тривогою подивилася на свої дзвіночки і пішла з бабусею Лідою спати.
***
Оленка вже бачила десятий сон, коли дід Кузя крекчучи, витягував з балкона свій старенький велосипед.
– Кузю, ти ліхтарик взяв?
– Та взяв, звісно, що ти!
– А лопаточку свою?
– Ну як без неї-то?
– Кузю, я тобі чаю налила в термос.
– Лідо, чай-то навіщо?
– Ну як! Втомишся – поп’єш.
– Не треба. Я ж не в похід.
– Ти тільки не затримуйся в лісі, я хвилюватися буду.
– Та годі тобі! Я швидко. Плівку-то поклала?
– Поклала, Кузю, поклала. Давай, з Богом.
Дід обережно вивів велосипед з під’їзду, а бабуся тихенько зачинила за ним двері і повернулася до Оленки.
***
Ранок. Прокинулися ранні горобці, і разом з ними Оленка. Взувши капці, прямо в піжамі побігла вона до свого секретика. А там її чекало справжнє диво: на місці брудної калюжі ріс красивий кущик справжніх, живих дзвіночків. Оленка обережно нюхала їх, тихенько гладила бузкові головки, щось ласкаво їм шепотіла. А з балкона за нею з усмішкою спостерігали дід Кузя і бабуся Ліда. І ще невідомо, хто в ці хвилини був щасливіший – Оленка зі своїми «ожилими» дзвіночками чи бабуся Ліда з дідом Кузею, які подарували дитині радість…
Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman—a bit of a wallflower, not attractive, not blessed with a great figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be, because I believe most men are all the same—interested only in stuffing their faces and lounging on the sofa. Not that anyone’s ever proposed or asked me out, for that matter. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child—no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins, but I don’t keep in touch. Nor do I want to. I’ve lived and worked in London for 15 years, in a regular office job. Each day is work and home, work and home. I live in a standard block of flats in a typical residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical—I don’t love anyone. I don’t like children. At Christmas, I went to visit my parents in Newcastle, as I do once a year. When I got back, I decided to clean out my fridge, throwing away old frozen food—dumplings, burgers, things I’d bought and never liked. I bundled it all up in a box to toss it out. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven; I’d seen him with his mum and a baby sibling before. I even thought, “Some people—she’s gone and had another one!” The boy stared at my box. When we got out, he quietly followed me to the bins and asked in a timid voice if he could have the food. I warned it was old, but let him take it—none of it was rotten, after all. As I turned to leave, I watched him gently pick up the packets, close them up, and clutch them to his chest. I asked where his mum was. He told me she and his sister were ill—couldn’t get out of bed. I went back home and started cooking dinner, but couldn’t get that boy out of my mind. I’m not usually inclined to help, but something nudged me. I grabbed what I had in the kitchen: sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even some meat from the freezer. I realised I hadn’t a clue what floor their flat was on, but knew it was above mine, so I worked my way up, floor by floor. I got lucky; after two flights, the boy opened the door. He hesitated, but let me in. The flat was poor but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to her youngest, a bowl of water and cloths on the table. High fever, trying to cool her daughter down. The medicine they had was long out-of-date. I felt her mum’s forehead—hot as a stove. She woke and stared at me in confusion, then suddenly sat up, asking where her son was. I explained I was a neighbour and quickly got the details before calling for a paramedic. While we waited, I gave her tea and sausage—she wolfed it down, must have been starving. Barely able to feed herself, yet still breastfeeding her baby. The ambulance came, checked them over, wrote out a long list of medicines and injections needed for the little girl. I went out, picked up everything from the pharmacy and groceries for them, plus—on a whim—a ridiculous neon yellow monkey toy. I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name’s Anna, she’s 26. She grew up in Manchester’s outskirts. Her mum and gran were Londoners, but her mum married a local and moved up there to work in a factory. Anna’s dad died in an accident at work. Her mum was left alone, jobless, and quickly spiralled into trouble. By the time Anna was three, neighbours contacted her granny in London, who took her in. When Anna was 15, her gran told her the truth—her mother died of tuberculosis. The gran hardly spoke, was miserly, and chain-smoked. At 16, Anna took a job at the nearest shop, first as a shelf-stacker, then at the till. Her gran died a year later. At 18, Anna dated a boy who promised everything but disappeared as soon as she became pregnant. She kept working, saving up, knowing there was no one to help. When her son was a month old, she’d started leaving him on his own so she could clean stairways and make ends meet. As for her daughter—the shop owner she went back to, when her son was older, raped her repeatedly and threatened to have her fired so she could never work again. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back. Anna told me all this that night—thanked me, said she’d repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her, said goodnight, and left. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking, “Why do I live like this? Why am I so cold? I don’t care for anyone, not even my own parents. I have all this money saved with no one to spend it on, and here’s a little family with nothing—not even enough to get well.” The next morning, the little boy, Anton, brought me a plate of homemade pancakes and dashed off. I stood there, plate in hand, feeling warmth coming from the food, spreading through me as if I were thawing out. Suddenly, I wanted everything at once: to cry, to laugh, to eat. Not far from our block is a small shopping centre. The owner of a children’s shop there, after some confusion over sizes, even offered to come with me to Anna’s flat. I don’t know if she wanted the business, having seen I’d buy a lot, or was just moved by my mission. An hour later, four huge bags of clothes for the kids stood in Anna’s hallway. I bought bedding, food, vitamins, even toys. I wanted to buy everything—I finally felt needed. It’s been 10 days now. They call me Aunt Rita. Anna is quite the crafty homemaker—my flat feels cosier already. I’ve started calling my parents. I even text ‘KINDNESS’ to children’s charity fundraisers. I can’t believe how I lived before. Every day after work I hurry home, because I know someone’s waiting. And this spring, we’re all heading up to Newcastle together—tickets have already been bought.
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DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
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