З життя
Вони одразу стали жити краще.
Володимир з Оксаною, ну, просто зразу добре жити почали. Полюбили одне одного. Гарне весілля справили. І з першого ж дня – у власній хаті. Володимир її разом з батьком збудував. Хата вийшла високою, ставною, з великими вікнами, що дивились на подвір’я і на вулицю. Подвір’я просторе, трохи нахилене, з клумбами-квітами. А позаду будівлі для худоби і город чималий, тягнеться рівними грядками аж до горизонту.
Хазяїнам трохи за тридцять, а у них уже шестеро дітей вдома і по подвір’ю бігають. І це теж правильно.
А тут раптом Володина молодша сестра, Вероніка, що жила в сусідньому селі і кожного року народжувала від незрозуміло кого, піддалася алкоголю – одного разу не прокинулася після нічної гулянки.
Що тут говорити? Володимир зібрався. Поїхав. Оксана ж як може залишити дітей і господарство. Поховав. Усе як треба, по-людському. І додому приїхав.
Стоїть на порозі, а попереду руки чотирьох племінників горнуться навколо нього. Найменший, Вовчик, чотири роки.
Оксана сіла мовчки на стілець і дивиться. І діти – теж мовчать і дивляться. Що їм ще робити?
Оксана витерла руки фартухом і каже:
– У мене ж навіть солі не вистачить, щоб борщ усій ораві посолити.
– А ми його й не солоного похлебаємо, – Володимир дружині відповідає. А сам усміхається.
Ну і Оксана усміхатися почала. А що їй ще робити?
Двійнята ж одразу кинулися до новоприбулих, почали роздягати-розкутувати їх.
Нормальна така родина вийшла, коли діти перемішалися всі разом. І головне не багато їх вийшло: всього десять на таку простору хату.
А потім, наприкінці наступного літа, через їхнє село як буря пронісся циганський табір. Полихнуло вогнем, усе на своєму шляху змітало. Після тої бурі багато хто з господинь не дорахувався кольорових килимків, вивішених на паркани для просушки, курей і качок. А у Сірко навіть порося з заднього двору вкрали!
Тільки Володимира з Оксаною цигани залишили з приплодом.
Вечором Оксана вийшла на ґанок, а там – вузол з червоної тканини. Вона спершу навіть не зрозуміла, що це, бо тканини мовчали собі тихо – і все.
Коли вдома вже розгорнула на столі – всередині хлопчик смаглявенький. Такий гарний. Лежить, крекче і очі антрацитові по всіх довкола розглядають.
Володимир за спину дружини заглянув і сказав лише:
– А що? Нормально. Тепер у нас в родині хлопців на одного більше буде, ніж дівчат. Та й наш білий колір з чорними кучерями розбавить.
А Вовчик, найменший до цього, за край столу вхопився, підійнявся, роздивився молодшого брата і каже:
– От нам пощастило, скажи, тату! У всіх цигани щось украли, а нам навіть Василя в подарунок залишили!..
І заметушилися всі разом, задвигалися. Почали новому братові життя влаштовувати.
Далі-то що розповідати? Все як у всіх: діти ростуть, батьки старішають. Володимир ось тільки раз-по-раз стіл в хаті видовжував. Як черговий син чи дочка до школи йдуть, потрібно ж і їм десь уроки робити. І робили. І старалися. І в домі все робили разом.
Коли одного разу в школі на зборах вчителька заговорила про труднощі перехідного віку, Володимир з Оксаною (на батьківські збори вони завжди разом ходили) переглянулися і зніяковіли, бо ці труднощі прогледіли. Залишилося лише Василька не упустити.
А як його упустиш, якщо все як треба? У школі – відмінно. Вдома він у свої чотирнадцять всю чоловічу роботу робить і всім намагається допомогти.
Спокійно, чинно дочки повиходили заміж і до чоловіків упоралися. Хлопці теж переженилися і кожен став своїм домом жити.
Василь у армії відслужив і додому до стариків повернувся. Хотів до міста їхати, далі вчитися – куди там. Щоразу влітку двір повний онуків, Василькових племінників.
А він чекає їх, як принців заморських. Готується…
Гойдалку у дворі поставив. А для маленьких пісочницю зробив. У неї ж відрами з ріки пісок намивав. Ближче ж до паркану, для малечі, кому ще на річку не можна, басейн викопав-облаштував. Туди зранку шлангом воду напускав, щоб нагрілася, щоб діти носами не шморгали. А в сільмазі накупив качечок-дельфінчиків, щоб зовсім на море було схоже.
Так і ця орава щоразу влітку не до дідуся з бабусею їхати збиралася, а до дядька Василька.
А він сяде на корточки біля воріт, зарослий майже під самі очі чорною бородою, і чекає. А як побачить чергового племінника чи племінницю, як розкинеться руками на всю довжину, як засвітить усмішкою своєю медовою, так біжать до нього дітлахи стрімголов, притискаються, притискаються до колючих щік, а самі вухо шепочуть: «Ти, дядьку Васильку, чекав на мене?»
Він же цілує, цілує кожного і обов’язково відповідає: «Ще й як чекав! Більше за всіх!..»
Але найбільше щастя трапляється ввечері, коли посуд вимито, діти накупани і треба лягати спати.
Діти, всі без винятку, затаїлися і чекають. Встає дядько Василько тоді і говорить гучним голосом:
– Ну… хто сьогодні зі мною ночувати на сіновал йде?…
І тут всі кричать. Кричать, напевно, так, як раніше “ура” на демонстраціях кричали…
Рано-вранці, бабуся Оксана піде на сіновал, щоб перевірити, чи не знесла якась кума яйце, і побачить: прямо в центрі розстелено величезний такий тулуп і спить на ньому абсолютно щаслива гарна людина. А навколо, як курчатка, діти туляться – до обличчя, рук, ніг. І сплять всі. Усі дванадцять.
А що?
У Володимира з Оксаною вже одинадцять онуків народилося…
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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…
Annoying Neighbour Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight!...