З життя
Задиханий чоловік запитує: “Жінко, автобус уже поїхав?
— Жінко, не знаєте, автобус вже пішов? — до зупинки підбіг захеканий чоловік. Саме дядько, а не чоловік, добре за п’ятдесят, у куртці та треніках, на плечі потерта сумка. Лице просте, з вусами, Лариса Андріївна завжди терпіти не могла вуса, відвернулася, не відповідаючи.
— Жінко, невже важко сказати? Автобус останній пішов, чи ні? Ви ж теж автобус чекаєте? — дядько перевів подих і кинув важку сумку на лавку поруч із Ларисою Андріївною.
— Нічого і нікого я не чекаю, — роздратовано відповіла вона, потім подумала, що час пізній, незрозуміло хто це, і відповіла м’якше, — Якийсь автобус пішов хвилин п’ять тому, я не звернула уваги.
— Ну все! — дядько плюхнувся на лавку так, що Лариса Андріївна злякалася, що лавка зараз розвалиться і схопилася.
— А ви теж спізнилися? — не вгамовувався дядько, ну за що ж він пристав!
Лариса Андріївна одягнула плащ і вирішила йти додому, вже пізно.
Годину тому вона раптом відчула дивну потребу вийти з дому. Стало якось задушливо і самотньо, такого з нею раніше не траплялося.
Все життя Лариса Андріївна жила одна і була дуже щаслива. Подруги повиходили заміж, дітей народжували, а їй цього зовсім не хотілося. Як згадає — мати в селі народжувала, як скажена, одного за іншим. Потім трьох у інтернат віддала, а Лариса — старша, втекла у місто. Закінчила училище, вивчилася на бухгалтера і все життя працювала в центральному ресторані міста. Ресторан “Золотий вік”, весела музика, смачна їжа!
Лариса спочатку була просто бухгалтером, а потім головним бухгалтером до самої пенсії. Весілля, ювілеї, ніколи їй не було нудно. Зарплата хороша, їжа смачна, квартиру купила, на відпочинок їздила і іншого життя Лариса Андріївна не хотіла.
А рік тому новий власник ресторану заявив, що Лариса Андріївна не знає нових методів роботи і його багато чого не влаштовує. І її відправили на пенсію, хоча Лариса Андріївна навіть і не збиралася.
Спочатку вона кинулася шукати нове місце. Потім зрозуміла, що те, що їй пропонують — їй не подобається, а те, що подобається — там молоді потрібні.
Плюнула, ну й добре, подушка безпеки у неї є, невелика, але вистачить. І пішла на пенсію без оглядки, у найвільніше плавання в своєму житті.
Спочатку все було просто чудово, вона жила без жодних планів, не ставила будильник, їздила на екскурсії і навіть ходила в парк на заняття скандинавською ходьбою.
Але раптово їй все це набридло, і сьогодні ввечері вона просто вийшла на вулицю і сіла на лавочку біля автобусної зупинки.
Машини їхали, гуділи, блимали, люди йшли, розмовляли, а вона сиділа і відчувала, ніби її взагалі нема, а є лише це галасливе місто. І воно живе своїм життям, а її життя не має жодного значення!
І нікому вона не потрібна, абсолютно нікому, жодній людині на всьому білому світі!
І раптом цей дядько!
— А що, вам теж ніде ночувати, жінко? Я якось тут до ранку на лавці ночував, вранці поїхав. Я за містом живу, от зміну відпрацював — спізнився, тоді-то ночі теплі були, а сьогодні прохолодно! Та нічого, у мене є бутерброди з ковбасою, ти це… панянко, сідай, не бійся, не вкушу. Ось, тримай, хліб свіжий, ковбаса “любительська”, а я зараз термос дістану і ми чайку гарячого поп’ємо, з цукром, зігріємося.
Дядько ні з того ні з сього перейшов на “ти” і сунув бутерброд в руку Ларисі Андріївні. Вона хотіла відмовитися, але раптом зрозуміла, що страшенно хоче їсти. Вона не вечеряла, та й в обід майже не їла. І вона відкусила кусочок, а як смачно ж! Вона давно не купувала ковбасу — на дієті сидіти намагалася, а тут хліб запашний, а ковбаска, ммм!
Дядько весело засміявся,
— Ну як, смачно, а? Тримай, ось я чай налив, дивись гарячий, не обпалися. Як тебе звати?
— Лариса Андріївна, — відповіла вона з набитим ротом, і дядько радісно кивнув,
— Лариса значить! А я дядько Митя, ой, тобто Дмитро я, Дмитро Іванович. Раніше на заводі працював, звільнили, тепер в охороні доба через троє. І нічого, нормально, мати правда у мене хворіє, старою стала, от на ліки їй і працюю, може поживе ще. А сім’я була, та розпалася, син виріс, дружина пішла до іншого, загалом — живу та й живу! — він зітхнув, усміхнувся, але очі раптом стали сумними.
— А тобі, Лариса, далеко до дому? Хочеш я тобі на таксі дам? Мені то вже дуже далеко, вони за місто вночі не везуть, назад клієнтів нема, а подвійний тариф занадто дорого. А тобі вистачить, — дядько Митя дивився на неї і усміхався, і Лариса раптом згадала, що в школі у неї був друг, Колька, вона була вічно голодна, а він приносив у школу бутерброди і годував її. І так само дивився, як цей дядько, по-доброму, трохи насмішкувато, вона зараз себе раптом молодою дівчинкою відчула, ніби і не було цього життя, не було ресторану “Золотий вік”, і це не її відправили на пенсію.
Лариса доїла бутерброд, запила гарячим, солодким чаєм, і раптом сказала, сама від себе навіть не очікувала!
— Ходім до мене, дядько Митя, не на лавці ж ночувати? Ось він, мій дім, і їхати нікуди не треба. Бери свою сумку та ходім, тільки веди себе стримано, а то рука у мене важка, не дивись, що не молода!
Чоловік отетерів, здивовано подивився на неї, потім на дім за спиною, потім знову на Ларису Андріївну,
— А чого ти тоді тут сиділа? Чого чекала?
— Нічого я не чекала, нічого мені чекати більше, ти йдеш, чи ні? — Лариса Андріївна повернулася і попрямувала до дому. Дмитро Іванович затримався, потім взяв сумку,
— А як же? Та незручно! Та я… та ти не думай, я на підлозі, в куточку, а вранці відразу поїду. Дякую, а то ж холодно, — Дмитро Іванович йшов за Ларисою, здивовано мотая головою.
Вранці Лариса прокинулася від дивного стуку. Вийшла з кімнати — Дмитро вже встав, він спав на кухонному дивані, і щось ремонтував у туалеті,
— У тебе, Лариса, бачок протікає, от полагодив, може навіть на сніданок заробив? — він випростався і усміхнувся, а вона здивувалася. Стоїть перед нею чужий дядько в майці, волосся сиве наполовину, вологе — видно тільки вмився. А їй радісно і тепло на душі, незрозуміло від чого.
— Ну що, їдемо снідати, дядько Митя, і справді заслужив. Яєшню з помідорами будеш? — Лариса усміхнулася, — У мене між іншим пралка теж погано працює, протікає. І ще …
Так і залишився Дмитро Іванович у Лариси Андріївни до наступної своєї робочої зміни. Зателефонував матері, у тієї все в порядку виявилося, і залишився.
Живуть вони тепер удвох. Дмитро Іванович на роботу ходить, доба через троє. А Лариса чекає чоловіка і готує йому жульєни та ресторанні страви. Митя цілує їй руки,
— Ларисочко, адже я зрозумів, це ти мене чекала, я ж не випадково спізнився, ось же доля! Пробач, ти була така самотня, я не зміг тебе одну залишити. Все життя прожив, а не знав, що так любити зможу, ну треба ж, як же мені пощастило!
До матінки його часто їздять, їй хоч уж під вісімдесят, а вона ще жвава, бойова. Лариса перед нею себе зовсім дівчиною відчуває.
А за сина то як рада Марія Полікарпівна. Нарешті й у її Митеньки є щастя, є заради кого жити.
The Manor Smelled of French Perfume and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands—Those of the Housemaid Nora. But One Day Money Went Missing from the Safe, and Those Hands Disappeared Forever. Twenty Years Passed. Now Lizzie Stands at a Doorstep Herself—With a Child in Her Arms and a Truth That Burns in Her Throat… *** The Scent of Dough Was the Scent of Home. Not the grand house with marble staircase and three-tiered chandelier where Lizzie spent her childhood—but a real home. The one she’d dreamed up while sitting on a kitchen stool, watching Nora’s work-worn, red hands knead the elastic dough. “Why does dough breathe?” five-year-old Lizzie would ask. “Because it lives,” Nora would reply, not pausing in her work. “See how it bubbles? It’s happy it’s going into the oven. Odd, isn’t it? Being happy for the fire.” Lizzie hadn’t understood then. But now—she understood. She stood by the edge of a broken country road, clutching four-year-old Michael to her chest. The bus had gone, leaving them in the pale February twilight, surrounded by that particular village silence where you can hear snow crunching under a stranger’s boots three houses away. Michael didn’t cry—he’d almost forgotten how in the last six months. He only watched with solemn, grown-up eyes, and each time Lizzie shivered: Michael’s father’s eyes. His chin. His silence—always hiding something. Don’t think about him. Not now. “Mum, I’m cold.” “I know, darling. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was still alive—twenty years had passed, a whole lifetime. All she remembered: “Pinewood Village, Sussex.” And the scent of that dough. And the warmth of those hands—the only ones in the big house that stroked her head just because, for no special reason. The lane led past sagging fences. Here and there, yellow lights glowed in windows—dim, but alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage—because her legs couldn’t go any farther, and Michael had become much too heavy. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps to the porch. The door—old, warped, paint peeling off. She knocked. Silence. Then—shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt sliding back. A voice—cracked, aged, but achingly familiar, making Lizzie’s breath catch: “Who’s out there in the dark at this hour?” The door opened. A tiny old woman in a knitted cardigan over her nightgown stood on the threshold. Her face—like a baked apple, wrinkled a thousand ways. But her eyes—the same. Faded, blue, still alive. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then slowly raised the same hardworking, knotty hand to Lizzie’s cheek. “Oh, my word… Lizzie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood, clutching her son, unable to utter a word—only tears running hot down her cold cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?”, not “why?”, not “what happened?”. She simply took her old coat, hanging on a nail by the door, and wrapped it around Lizzie’s shoulders. Then gently lifted Michael—who didn’t even flinch, just watched with those dark eyes—and held him close. “There now, you’re home, my little sparrow,” she said. “Come in. Come in, love.”
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You’ll see—soon you’ll be impressed by this orchid!” I replied, determined to breathe life back into the drooping flower. He winked playfully: “Who ever turns down a bit of love?” A week later, Kate called: “Polly, can I come over? I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. I want to tell you everything about Denis’s failed marriage.” “Of course, Kate. I’m here whenever you need me,” I assured her—remembering how she’d supported me through two rocky marriages of my own… After all, we’d been friends for years. Kate arrived within the hour, settled in the kitchen, and for hours, over a glass of dry wine, a mug of coffee, and some dark chocolate, she shared the whole, tangled tale. “I never imagined my ex-daughter-in-law was capable of such things. Denis and Tanya were together for seven years. Denis left Annie—who I adored, by the way—for Tanya, who was just stunning. He was absolutely besotted, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Tanya looked like a model—men couldn’t help but stare. But for all those years, they never had a child. I figured Denis wanted everything by the book—get married, then have kids. Denis is private, and we never pried. Finally, Denis told us: ‘Mum, Dad, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve booked the registry office. I’m throwing a huge wedding—no expense spared.’ He was thirty. We were thrilled that he’d finally settle down. But, Polly, the wedding date had to be postponed twice—once Denis got sick, then I was held up at work. It felt odd, but Denis was glowing with happiness—I didn’t say anything. Denis even wanted to have a church wedding with Father Christopher, but the priest was called back to his home parish. Nothing was going smoothly. It seemed like the world was warning us… The wedding was spectacular, noisy, extravagant. Here—look at the wedding photo. You see that orchid? Glorious, in full bloom. Its leaves stood tall like soldiers. And now? Just limp rags remain of it. …Denis and Tanya planned their honeymoon in Paris, but right at the airport, Tanya was barred from leaving the country—something about an unpaid fine. Denis swatted away these troubles like flies. …But then Denis got seriously ill. Ended up in hospital, things looked grim. Doctors were at a loss. Tanya visited for a week, then bluntly told him: ‘Sorry, but I can’t handle being married to an invalid. I’m filing for divorce.’ Polly, imagine my son—bedridden—hearing that. But he only said: ‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t fight you.’ So they divorced. But Denis got better—thanks to a wonderful doctor named Peter. And Peter had a lovely 20-year-old daughter, Mary. At first, Denis turned up his nose: ‘She’s just a slip of a girl—not even pretty.’ ‘Give her a chance, son. Looks aren’t everything. You’ve already had a model for a wife…Better to be happy drinking water together than sipping honey in sorrow.’ …Time passed. Mary totally fell for Denis—called all the time, trailed after him everywhere. So we tried nudging them together—day at the park, barbecue, campfire. Denis looked miserable, barely noticing Mary’s devotion. I told my husband: ‘It’s hopeless. Denis is still obsessed with Tanya. She’s a thorn in his heart.’ …Three or four months later—ding dong! It’s Denis, holding that infamous orchid. ‘Here you go, Mum—remnants of past happiness. Do as you like with it—I’m done with it.’ I took it reluctantly and basically ignored it, blaming the poor flower for my son’s heartbreak. One day, a neighbour says: ‘Kate, I saw Denis with that petite girl. His ex-wife was more glamorous, for sure.’ But then Denis announced, hand-in-hand with Mary: ‘Meet my wife—Mary. We got married quietly at the registry office, then Father Christopher married us in church. Mum, Dad, no big fuss this time! It’s forever now.’ I pulled him aside: ‘Denis, are you sure you love her? Is this for revenge against Tanya?’ ‘No, Mum. I’m over it. That woman is my past—I’m done even saying her name. Mary and I are right for each other.’ And that’s the tale, Polly. Kate finished her story, right down to the last detail. …Two years passed. Life swept us along. But the orchid? It flourished again—blooming beautifully after care and love. Flowers know how to say thank you. I met Kate at the hospital maternity ward: ‘Hi, mate! What brings you here?’ ‘Mary just had twins—being discharged today!’ Kate beamed. Denis and his dad hovered nearby, Denis clutching red roses. Out came exhausted but glowing Mary, with two sleeping bundles in tow. Then came my daughter, holding my own new granddaughter. Meanwhile, Tanya was begging Denis for forgiveness and a fresh start. …But glue a broken teacup, and no one really wants to drink from it…
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Raw Nerves: In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Lives. Dad, Alexander, Had Not Just a Wife but a String of Lovers. Mum, Jenny, Turned a Blind Eye, but She Had Her Own Secret Romance with a Married Colleague. Their Two Sons Were Left to Fend for Themselves. Nobody Really Raised Them, So They Wasted Days Wandering Aimlessly. Jenny Claimed the School Was Responsible for Their Upbringing. On Sundays, the Family Would Gather in Silence Round the Kitchen Table, Wolf Down Lunch, and Disperse to Their Separate Interests. They Might Have Continued in Their Broken, Flawed but Comfortably Familiar Existence—Until Irreversible Tragedy Struck. When the Younger Son, Daniel, Was Twelve, Alexander First Took Him to the Garage as His Little Helper. While Daniel Curiously Inspected the Tools, Alexander Stepped Next Door to Chat with Fellow Car Enthusiasts. Suddenly, Black Smoke and Flames Billowed from Alexander’s Garage. (Later, It Would Emerge that Daniel Had Accidentally Knocked a Lit Blowtorch onto a Can of Petrol.) Nobody Understood What Had Happened. People Were Frozen, Panicking, as Fire Raged. Water Was Thrown Over Alexander, and He Bolted into the Inferno. In Moments, He Emerged, Carrying His Motionless Son, Daniel’s Body a Mass of Burns—Only His Face, Shielded by His Hands, Remained Unscathed; His Clothes Were Completely Burned Away. Someone Had Already Called the Fire Brigade and Ambulance. Daniel Was Rushed to Hospital—He Was Alive! He Was Taken Straight to Surgery. After Agonising Hours, the Surgeon Came Out to Daniel’s Parents and Said, “We’re Doing All We Can. Your Son Is in a Coma. His Chances Are One in a Million. Science Is Powerless. Only Extraordinary Willpower—and a Miracle—Can Save Him Now.” Desperate, Alexander and Jenny Raced to the Nearest Church—in a Torrential Downpour. Drenched and Sobbing, They Entered the Sanctuary for the First Time in Their Lives, Begging the Priest, Father George, for Help. “…How grave are your sins?” Father George asked. Alexander, sheepish, replied, “Not murderers, if that’s what you mean…” “But where is your love? Dead underfoot,” the priest reproached. “There’s more space between you than a fallen oak log. Pray to Saint Nicholas for your son’s health—pray fiercely! But remember, it’s God’s will…” At the icon, Alexander and Jenny knelt, weeping and praying passionately—swearing to cut all affairs, vowing to change their lives. The next morning, the phone rang. The doctor reported Daniel was out of his coma. Alexander and Jenny never left his bedside. Daniel whispered to his parents, “Mum, Dad, promise me you’ll stay together,” and, “When I have children, they’ll have your names…” His parents thought he was delirious—after all, he couldn’t even move his finger. But Daniel began to recover. The family’s energy and savings—and even their summer cottage—went into his treatment. The garage and car had burned to ashes, but the main thing was: Daniel was alive. The grandparents pitched in to help, and the family came together through the crisis. A year on, Daniel was in a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. He befriended Mary, a girl his own age who’d also been burned in a fire—her face badly scarred after multiple operations, too shy to look in a mirror. Daniel was drawn to her kindness, wisdom, and vulnerability. The two became inseparably close, bonding over pain, recovery, and endless conversation. Time passed… Daniel and Mary celebrated a modest wedding. They had two beautiful children: daughter Alexandra, then three years later, son John. At last, the family could breathe easy. But the ordeal had left Alexander and Jenny drained. They decided to part ways, both craving peace and relief from each other. Jenny moved to stay with her sister in the suburbs, visiting Father George before leaving—he, now a confidant, urged her not to go for long; “A husband and wife are one.” Alexander remained alone in the empty flat, sons with families of their own. Visiting grandchildren was done separately, timings carefully coordinated to avoid crossing paths. And so, after all they’d suffered, every member of the family finally found their own, peculiar peace…
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