З життя
Жінка біля підземки: історія продажу простих товарів біля станції.
Агафія Василівна стояла біля підземного переходу поруч із залізничною станцією та продавала нехитрі товари. Щодня вона приходила сюди, як на роботу, з двох причин. По-перше, це була хоч якась справа, а по-друге, пенсія у неї була маленька, хоча все життя чесно працювала, але так склалося…
Сидіти вдома одній їй було нудно. Чоловік Агафії давно вже пішов з життя, минуло років двадцять, і від нудьги вона почала в’язати. Спочатку в’язала для себе, потім сусідам почала дарувати шкарпетки, рукавиці, потім вже всіх обдарувала настільки, що нікуди було більше, і стала Агафія в’язати на продаж.
Не лише в’язані вироби продавала бабуся. І коли огірки солоні пропонувала, і коли капусту квашену. А часом і кімнатні квіти: фіалки та кактуси.
Собаку собі завела, дворнягу безпородну. Побачила якось із нашийником загублену, стало жаль її, взяла до себе додому, оголошення повісила, хто втратив. Але господарі не знайшлися. Мабуть, навмисно покинули тварину. Ну, і куди ж тепер її? Пожаліла Агафія пса. Так і живуть тепер удвох дружно. І на “роботу”, до підземного переходу щоразу супроводжує бабусю пес. Сяде поруч і сидить, охороняє. А бабуся його хлібом підгодовує. Купує собі половинку батона і псу шматочок відломить. Чайком із термоса запиває — ось і обід виходить.
***
Дмитрик йшов зі школи засмучений. Світлана Тимофіївна, вчителька математики, поставила двійку. Майже ні за що. Несправедливо. «Хіба в математиці враховується українська?» — дивувався хлопчик. Ну, задачу він трохи неправильно вирішив, ну, в прикладах помилки наробив. Так це ж математика! «А за граматичну помилку в відповіді щоб знижувати оцінку — це вже занадто!» — міркував про себе хлопчик. Але мамі цього не поясниш. І хто тільки вигадував цей електронний щоденник! Тепер від батьків двійки зовсім не приховаєш. Часи були раніше! Вирвав сторінку з щоденника, і порядок…
Йшов він і не помітив, як майже до свого будинку дійшов. Лишилося тільки через підземний перехід перейти. «О, бабуся стоїть. Знову зі своїми шкарпетками. Величезні такі. Хто їх тільки купує», — думав Дмитрик. Раптом він помітив на підстилці, яка лежала на асфальті та слугувала вітриною у бабусі, дуже красиву фіалку в баночці з-під сметани. Ну, просто неймовірну. Пелюсточків у неї було стільки, що вони виглядали мов маленькі трояндочки, колір теж рожевий, а листочки з різьбленими краями. Захопився хлопчик, зупинився та стоїть. Під фіалкою ціна на папірці — 50 гривень. А в Дмитрика було аж вісімдесят.
«Що як мамі купити квітку?» — подумав хлопчик. «І Восьме Березня невдовзі, ну майже. Вона квіти любить, зрадіє і забуде про двійку!»
Купив Дмитрик фіалку, приніс додому і поставив мамі на стіл, прямо на кухні. Потім трохи подивився телевізор, прихопив з пательні котлету. Потім зазирнув до холодильника і з тугою подивився на каструлю із супом, який мама веліла обов’язково з’їсти.
— Його ж підігрівати треба! Та ну! Не хочеться! — сказав Дмитрик і побіг на двір гратися.
Фокус із фіалкою вдався. Мама дійсно зраділа і забула перевірити Дмитрикові оцінки. Вона весь вечір клопоталася з квіткою, пересаджувала і намагалася знайти найкраще для неї місце в квартирі.
А Дмитрик подружився з Агафією Василівною. Відтоді, як він придбав у неї фіалку, вони стали при зустрічі вітатися. Потім він почав розмовляти з бабусею, ділитися з нею нехитрими шкільними новинами, потім якось у розмові з’ясувалося, що вона колишня вчителька математики і всю шкільну програму чудово пам’ятає. А Дмитрику ж погано? Сяде поруч із бабусею на розкладний стільчик, і вона йому всю домашню роботу пояснить. Що на що множити і як задачу вирішувати. А бабусин пес, Архип, поруч крутиться, носом у руки тицяє, хоче, щоб Дмитрик погладив його і за вухом почухав.
Але якось раз йшов хлопчик зі школи, а бабусі біля переходу не було. Тільки Архип сидів на тому місці, де зазвичай бабуся свої в’язані шкарпетки розкладала. Побачивши Дмитрика, пес підскочив і побіг до нього, наче чекав. Хвостом махав, відбігав, знову повертався, всім своїм виглядом показуючи, що потрібно кудись іти. Дмитрик пішов за Архипом. Але довго йти не довелося. Біля сусіднього будинку, на лавочці сиділа бліда Агафія Василівна, поруч із нею стояла її велика сумка на коліщатках. Побачивши хлопчика і пса, вона посміхнулася і сказала:
— Ну, куди ти втік, неслухняний! Рятувати мене надумав? Все вже добре. Я таблетку випила. Відпустило. Трішки посиджу і піду на робоче місце.
— Бабусю! Навіщо ви весь час ходите туди, до переходу? Вам потрібно вдома лежати, телевізор дивитися, серіали.
— Ох, онучок! Та на що вони мені здалися!
— Ну, адже все одно нічого ніхто не купує!
— Це так, — зітхнула бабуся. Потім подивилася сумно на Дмитрика і тихо сказала:
— Дома я пропаду. А так хоч при ділі.
— Ви б спробували щось інше зв’язати. Ну, може, іграшки м’які? А то шкарпетки ці ваші, знаєте, ну якось не дуже популярні… Знаєте що, давайте ви спробуєте зв’язати кого-небудь, а я оголошення розміщу в інтернеті! Там все-все можна продати!
— Ну, — невпевнено протягнула бабуся, — А чом би не спробувати-то? Хто там у вас зараз наймодніший? Свинка Пеппа? Я дещо знаю, бо ж телевізор теж дивлюся, — хитро прижмурилася старенька.
— І її можна! — усміхнувся хлопчик.
Агафія Василівна виявилася чудовою майстринею. Надівши величезні окуляри із товстими скельцями, вона так вправно взялася в’язати різноманітних персонажів мультфільмів, і сучасних, і радянських, і просто симпатичних звіряток, що бізнес у неї пішов угору. Клієнти в чергу записувалися. Зранку до ночі телефонували. Спочатку Дмитро їй допомагав, із комп’ютера свого оголошення викладав. А на перші заробітки бабуся купила собі простенький смартфон, замість старенького кнопкового телефона, і через інтернет стала постійно спілкуватися з замовниками. Іграшки у неї виходили на славу, бо в кожну з них Агафія Василівна вкладала часточку своєї душі. Тепер ні біля якого переходу їй стояти не потрібно було. У теплі, посьорбуючи чайок, вона заробляла собі надбавку до пенсії. Та й спілкування у неї додалося. Тепер точно не засумуєш.
Одного разу, Дмитрик вирушив до магазину за хлібом і побачив, як бабуся сідає в таксі.
— Ось, онучок, хочу в платну клініку з’їздити. До доброго лікаря показатися. Добре, що тепер можу собі дозволити! — усміхнулася Агафія Василівна, — Дякую тобі! Допоміг мені знайти ринкову нішу! О, як! — засміялася вона.
При цих словах старенької Дмитро усміхнувся, водій таксі теж заусміхався і, розвернувши машину, швидко помчав Агафію Василівну в платну клініку.
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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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? 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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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