З життя
Зрада від найближчих: той, кого вважала сином, завжди тримав кинджал за пазухою
Людмила довго йшла вулицею. Від такого зрадництва найближчих людей аж жити не хотілося. Вона вважала його сином. А виявилося, що він завжди камінь за пазухою тримав. Якесь дивне вираження, завжди стереотипи її дратували. Думала по-доброму: поганих людей не існує, бувають лише дурні вчинки. Через такі вчинки та страждають рідні.
З Ігорем був її другий шлюб. Перший виявився невдалим, довго не могла після цього отямитися. Навіть обіцяла собі, що ніколи більше не вийде заміж. Але минув час, і все змінилося.
Разом з Ігорем працювали багато років. Він був одружений на її найкращій подрузі. І коли Людмила переживала життєві негаразди з невдачливим чоловіком, вони були поруч. Усе про неї знали. Коли Валентина захворіла, настав час віддавати борги. Тож Людмила збирала гроші на операцію, прала, готувала, прибирала, поки подруга в лікарні лежала. Але всі зусилля виявилися марними, Валя померла.
Після смерті дружини, Ігор був у відчаї. Тому Людмилі довелося взяти всі клопоти по похованню на себе. Потім допомагала виховувати Сергійка. А коли після церемонії річниці смерті Валі, Ігор буденним тоном сказав:
– Залишайся у нас.
Вона погодилася. Дійсно, Сергію без матері не можна. Чужа жінка навряд чи полюбить чужу дитину.
Хто знає, чи це була любов, чи просто звичка, але родина вийшла хорошою і дружньою. Сергій почав було Людмилу мамою кликати, та вона зупинила його:
– У тебе мама Валя. Ніколи не забувай про неї.
Дві маленькі квартири об’єднали в одну велику. Як належить, записали на главу родини. Кілька разів Ігор пропонував Людмилі оформити стосунки, але вона все відмовлялася. Навіщо нам, ми ж не дітей хочемо заводити? Хіба нам мало клопоту з Сергієм? І справді з ним було достатньо клопоту. Хлопчик зростав добрим, але непосидючим. Коли в садок ходив, вихователі скаржилися. А вже зі школи так і взагалі телефонували кілька разів на день. Ігор сердився, сварив, навіть бив намагався.
А Людмила захищала його:
– Себе згадай. Теж, мабуть, не був подарунком. – Ігор посміхався, згадуючи себе.
– Що ж тепер, всі такими безладниками мають бути? Мене батько знаєш, як ганяв…
– Ти кращим від цього став?
– Ні, але все-таки. Як пояснити, що таке добре, а що таке погано?
Людмила засмутилася від спогадів, коли ж це сталося. Так би й не дізналася, якби не помер Ігор. Так не мало б статися. Людина не може в сорок п’ять років померти від якогось тромба. От якби він хворів, встигли б підготуватися. Ігор заповіт би склав. Але його смерть була настільки несподіваною, настільки нелепою. Здавалося, що вона разом з ним померла.
Сергій вже дорослий хлопець, в університеті навчається, зустрічається з дівчиною. Не очікувала від нього Людмила нічого поганого. А він прийшов після похорону ввечері з бабусею. Видно, сам не міг цього зробити, потрібна була підтримка. І сказав:
– Квартира моя і бабусина. А ти тут ніхто. Даємо тобі місяць, щоб виїхала.
Людмила навіть нічого не могла сказати, так її ці слова шокували. З іншого боку, якщо син, якого вона виховала, міг її як бездомну собаку вигнати, значить, поганою була вона матір’ю. Значить, все життя даремно пройшло. Тим самим їй. Але куди тепер звернутися, як жити. Невже все потрібно спочатку починати?
Минуло вже два тижні після візиту сина, а Людмила так і не придумала, що робити. Нікому не розповідала, соромно було. Вона ж ним пишалася, хвалилася його успіхами. Як він сам в університет вступив, яка дівчина у нього хороша. А що тепер? Не її це син. Вона йому не потрібна. Немає їй місця у його житті.
Людмила переверталася, не могла заснути. У двері постукали. Вона неохоче піднялася, натягла на себе халат, тапочки і пішла відчиняти двері. Скільки разів Ігор казав їй питати, хто прийшов. Не навчилася, вірила вона людям. Надавала надію, що нічого поганого з нею не трапиться. На порозі стояв Сергій:
– Мамо Людо, пробач мене. Це все бабуся, – сльози заважали йому говорити, – бабуся казала, що ти все собі забереш. Говорила, що в наш дім когось приведеш, і мені вже нічого не дістанеться. Сам не знаю, як так вийшло. Живи тут скільки хочеш, хоч усе життя. Це ж твій дім. А мені нічого не треба. Я хочу, щоб у мене, як раніше, мама була. – Людмила плакала, Сергій витирав їй сльози рукою.
– А чому ж ти не відкрив своїм ключем? – запитала Людмила.
– Не хотів у твоє життя вторгатися.
– Дурненький, яке в мене життя без тебе?
Вони ще довго стояли прямо через поріг, дивлячись один на одного, плакали. Поки, нарешті, першою не отямилася Людмила.
– Що ж ми стоїмо, ходімо чай пити.
– Ходімо, мені стільки тобі потрібно розповісти!
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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…
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