скачать книгу бесплатно
Everything Has Its Time
Valerian Markarov
The life of a young English doctor, Arthur Smith, is changed by a single encounter. A new patient, suffering from an incurable disease, is begging him for “help” to leave this life. Will the soft-hearted doctor go through with it for the sake of easing the suffering man’s fate? A novel to grip the reader to the very end, with family secrets suddenly coming to light, leading to an intriguing conclusion.
Everything Has Its Time
Valerian Markarov
Translator Oscar Seecharan
© Valerian Markarov, 2023
© Oscar Seecharan, translation, 2023
ISBN 978-5-0059-6140-2
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Everything Has Its Time
By Valerian Markarov
Translated by Oscar Seecharan
«Everything has its time,
there is a time for every purpose under Heaven,
there is a time to be born, and a time to die,
a time to plant, and a time to uproot,
a time to kill, and a time to heal,
a time to destroy, and a time to build,
a time to cry, and a time to laugh,
a time to scatter stones, and a time to collect stones,
a time to hug, and a time not to,
a time to find, and a time to lose,
a time to be silent, and a time to speak,
a time to love, and a time to hate,
a time for war, and a time for peace.»
King Solomon
1. Erin
«Happy birthday, Dad!»
Entering the hospital wardroom with a light step, a young woman dressed in a green scarf worn over an elegant red coat of cashmere wool, leaned over the sick man and took him gently by the shoulder, softly kissing him on the cheek with her plump lips. The wardroom in which the man lay was small, the bulk of the space being occupied by an airbed which bent out of shape when nurses changed the patient’s position. Buttons on either side of the bed allowed for its angle to be adjusted, and likewise for it to be raised or lowered.
Opposite the bed on the wall hung a small flat screen television, around which hung various pictures, and under it several cushioned chairs were neatly arranged for visitors. In the corner was a toilet and shower cubicle with all the essential hygiene accessories. A single white bedside table had been squeezed in beside the bed, alongside a remote control to turn the light on and off, or to dim it, to control the TV volume and change channels, and, in case of an emergency, to call the nurse. On the wall behind the headboard, the yellow indicators of various pieces of electronic equipment and dials with monitors were blinking incessantly, and there was a sort of contraption to hold the drip, which most likely served the function of preventing excessive sleep in the daytime. The loud and constant beeping noise came from it, signalling to the ward nurses that either a tube was drooping over perilously, or that a medicine in use was about to run out.
The woman who had just come in looked about 25. She was of medium height and had an elegant body, and she had something enticing about her, something truly Celtic. She loved her beautiful hair of a stunningly and intensely golden-red colour, a source of pride. She obviously considered her hair to be a gift, which she carefully looked after and saw to without much hassle. She possessed a pretty face and a smooth nose. The eyes with which she looked out so openly onto the world were deep and green, underneath which on her cheeks were scattered a few soft and perky freckles. On her temples, one could see her translucent blue veins under her thin white skin. Most men would likely not have had her down as a woman of beauty, however, a short time in conversation with her would allow the more perceptive and well-mannered to note her charm and attraction, her impeccable taste and her perfect mannerisms, which told of a true woman, and her ability to speak with such eloquence. If only they knew that she could also dance excellently, play the piano and guitar, was keen on photography, and could ride a horse with all confidence!
«You remember what day it is today, don’t you?» she asked, keeping her gaze on his darkened eyes, «It’s the 17th March! You’re 65 today, Dad!»
«I prefer remembering that today is Saint Patrick’s Day,» he said with pride, «how was the parade? Did you take photos?»
«Of course, Dad. I went up to the balcony at Bullring in Digbeth just for you. I got a great view of everything from up there.» She started to flick through the pictures for him on her new iPhone 8, one after another.
«Bring it closer, yes, there… It’s a good job they didn’t colour the canal green» he said. «And the pubs presumably weren’t serving green beer…»
«Yeah, that’d be over the top. This isn’t New York or Boston. It’s enough that most of the clothes and decorations are in Irish green, white, and orange. And the beer flows like a river, so that’s fine!»
«So, how did it get going?»
«Like they always do, Dad, the Lord Mayor opened the festivities alongside St. Patrick himself.»
«He’s Mr. Important today!» chipped in her father, looking at the photos, «so pompous and full of himself!»
«Then there was the Leader of the City Council. He led the parade, of course. The band of flautists and pipers were next. Then there were Star Wars characters, then soldiers from the Irish Brigade. And look, here are some of the School of Irish Dancing’s highly talented girls…»
«Hmm, judging by the look of them, Erin, I’d say they’re future candidates for Lord of the Dance. Those outfits and curly wigs, they‘re not cheap, about 500 pounds a set!»
«Then there were the leprechauns in their green caftans, red hair, and red beards… There was a tractor from a museum there, and one of them was dancing on top of it… And here is a peacock, and a garden man.»
«Very vibrant. Like a Brazilian carnival! There were Indian tom-tom drums too. And here are the Chinese, holding on to their dragon nice and tightly, probably to stop it flying off… Here are some other Chinese people carrying a lion, loads of them. Fortunately, it’s in green, white, and orange. And what’s this one?» his eyes indicated the next picture. «A procession of African children, with a dragon on little wheels?»
«Yes Dad. And here’s a real Native American chief on his iron steed. And finally, here’s some Irish gypsies in their caravans. A great day!»
«Everyone’ll be going their own ways now, but most of them will be going to the local, to raise a glass for Ireland! For our Ireland, Dad! And for the arrival of your birthday!»
«Has my birthday «arrived’?» he asked sadly, «or has it «caught up’ with me?»
«You’re only kidding, Dad.»
«That’s all I have left,» he sighed heavily, but still forced a smile so as not to upset her. «I probably look terrible, don’t I?»
«No, you look fine. Just let me comb you a bit…»
She reached into her handbag, one of generous proportions, producing a plastic comb and starting to carefully comb her father’s hair, which was almost as thick and red as her own, towards the back of his head, as he liked it. She then got started on his beard and ears. «A sight for sore eyes! You’re handsome now, dad!» she gave him a peck on the nose, which was funny to watch from the side on.
«By the way, Mum rang me, she’s coming soon. She’s bringing a hotpot of your favourite mutton ragù with her. It’s really nice, I’ve already taste tested it, like you taught me to…»
«She should’ve brought me a pint of Guinness,» Kevin grumbled.
«I think you can leave the beer, Dad. Don’t you like tea too? And that reminds me, I made your favourite barmbrack bread with cream…»
«With cream…» he repeated, gazing wistfully at the ceiling, which was as white as snow, and in the middle of which a crack was becoming gradually more visible.
«Yes, with handpicked raisins. Finger licking good!» having said this, she shuddered, realising that what she had just said was a mistake. Her father could not lick his fingers. Now he could do absolutely nothing. He, Kevin O’Brian, the biggest male presence in her life, a man once of a strong and athletic physique, was now a frail, pathetic, feeble existence, unable to move arm or leg. He could not lift himself up from the bed by himself even slightly. Illness had made him completely unrecognisable. He had had no appetite for a long time now, and only after persistent persuasion from his wife or daughter would he agree to eat even a few spoonfuls of food, holding it in his mouth for ages until it turned into a liquid and poured like slush into his stomach, a stomach withered from hunger. He had been right… Tormented by illness, joking was all he had left.
«Dad,» she said after a few moments’ pause, «Dad, I wanted to tell you, that I… I love you!» A few tears emerged from her emerald green eyes, despite all her efforts to hold them back. They left two clear, dark and grim lines running down her lightly applied make-up. Two of them fell heavily upon her high, silken wrapped chest.
«Is that true?», he looked at her and smiled. Noticing tears in her eyes, he decided to cheer her up, saying, «Was this even slightly more than you loved buttercream, Erin?»
«Of course, Dad. So much more than buttercream!» she snuggled up to his pale, motionless arm and twirled the bracelet on it used by hospital staff to identify the patient. Before giving him his medicine, the staff always scanned the bracelet bar-code. Then they almost always proceeded to ask the patient for his date of birth and surname, because you can’t be too careful.
«And I… I love you more than anything else on earth… I don’t remember if I ever told you this, but you almost died at birth. They brought you to me, a tiny little thing, swaddled in a cotton cloth. I remember how carefully I took you into my arms, and my eyes filled with tears of joy. Yes, a huge joy, even though I really wanted a son… hmm…» he broke off for a moment, but then continued, «…but when God gave you to me, I felt an exquisite happiness. And really, what difference does it make if you have a son or daughter!»
Erin sat and listened to this account in silence.
«I knew nothing about raising children, especially not girls. I probably wasn’t a very good father to you…»
«What are you on about, Dad! You were and are the best father on earth! You’re my hero! And you are still a loving husband to Mum. I want my future husband to treat me like you treat her.»
«You’re exaggerating, Erin.»
«No, I’m not! When I was a child, you lifted me up in your arms, and when you swung me around it took my breath away, you threw me up in the air and caught me, you never dropped me…»
«Yes, it was all well and good back then, when you were small, and I didn’t have backpains…»
«You were always by my side, dad. You always took a keen interest in my hobbies and were always ready to come and help me. We even kept secrets from Mum, remember how much we loved hide-and-seek? You taught me how to dance the jig and tell a reel from a hornpipe?»
«I remember it took you a long time to master the stepdance,» he said.
«Yes. You kept saying «feel the rhythm’, «keep your back straight and your head up’, «don’t look at your feet.» It was hilarious! Remember when they took the mickey out of me at school and called me a «red-headed broomstick’, you made me feel better, you told me I was the most beautiful in the school by a country mile… like a princess!»
«And you grew up to be a woman full of self-confidence, a woman able to achieve success.»
«I saw how you enjoyed every moment we spent together, although I think you raised me to be a tomboy.»
«How do you mean?» Kevin looked the other way, «probably because I took you with me to go fishing and watch horseracing? Or because I took you hiking in the hills with me to study nature?»
«Not just the hiking! We went to the circus together, and the theatre! Remember you taught me to play the guitar and the harmonica? And hurling! Those wooden bats are still waiting for us, Dad.»
Her father sighed again, but to her enthusiasm he did not respond. She continued: «That wasn’t all for nothing! Thanks to what you taught me, Dad, I learned to stand up for myself. You trusted me more, and gave me more freedom than Mum did.»
«But Mum wanted to keep you out of trouble, you understand?»
«Of course, but that’s no reason to restrict someone’s freedom… With a good upbringing, a daughter will know to keep out of trouble, right?»
«Right, Erin, you are an adult, a fully independent person, and the day is coming when you will leave our house and make your own way in life. But I just want to let you know that our door is always open for you to return if you want to. And it doesn’t matter what age you are or whatever your circumstances may be, you can always come back.»
«Thanks, Dad! And by the way, I have a present for you…» she reached into her handbag and produced a neatly folded green t-shirt. «Read the front…» she unfolded it, and Kevin smiled, reading with great pride the large lettering across the shirt: «Kiss me, I’m Irish!»
«Let me put it on you for this sacred day. For your day! You can’t say no! Otherwise, everyone not too lazy to get up will see and have a go at you for not donning the green for this day. Even Her Majesty is in green today…»
He closed his eyes, indicating consent, and the ensuing procedure took several difficult minutes.
«How are things in our pob?» he inquired quietly.
«Dad, you have to say «pub’», she softly corrected him.
«Not a chance! «Pubs’ are English boozers. Ours is an Irish pob! How is business going?»
«It’s all going well, Dad. Great, even! They all told me to give you their regards and wish you a speedy recovery. It’s just that…»
«Just what?» Kevin asked, a shade uneasily.
«The barmen are offended that we don’t allow them to take tips from customers. They complain that they give it their all like factory workers, but that if they worked elsewhere they’d be earning more money to live on…»
«You know, Erin,» he interrupted her, «some people think that just fulfilling their everyday duties at work is some sort of great feat. When generally, to be honest, I’m only ever satisfied with their work. You remind them that in Irish pobs you never ever take tips. Tell you what, daughter… Increase their pay by 20%. I want them to be happy… We’re like a family.»
«That is generous, to say the least. Fine, Dad, so it shall be,» she gave him an obedient nod of her head.
«Have you managed to hire another two waitresses? Remember? You told me you would.»
«Yes, last week eight hopefuls came. They filled in application forms. Going off how they described themselves, you’d think they knew this job well. But really, they couldn’t even hold a tray properly.»
«Erin, you’ve got to be more realistic; don’t try to find ideal staff. Where can they be found in a country as obviously imperfect as this one?»
«Eventually I did find two waitresses, but it wasn’t easy. I am not letting them serve people yet, I want them to have a bit of preparation first. One of them, to be honest, is not very bright, but she has cooking experience. It would be best if I could try to use her potential there…»
«You’ve become a good manager, Erin! And I’m glad that you have done a good job of covering for me for six months now, since these terrible headaches started.»
«I had to do it! Work brings me joy. In the end, this is our business, our family business. And I’m proud of it!»
«And I’m proud of you, Erin…» then he groaned heavily, closing his eyes as he did so, «the pain… It’s killing me…» a nurse ran in and injected something into his veins, and this soon relieved the pain. But for how long? When the nurse came back again about five minutes later and asked how the sick man was feeling, he smiled at her and responded with a question of his own:
«I’m fine, thank you! I was just wondering as to the chances of success if I hit on you, my Miss Lifesaver?» and what life suddenly returned to his eyes! Obviously, he was in suffering, but he retained his manliness and the smile on his gaunt face. Erin was aggravated by his words, and she feared the nurse would not see the funny side either. She lowered her eyes, and her pretty face blushed crimson.
«That someone as macho as you could succeed is beyond doubt!» the nurse answered without thinking twice, breaking into a smile. Seeing Erin’s agitated face, she added relaxedly: «It’s ok for patients to do that, Miss… Get well soon, Mister O’Brian! If you need me again, you know where the button is,» and leaving his white walled room, furnished with electronics, and the increasingly visible crack in the ceiling, she noiselessly shut the door behind her.
«By the way, Erin» he addressed his daughter. «At my funeral, I want you to pour a bottle of Irish whiskey on my grave.»
«Dad, there you go again!»
«Will you do that? Look at me!» he demanded half seriously, half-jokingly.
«Well, if you want me to…» she answered dutifully, not anticipating the wisecrack on his part, and hurriedly looked at the floor.
