Every morning, as the mist lifted from the roofs of the old terraced houses in the little suburb of Ashby, I would see Mrs. Ethel Whitaker stepping out into the back garden of our block. She was barely past her eightieth year, yet she always dressed with a neatness that seemed to defy her age.
I had taken a flat there at the close of autumn, and on my way to the factory each day my eyes fell upon that same garden. Sometimes Mrs. Whitaker sat on the bench beneath a towering lime tree; other times she ambled slowly, her cane tapping the cobbles.
In time we began to exchange greetings. I would pause a moment, ask how Mrs. Whitaker fared, and wish her a pleasant day. She would smile warmly, a twinkle in her eye, and thank me.
At the end of December a stray dog appeared in the garden. It was small, its coat a tangled mass of matted fur, and no one could tell its breed. When Mrs. Whitaker tossed a scrap of sausage to the beast, its fate was sealed: from that day it lingered there, a creature that might not have survived elsewhere in such a wretched state.
Most of the other tenants were none too pleased. They would shout, Shoo! Off with you! whenever the animal came close, looking up with pleading eyes that seemed to beg in silence for a morsel. Yet on occasion someone would fling a crust of bread, another a little bone. Mrs. Whitaker fed it stale biscuits and hard bread, speaking gently while ruffling its head, calling it Paws.
When the last snow of spring melted away, I met Mrs. Whitaker one bright morning in the garden. She told me she would be leaving that evening with her granddaughter for the countryside, staying there until autumn.
Possibly even until the end of autumn, she added. Theres a coal stove there, and by its fire it stays warm even on the coldest nights.
She asked me to promise a visit.
In late August I finally took her up on that promise. After buying her a small present, I caught the coach for the village where she was staying.
She was perched on the veranda, peeling large red apples, while a dog lay stretched out on the wooden step beside her.
Paws, come and greet our guest! she called.
The dog sprang up, his tail wagging exuberantly, and trotted toward me. His coat now shone, sleek and rippling in the sun.
Mrs. Whitaker, is this really the same scruffy Paws from our garden? I asked, astonished.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned into a right handsome fellow, she replied with a smile. Come in, have a cup of tea. You must tell me everything thats happened in town!
We sat for hours at the kitchen table, sipping cherryinfused tea and chatting. After his porridge, Paws curled up by the warm stove, sighing softly in his sleep, as if dreaming of something dear.
Outside, a gentle breeze set the apple trees branches to dancing, and ripe red apples drifted down onto the grass, landing with a quiet thump.
Even now, years later, I recall that garden, the kindly old lady, and the dog that grew from a tangle of fur into a polished companion, a reminder of how small acts of kindness linger long after the seasons have turned.
