Every day, an elderly lady would step out into the courtyard of the tenstorey council block where I lived. She was about eighty, always dressed neatly and with great care. I had moved into the building at the tail end of autumn. Each morning, on my way to the mill, I would see my neighbour. Sometimes she sat on the bench beneath a towering lime tree, other times she shuffled slowly, leaning on her wooden cane.
After a while we began to exchange greetings. I would pause a moment to ask after the health of MrsEthel Green and wish her a pleasant day. She always smiled warmly and thanked me.
At the end of December a new resident appeared in our courtyard: a dog. He seemed young, small in stature, but no one knew where he had come from. He was a scruffy, dirty creature, his coat tangled, with no clear breed. The moment Ethel tossed him a slice of pork sausage, his fate was sealed: from that day onward he remained in the courtyard. In his sorry state he probably would not have survived elsewhere.
Most of the tenants were not thrilled by his presence. Many tried to drive him away, shouting Off with you, you mongrel! whenever he shuffled close, eyes pleading for a morsel. Yet he sometimes managed to get somethinga crust of bread from one, a small bone from another. Ethel would also bring him stale biscuits or hard bread, speaking softly as she patted his head, calling him Paws.
When the snow had almost completely melted in early spring, I met Ethel in the courtyard one morning. She told me she would be leaving that very evening with her granddaughter to stay in the country until autumn. Perhaps even until the end of autumn, she added. Out there we have a castiron stove, and by its glow it stays warm even on the coldest nights. She made me promise to visit her.
In late August I finally set off to see Ethel. After buying her a small token, I caught the bus for the village where she was staying. When I arrived I found her seated on the verandah, peeling large red apples. Beside her, stretched across the wooden step, lay a dog resting peacefully.
Paws, come and greet our guest! the old lady called.
The dog leapt up, tail wagging, and bounded toward me. He was a splendid animal now, his coat sleek and wavy, catching the sunshine.
MrsEthel, is this truly the same ragged Paws from our courtyard? I asked, astonished.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned into a real beauty! she replied with a smile. Come in, have a cup of tea. You must tell me all the news from the town!
We lingered at the table for a long while, sipping cherryinfused tea and chatting. After his porridge, Paws curled up by the hot stove, sighing softly in his sleepperhaps dreaming of something. Outside, a gentle breeze made the appletree branches sway, and ripe red apples fell slowly onto the grass.
Now, many years later, I still recall that little courtyard, the kindly Ethel, and the stray that became a beloved garden dog, a reminder of the quiet kindness that can blossom in even the most ordinary of English neighbourhoods.
