Each morning, long before the city awoke, I would pass the little courtyard that lay at the back of the old terrace houses on High Street in Bramley. There, as if she were a fixture of the place, an elderly woman of about eighty would emerge, always dressed with a neatness that seemed to defy her years. I had moved into the block at the close of autumn, and on my way to the mill I would invariably see her. Sometimes she perched on the bench beneath the towering lime tree, other times she shuffled slowly along the path, leaning on a polished oak cane.
In time we began to exchange greetings. I would pause, ask after the health of Mrs. Ethel Whitaker, and wish her a pleasant day. She would always return my words with a warm smile and a grateful nod.
At the end of December a stray dog appeared in the courtyard. It was small and ragragged, its coat matted, its breed impossible to tell. No one knew where it had come from. When Mrs. Whitaker offered it a slice of pork sausage, its fate was sealed: from that moment it made the courtyard its home. In its shabby state it might never have survived elsewhere.
Most of the tenants were not pleased. They would shout, Shoo! Off with you! whenever the animal approached, its pleading eyes silently begging for a scrap. Yet, on occasion, someone would toss a crust of bread, another a small bone. Mrs. Whitaker herself would bring stale bread rolls or hard biscuits, gently patting the creatures head and calling it Paws.
When the snow finally melted in early spring, I met Mrs. Whitaker in the courtyard and she told me she would be leaving that very evening with her granddaughter for the country, where they would stay until autumn. Possibly even until the end of autumn, she added. There is a coal stove there, and it stays warm by the fire even on the coldest nights. She asked me to promise a visit.
In late August, after much hesitation, I bought a modest presentjust a few pounds worth of tea and a loaf of oatcakesand took the bus to the little village where she was staying. I found her seated on the veranda, peeling large, rosy apples. Lying on the wooden step was a dog, calm as a summers day.
Paws, come and greet our guest! the old lady called.
The dog leapt up, its tail wagging, and trotted toward me. Its coat, now glossy and wavy, caught the sunlight and shone like a ribbon of amber.
Mrs. Whitaker, is this truly the same scruffy Paws from our courtyard? I asked, astonished.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned out to be a real beauty, she replied, smiling. Come in, let us have a cup of tea. You must tell me all the news from the town!
We sat for a long while at the low table, drinking cherryinfused tea and swapping stories of the citys happenings. After his porridge, Paws curled into a ball beside the warm stove, sighing softly as if dreaming of something dear.
Outside, a gentle breeze made the branches of the orchard sway, and ripe, red apples drifted slowly to the grass, their fall a quiet reminder of the seasons passage.
