Every day, an elderly lady steps out into the courtyard of our block of flats. She is about eighty, always dressed neatly and with care. I move into the building at the end of autumn. Each morning, on my way to work, I see my neighbour. Sometimes she sits on a bench beneath a large plane tree, sometimes she walks slowly, leaning on her cane.
After a while, we start exchanging greetings. I pause for a moment to ask after Eleanor Smiths health and wish her a good day. She always returns my smile warmly and thanks me.
At the end of December, a new resident appears in our courtyard: a dog. He looks young, being quite small, but no one knows where he has come from.
He is a scruffy, dirty creature, his coat tangled, with no clear breed. The moment Eleanor offers him a piece of sausage, his fate is sealed: from that day he stays in the courtyard. He probably would not have survived elsewhere, given how miserable he looks.
Most of the flatowners are not thrilled by his presence. Many try to drive him away, shouting, Go on, get out of here! as he approaches, looking at them with pleading eyes, silently begging for food.
Nevertheless, he sometimes manages to get something someone tosses him a crust of bread, another a small bone. Eleanor also brings him dry biscuits or stale bread, speaking softly while she scratches his head, calling him Scruffy.
In spring, when the snow has almost melted away, I meet Eleanor one morning in the courtyard. She tells me she will leave that evening with her granddaughter for the countryside and will stay there until autumn.
Possibly even until the end of autumn, she adds. Out there we have a stove, and by its side it stays warm even on the coldest nights.
She makes me promise to visit her.
At the end of August, I finally decide to go see Eleanor. After buying her a small gift for a few pounds, I take the bus toward the village where she is staying.
When I arrive, I find her sitting on the veranda, peeling large red apples. Beside her, stretched out on the wooden step, the dog rests peacefully.
Scruffy, come on, greet our guest! the old lady calls.
The dog leaps, wagging his fluffy tail, and runs toward me.
He is a magnificent animal, his coat glossy and wavy, sparkling in the sunlight.
MrsSmith, is this really the same scruffy dog from our courtyard? I ask, surprised.
Yes, its him! He turns out to be a real beauty! Eleanor replies with a smile. Come in, lets have a tea. You must tell me all the news from the city!
We sit at the table for a long while, drinking cherryflavoured tea and chatting. After his porridge, Scruffy curls up near the hot stove, sighing softly in his sleep perhaps dreaming of something
Outside, a light breeze makes the branches of the apple tree sway, and large, ripe red apples drift gently onto the grass.
