Today I watched the old lady who lives in the courtyard of my block go about her routine. Shes about eighty, always neat and dressed with care. I moved into the building at the end of autumn, and each morning on my way to work Id spot my neighbour. Sometimes shed be perched on a bench beneath a towering oak, other times shed shuffle slowly, leaning on her cane.
After a while we began to exchange greetings. Id pause briefly to ask after Margaret Whitakers health and wish her a good day. Shed always return my words with a warm smile and a grateful nod.
At the end of December a new resident appeared in the courtyard: a dog. It seemed young, because it was small, but no one knew where it had come from. It was a scruffy, dirty creature with matted fur and no obvious breed. The moment Margaret tossed it a piece of sausage, its fate was sealed; from that day it stayed in the yard. It probably wouldnt have survived elsewhere, given how pitiful it looked.
Most of the flatowners werent thrilled about the intruder. Many tried to shoo it away, shouting Go on, get off! whenever it trotted over, eyes pleading for a morsel. Yet now and then someone would fling a slice of bread or a small bone its way. Margaret would also bring it crackers or stale bread, speaking softly while patting its head, calling it Paw.
When the snow had almost melted in spring, I met Margaret one morning in the courtyard. She told me she would leave that evening with her granddaughter for the country and stay there until autumn. Possibly even until the end of autumn, she added. There we have a stove, and next to it its warm even on the coldest nights. She asked me to promise a visit.
In late August I finally made the trip to see her. After buying her a small present, I caught the bus heading for the village where she was staying, paying the modest fare of £2.50. When I arrived, I found her sitting on the veranda, peeling large red apples. Lying on the wooden steps beside her, a dog rested contentedly.
Paw, come on, greet our guest! the old lady called.
The dog leapt up, wagging its fluffy tail, and raced toward me. It was a beautiful animal now, with a glossy, wavy coat that caught the sunlight.
Mrs. Whitaker, is this really the same scruffy Paw from our courtyard? I asked, surprised.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned out to be quite the handsome fellow, Margaret replied with a smile. Come in, have a cup of tea. Tell me all the news from the town!
We sat at the table for a long while, sipping cherryflavoured tea and chatting. After his porridge, Paw curled up by the hot stove, sighing softly in his sleepperhaps dreaming of something. Outside, a gentle breeze made the apple tree branches sway, and ripe red apples drifted slowly onto the grass.
