Each morning, as the fog lifts from the brick courtyard of the council block on Oxford Street, a frail woman slips out onto the paved square. She is about eighty, dressed neatly, her coat buttoned with the care of a lifelong habit. I moved into the building at the close of autumn. On my way to work I would always see hersometimes perched on a bench beneath an old lime tree, sometimes shuffling slowly, cane in hand, her eyes scanning the world as if measuring its pulse.
Soon we fell into a quiet ritual. I would pause, ask how Eleanor Green was faring, wish her a pleasant day, and she would return my greeting with a warm smile, a nod that seemed to steady the very air around us.
At the end of December a new resident appeared in the courtyard: a dog. It was small, scruffy, its coat a tangled mess of whatever breed it might have been. No one knew where it had come from. When Eleanor tossed it a piece of sausage, something clicked; from that moment the creature made the courtyard its home, its raglike appearance too pitiful to survive elsewhere.
Most of the flatmates were not pleased. They shouted, Go on, get off! whenever the animal padded up, its eyes pleading, its ribs whispering for a scrap. Yet sometimes a neighbour would fling a crust of bread, another a tiny bone. Eleanor fed it stale biscuits and crusty loaf, speaking softly as she stroked its head, calling it Paws.
When spring finally melted the last of the snow, I found Eleanor in the courtyard one crisp morning. She told me she would leave that very evening with her granddaughter for the countryside and would not return until autumn.
Possibly even till the end of autumn, she added. Theres a woodburning stove in the cottage; near it it stays warm no matter how cold the night gets.
She made me promise to visit.
In late August I finally took the plunge. I bought a modest gifta tin of biscuits costing a few poundsand caught the bus to the village where she was staying.
She was seated on the verandah, peeling large, rosy apples. Lying on a wooden step beside her was a dog, eyes halfclosed, tail thumping lazily.
Paws, come on, greet our guest! Eleanor called.
The dog sprang up, its tail a jubilant plume, and raced toward me. Its coat, now glossy and rippling in the sunshine, looked almost regal.
Mrs. Green, is this truly the same shaggy Paws from our courtyard? I asked, astonishment trembling in my voice.
Yes, thats him! she laughed, her eyes twinkling. Hes turned into a real beauty! She gestured inside. Come in, have a cup of tea. I need to hear all the news from the city!
We lingered at the table, sipping cherryinfused tea, swapping stories. After his porridge, Paws curled into a tight ball by the stove, sighing softly in his sleepas if dreaming of something long forgotten.
Outside, a gentle breeze sent the apple trees branches swaying, and ripe, red apples drifted down onto the grass, landing with a quiet thud.
