Every morning Id head out of my flat in the little court at the bottom of the block, just after the autumn leaves had started to turn. Theres an old lady whos been around forever she must be about eighty, always dressed neat as a new pin. I first saw her when I moved in at the end of October. Shed either be perched on a bench under the big lime tree or shuffling slowly with her cane, humming to herself.
After a few weeks we started nodding and saying hello. Id pause for a sec, ask how MrsEthel Whitaker was getting on, wish her a good day and shed flash me that warm smile of hers and thank me kindly.
Then, right at the end of December, a scruffy little dog showed up in the court. Nobody knew where it had come from it was tiny, a tangled mess of fur, no clear breed. The moment Ethel tossed it a bite of sausage, it was as good as adopted; from then on it made the court its home. It looked miserable enough that it probably wouldnt have made it elsewhere.
Most of the other residents werent thrilled. A few would shout, Off with you, you mutt! whenever it came over with those pleading eyes, silently begging for a scrap. Still, it managed to snag a few things someone would fling a piece of crust his way, another a little bone. Ethel was the only one who seemed to really care, feeding it stale biscuits or leftover bread, patting its head and calling it Patch.
When the snow finally melted in early spring, I ran into Ethel in the courtyard and she told me she was heading off that evening with her granddaughter to the country and would be staying there until autumn maybe even the end of it. Weve got a woodburner there, so its cosy even on the coldest nights, she said, and asked me to promise to pop by sometime.
Come August, I finally made the trip. I bought her a small present, caught the bus to the village where she was staying, and found her on the veranda, peeling big red apples. Lying stretched out on the wooden steps beside her was a dog, eyes bright and tail wagging.
Patch, come on, greet our guest! Ethel called.
The dog leapt up, tail a blur, and trotted over to me. He was a gorgeous sight now sleek, glossy coat catching the sun. MrsWhitaker, is this really the same scruffy Patch from our court? I asked, surprised.
Sure enough, she laughed. Hes grown into a proper beauty! She ushered me inside for a cuppa. Come on, sit down, tell me all the city gossip.
We lingered over tea with a splash of cherry cordial, chatting away. After his porridge, Patch curled up by the warm stove, sighing softly as he drifted off perhaps dreaming of his old courtyard. Outside, a gentle breeze made the apple trees sway, and ripe red apples drifted down onto the grass.
