Each day an elderly woman steps into the courtyard of our block. She is about eighty, always dressed neatly and with care. I move into the building at the end of autumn. Every morning, on my way to work, I see my neighbour. Sometimes she sits on a bench beneath a large lime tree, sometimes she ambles slowly, leaning on her cane.
After a while we start exchanging greetings. I pause briefly to ask how Mrs. Mabel Jones is doing and wish her a good day. She always returns my smile with warmth and thanks me.
At the end of December a new resident appears in the courtyard a dog. He looks young, small, and no one knows where he came from.
He is a scruffy, dirty creature, coat tangled, with no clear breed. When Mabel offers him a piece of sausage, his fate is sealed: from that moment he stays in the courtyard. He probably wouldnt survive elsewhere, given how wretched he looks.
Most of the flatowners arent thrilled about his presence. Many try to shoo him, shouting Go on, get out of here! whenever he wanders over, eyes pleading for a bite.
Still, he sometimes gets something someone tosses him a crust of bread, another a small bone. Mabel also brings him stale biscuits or dayold bread, speaking softly while patting his head and calling him Patch.
In spring, when the snow has almost melted away, I run into Mabel 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. Theres a woodburning stove, and by its heat it stays cosy even on the coldest nights.
She makes me promise to visit her.
At the end of August I finally decide to see Mabel. After buying her a small present, I take the bus toward the village where she is staying.
When I arrive, I find her seated on the verandah, peeling large red apples. Lying on the wooden step beside her, a dog rests peacefully.
Patch, come on, greet our guest! the old lady calls.
The dog leaps, tail wagging happily, and rushes toward me.
He is a magnificent animal, coat glossy and wavy, glinting in the sunlight.
Mrs. Mabel, is this really the same scruffy Patch from our court? I ask, surprised.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned out to be a real beauty! Mabel replies with a grin. Come in, have a cup of tea. You must tell me all the news from the town!
We sit at the table for a long while, sipping cherryinfused tea and chatting. After his porridge, Patch curls up by the warm stove, sighing softly in his sleep perhaps dreaming of something.
Outside, a gentle breeze makes the appletree branches sway, and large, ripe red apples drift slowly onto the grass.
