When I had finished I slipped quietly through the cat flap and stood on the patio, my tail twitching as I considered my options. Although there was very little I would miss about this house, I was not naive – I knew there was no certainty I would find anything better elsewhere. Still, I promised myself that I would not settle for second best. The next place I called home would be somewhere I could be the kind of cat I wanted to be: a cat who would make Margery proud.
7
I made my way down the side of the house, slipped under the garden gate onto the pavement and started walking. The streets were empty and the houses were dark, their residents still sleeping. It had been almost twenty-four hours since my last meal, so breakfast was a pressing concern. Fortunately dawn was the perfect hour for hunting, and it didn’t take me long to find a shrew scurrying underneath a hedge.
As the sun rose, the neighbourhood began to come to life. It was a crisp autumn morning. The sun was bright but not yet warm, and a cool breeze whipped the fallen leaves into flurries along the pavement. I watched as people rushed from their houses, slamming their front doors behind them, before jumping into their cars. I knew that it was not too late to change my mind: I could turn around, go back to Rob’s house and carry on as before, as if nothing had happened. But my resolve was firm, and I was certain that I would not be dissuaded from my plan, even if I wasn’t sure yet what that plan was.
I padded along the pavement, crossing roads and turning corners at random, with no conscious purpose other than to keep moving. Eventually, I arrived at a small children’s playground at the outskirts of Rob’s housing estate. Although I could not have been walking for much more than an hour, I was beginning to feel weary, and the expanse of soft grass in the empty playground looked inviting. I squeezed under the iron gate and made my way towards the sunniest corner of the playground, beyond a row of swings. As I got closer, I realized there was already a cat there, washing.
‘Hello,’ I called. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
The cat jumped slightly at the sound of my voice, but I was relieved to see that her expression when she turned to look at me was friendly.
‘I’m Molly,’ I said, by way of introduction.
As I got closer I recognized the black cat with green eyes who I had seen around the neighbourhood.
‘Hello, Molly. Be my guest,’ she replied.
I sat down next to her and closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. She continued to wash, and we sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
‘I’ve seen you around. You’re new to the neighbourhood, aren’t you?’ she asked.
I opened my eyes. ‘Yes, I’ve been here a few weeks. Got rehomed here. Don’t think I’m staying, though,’ I added.
The black cat looked at me and I detected a smile in her eyes. ‘Let me guess. Three dogs: one muscle-bound dunce and two psychotic midgets. Am I right?’
I looked at her open-mouthed. ‘Yes, how did you . . . ?’
‘I’m Nancy.’
I stared at her, trying to place the name. It took me a moment, but suddenly I was transported back to David’s car, overhearing Rob talking about a previous cat who had disappeared, scared off by the dogs. Nancy had been her name, I was sure of it.
‘Are you – were you – did you live with Rob before?’ I stammered.
‘Correct,’ she replied, before wrinkling her nose in distaste at the memory. ‘I was wondering how long you’d last,’ she added conspiratorially.
‘Did you know I was there?’ I asked, disconcerted to think she had been observing me for all this time.
‘I was keeping an eye on you, of course. Why do you think you kept bumping into me on the street? You seemed to be coping admirably, so I thought it better not to get involved.’
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this revelation, so I said nothing.
‘So where do you live now?’ I asked after a few moments. ‘Rob said you ran away and he never saw you again.’
Nancy narrowed her eyes ruefully. ‘I don’t think he looked very hard for me. But I’m still around, as you can see.’
‘So, who’s your new owner?’ My heart surged with excitement – perhaps Nancy’s new owner might have room for another of Rob’s refuseniks.
Nancy took a deep breath and her brow furrowed. ‘You know what – I’m not sure that I’m okay with this whole “owner” concept. It doesn’t pay to be dependent on one human. Just look at what happens if you end up with one like Rob, for instance.’
I tilted my head in acknowledgement.
‘My current arrangement is rather more . . . liberal, you could say.’
‘So, you don’t have a home? Are you a stray?’ I wasn’t sure if I liked the sound of Nancy’s ‘liberal arrangement’.
Nancy looked horrified. ‘A stray! Of course not. I have several homes – it’s just that none of them are . . . exclusive.’ She shot me a mischievous look, then started to lick one of her front paws.
‘Oh, okay,’ I replied, wondering whether such an arrangement would suit me. ‘So how many homes do you have?’
She paused mid-wash and stared into the middle distance, as if counting in her head. ‘Probably around six at the moment,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘Give or take a couple.’
She glanced at me, amused by my look of confusion.
‘You get to take your pick of where to eat, where to sleep, who to spend time with,’ she explained. ‘No commitments, no responsibilities. It’s a good deal – you should try it.’
I tried to picture myself living like that, trotting between streets from one home to another, deciding on a whim which owner to grace with my presence that evening.
‘Hmm, I’m not sure. It sounds kind of fun, but I think I’m a one-owner kind of cat, really.’
‘Fair enough,’ Nancy replied amiably. ‘Each to their own.’
She carried on cleaning her paw while I sat, deep in thought.
‘So what was the final straw then? At Rob’s? What made you leave?’ she asked.
Fortunately cats’ blushes aren’t visible through their fur, but I could feel my face burn as the degrading spectacle of me swinging from Stan’s jowls came into my mind.
‘Oh, well, I tried to eat one of the dogs’ biscuits—’ I began, sheepishly.
‘Which dog?’ Nancy interjected.
‘Stan,’ I answered.
She winced and sucked through her teeth.
‘And then he went for me and I kind of . . . lost it.’
Nancy was looking at me intently, clearly delighting in the vicarious experience of exacting revenge on her old foe. She nodded at me to continue.
‘So I sort of . . . ’ I tried to recreate my pose as I had launched myself at Stan: forelegs stretched out, claws bared.
Nancy’s eyes widened.
‘And then I kind of . . . flew. At his nose.’
She squeaked with delight.
‘But then I found I was sort of . . . stuck. On his face.’ I mimed myself hanging from my front paws.
Nancy’s reaction made me see the funny side of the episode for the first time, and I started to enjoy telling the story.
‘He tried to shake me off, but couldn’t, because I was kicking him in the chest.’ I pumped my back legs against the ground to demonstrate.
‘He eventually shook me off, but I took a fair chunk of his face with me.’
‘That. Is. Brilliant,’ she said approvingly. ‘I wish I had been there to see it.’
‘It didn’t really feel brilliant at the time, but Rob seemed to find it hilarious.’
We sat side by side, intermittently washing and comparing experiences of life with Rob and his dogs.
‘So where do you think I should go then, to find a new owner?’ I asked at last. ‘I don’t want to stay around here.’ The thought of Rob finding me and taking me back to his house or, even worse, calling David to come and get me did not bear thinking about.
Nancy lifted her chin and looked around thoughtfully.
‘I suppose the best thing might be to head for town. I think it’s just a few miles that way.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the main road which ran alongside the playground. ‘There will be plenty of potential owners there, I’m sure of it. Although maybe you should spend a few days with me, before you set off,’ she added. ‘I can give you a few pointers. You don’t strike me as a cat who’s had to fend for herself before.’
I had to concede that she was right, and I gratefully accepted her offer.
Over the next few days I stuck close to Nancy as she shared her survival tips, such as how to sneak in through cat flaps to steal other cats’ food, and how to scavenge from dustbins. She showed me how to find overnight shelter, and how to cross busy roads safely. I eagerly absorbed everything she told me, secretly hoping I wouldn’t ever be called upon to use these skills.
She also taught me what she called her feline–human management strategy. It had never occurred to me to have a strategy in my relations with humans – to me, it was a straightforward case of find an owner you love and hope they love you back.
‘Humans always think they know what they want,’ Nancy explained, ‘but they don’t always know what they need. That’s where a cat comes in. You can be the one to show them.’
I wasn’t sure I understood what she meant, but I nodded eagerly nonetheless.
At last Nancy seemed satisfied that I was capable of surviving on my wits alone, and we set off early one morning for the playground at the edge of the estate.
‘Town’s that way,’ she said, looking north along the main road. ‘Stick to the hedgerows. There should be plenty of wildlife in there to keep you going, and farms along the way. And don’t cross this road unless you absolutely have to,’ she added with a look of sincere concern.
I nodded.
‘You know you can always come back, if things don’t work out. I’ll be here. I’m sure we could find you a home, or six.’
Her offer touched me, and for the first time I felt a twinge of disquiet about what lay ahead. Was I doing the right thing? I wondered. I may not have found an owner, but I had found a friend. Was I crazy to be leaving Nancy behind and setting out for an uncertain future in some unknown town?
As if she’d read my mind Nancy said, ‘You’ll be fine, I know it. You’ve been trained by the best, after all.’
She blinked at me and then leant forward. We touched noses briefly, a fleeting gesture that we both knew meant goodbye.
‘Well, go on then – off you go!’ she said, feigning impatience.
‘Thank you,’ I stuttered. Feeling my eyes start to prickle, I turned away. I slipped under the playground gate and across the grassy verge to the hedgerow that ran parallel to the road. I turned and looked at Nancy, who was watching me intently, her tail erect in salutation. I lifted my tail to mirror her posture, before turning to face the track ahead of me, ready to take my first steps as an independent cat.
8
Heeding Nancy’s words, I stayed close to the hedgerow that bordered the road, keeping well clear of the cars that roared past. Before long, Rob’s housing estate had disappeared behind a dip in the road and I was in open countryside.
My days quickly developed a rhythm. I hunted at dawn and dusk, walked during the daylight hours and found shelter overnight in the hedgerows and stone walls that criss-crossed the adjacent fields. My paw pads were soon sore from the constant walking, my legs ached, and I felt permanently exhausted. Having always considered washing to be an aid to meditation as much as a physical necessity, it was a shock to realize that a thorough top-to-toe wash was now a daily essential to remove the mud and burrs my fur had picked up. I was surprised, however, to find that I slept better in the open air than I ever had in Rob’s house. In spite of being exposed to the elements, my physical exertion meant that I slept deeply and soundly, from the moment I closed my eyes, until the sound of the dawn birdsong woke me.
Outdoor life was tiring and uncomfortable, but in those early days it was also exhilarating. Over time, my physical stamina improved and my hunting technique, which had always been somewhat half-hearted, was honed to brutal efficiency. I also became familiar with the natural world in a way that had never been necessary as an indoor cat. My knowledge of birds had been limited to those I could see from my windowsill – I had never troubled myself to wonder where they nested, or what they ate. Now I was learning that certain hedges were guaranteed to attract the songbirds that loved to feast on their berries, and I could be sure of a kill if I lurked, motionless, nearby. I could also tell from the reactions of the smaller birds when a bird of prey was hovering above the trees at the side of the road, a useful indicator that small rodents were in the vicinity.
The only signs of human habitation that I encountered were farm buildings. I would make a detour from my track to walk over to them – a night spent in a hay-filled barn felt like luxury, compared to what I had become used to. If I encountered people I would keep my head down and dart behind a wall or a piece of machinery. They would ignore me, assuming I was a farm cat, and I was happy to let them do so.
I had lost count of the number of days that had gone by since leaving the estate. My awareness of time’s passing came from the changes in light and air temperature. I had rarely felt cold when I had set out, and the sunlight had felt warm on my back. As the days had gone by, I was aware that the sun was rising lower in the sky and that its pale rays no longer exuded any warmth. The wind cut through my fur, and when it rained I was forced to seek shelter, otherwise a chill would soak through to my bones, leaving me shivery and weak. I knew that winter was coming, and for the first time I felt a flutter of panic. I didn’t know how far I was from town, but I would have to reach it before the depths of winter set in. I knew I could not survive outdoors once the months of snow and frost arrived.
One damp, grey afternoon I allowed my mind to wander as I plodded along the muddy track. I had tried not to let myself think about Margery since setting off for the town, but in my downcast mood I summoned up memories of winters at her house. There had been a rug on the floor in front of the gas fire, where I would doze for hours, legs outstretched and belly exposed, stirring only to change position when the heat became too much and I would turn so that a different part of my body faced the flames. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever find another home like Margery’s.
In the distance, through the drizzle, I could see what looked like a farm: a cluster of low buildings facing each other across a yard. I began to head towards it with some relief: it had felt like a long day and I was looking forward to a good wash and a nap under a barn roof. Tired though I was, I picked up my pace to a trot. As I reached the grassy verge outside the farm’s entrance, I looked up at the wooden sign painted in a sloping, cursive script: ‘Cotswold Organic’. I peered around the stone pillar at the entrance gate. I saw a tarmacked car park, in which there was not a tractor or trailer to be seen, but rather rows of large cars with tinted glass windows, all of them spotlessly clean. My whiskers twitched with confusion.
I sniffed the air, and instead of the usual sour smell of animal dung and rotting hay I detected the delicious scents of fresh fish and cooked meats. My stomach lurched with hunger and my mouth started to salivate at the thought of prepared food, after my recent diet of rodents and birds. I slipped through the entrance gate and across the car park towards the complex of lime-washed wooden buildings arranged around a flagstone courtyard.
I paused at the edge of the car park. This definitely wasn’t like any other farm I’d come across. It was too clean, and there was a stone fountain tinkling delicately in the middle of the yard. A wooden signpost to my right pointed variously to ‘The Spa’, ‘Cookery School’ and ‘Farm Shop’. The sign indicated that the building on my left was the farm shop, so I tiptoed across to peer through its glazed doors. I was startled when the glass doors slid apart and a woman strode out, practically knocking me off my feet with the hessian shopping bag that was slung over her a
rm.
Before the doors could shut, I dashed inside and hid in the nearest place I could find: underneath a wooden trestle table piled high with fruit and vegetables. I felt relieved to be out of the cold and wet; savouring the feeling of warm air on my damp fur, from heaters above the door. I could see the legs of customers as they moved slowly around the shop floor, although the only sounds were polite murmurings from aproned members of staff as they wrapped items in tissue paper and placed them into large paper bags.
I wondered whether Margery had ever shopped at such a place as this. I remembered how, before her confusion, she had loved to cook fresh meat and fish for us both. The thought crossed my mind that there could be someone like Margery here, someone who might not be averse to taking a friendly – albeit soggy – cat home with their food shopping.
I crept forward and peered out from underneath the table. The customers I could see were all female, but they looked very different from Margery. They were younger, and their clothes seemed to be variations on a theme: tight-fitting jeans, leather boots, padded gilets and long, glossy hair. I watched them as they moved around the displays, picking items from the shelves and studying them, before either dropping them into leather shopping baskets or placing them back on the shelf. I tried to imagine the houses they lived in, and to picture myself in them. But my frame of reference was limited to Margery’s and Rob’s homes, and somehow I couldn’t see any of these women in houses like theirs.
Molly and the Cat Cafe Page 4