‘Crap, as usual,’ Sophie answered bluntly. I had heard her tell Debbie on many occasions that she missed her friends from her old school and wished they had never left Oxford.
Debbie sighed wearily, and I braced myself for the row that would inevitably follow.
‘Look, Sophie, I know it’s hard for you, but give it time. We’ve both got to find our feet here.’ She looked at Sophie pleadingly. ‘It’s not easy for me, either.’ The reference to her own difficulties ignited Sophie’s fury.
‘Not easy for you?’ she repeated sarcastically, her face starting to redden. ‘At least you’ve got Jo and that . . . mangy fleabag’ – she pointed at me – ‘I haven’t got one single friend in this town. And it’s all thanks to you and your fresh start.’
‘Her name is Molly, Sophie, and she doesn’t have fleas,’ Debbie replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
I had heard Debbie and Sophie row on many occasions, but this was the first time I had become the subject of one of their arguments, and I felt excruciatingly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to hear a detailed account of Sophie’s many grievances against me, so I jumped off the sofa and crept out of the room, not wanting to inflame the situation any further by my presence. I walked across the hallway to the kitchen, where I ate a few dry cat biscuits disconsolately.
In the living room Debbie was making every effort not to get drawn into a shouting match, knowing that, if she did, it would end in the same way as all their previous rows: with Sophie storming out of the flat. When she finally spoke, Debbie’s voice was low and calm.
‘Look, Soph, you’re angry, I get that. You didn’t want to leave Oxford, and I get that, too. But we’re here now, and I’m asking – begging – you to accept that I made what I thought was the right choice for us. Not because I wanted a fresh start, but because there was no alternative.’
I crossed the hallway and peered around the living-room door. Sophie was sitting on a dining chair with her shoulders slumped, staring at the carpet. Debbie stood in front of her, her hands on her hips. ‘But you’re right,’ Debbie went on. ‘I have got Jo, and I’ve got Molly, but maybe that’s because I was open to the idea of making friends. You never know, Sophie, it might work for you too, if you try it.’
Sophie was staring at the carpet defiantly, refusing to look at her mother’s face as she talked.
Debbie’s cheeks were flushed, and I could see how much she wanted Sophie to say something – anything – to acknowledge that she had heard her. I pondered the workings of the human mind. I couldn’t fathom why, if Sophie was jealous of Debbie’s affection for me, she made it so difficult for her mother to love her. Her anger was pushing Debbie away, creating a breach between them that was in danger of becoming irreparable.
‘Let’s not make life any harder for ourselves by fighting all the time. Please?’ Debbie’s voice was desperate, but Sophie remained stubbornly silent. Debbie stepped forward to tuck a messy strand of hair out of Sophie’s face, but Sophie batted her hand away. She turned towards the door to avoid Debbie’s gaze and I caught sight of her eyes, which were red and watery. Within seconds she had grabbed her phone from the table and walked past me, out into the hall. Debbie remained in the living room, waiting for the sound of Sophie’s footsteps running downstairs. But instead Sophie walked to the other end of the hall and climbed the stairs to the attic, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
Debbie puffed out her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. I walked over to her and leant against her leg in a show of moral support that I knew would be of little help. Debbie slowly cleared the table, emptying Sophie’s half-eaten meal into the bin and washing up the dirty plates. Then, although it was still early, she turned off the lights in the flat and, without saying goodnight to me, went upstairs to her own bedroom.
I sat in the hallway feeling helpless and confused. I had been relieved that the row had not ended with Sophie storming out, but the pain that seemed to emanate from both of them almost felt worse. It was as if they’d reached a stalemate, and neither of them could see a way out. Based on the way she had treated me, I had no reason to like Sophie, but I knew that Debbie could never be happy unless her daughter was happy too. But while Sophie remained convinced I was part of the problem, it seemed beyond my feline powers to help her.
19
‘Mum, why is there no hot water?’
It was the morning after the argument. Sophie was running the shower in the bathroom as she got ready for school. I stepped out of the living room to find Debbie standing in the hall touching a radiator, an anxious look on her face. ‘Mum!’ Sophie shouted impatiently.
‘I don’t know, Sophie. It must be the boiler. The radiators aren’t working, either.’ Debbie sounded worried, and I could feel the chill in the flat as the residual warmth in the radiators drained away.
Sophie was even more bad-tempered than usual that morning. Having been unable to shower, she acted as though Debbie was responsible for her unwashed hair and freezing bedroom. When Debbie ran downstairs to look at the boiler in the café kitchen I followed her, keen not to become the next object of Sophie’s annoyance.
Debbie was standing in the kitchen talking on the phone. ‘I haven’t got a clue, Jo. The pilot light’s gone out and there’s a fault code on the display, but I can’t find the manual.’ She was rifling through drawers, desperately pulling out yellowing instruction booklets and old takeaway menus. While Jo talked at the other end of the line, Debbie grabbed a pen and scribbled something on the back of a pizza menu. ‘That’s great, thanks, Jo. I’ll give him a call.’
Sophie thundered down the stairs and through the kitchen, running late for her bus.
‘Bye, love, have a good—’ Debbie called after her, but Sophie had slammed the door shut before she could finish. ‘Calm – stay calm,’ Debbie muttered to herself, picking up the phone to dial the number Jo had given her.
About half an hour later I watched from the windowsill as a van pulled up on the cobbles outside the café. A tall, sandy-haired man got out and pulled a bag onto his shoulder before knocking on the door.
‘Thank God you’re here!’ Debbie exclaimed as she unlocked the café and ushered him in.
‘I wish all my clients greeted me like that,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m John. So your boiler’s playing up?’
‘That’s right: the light’s gone out – there’s no water . . .’ Debbie stammered as she led him into the kitchen.
Through the doorway I could see her perched on a stool, drumming her fingers nervously on the worktop while John began to take the boiler apart. His manner remained calm, in spite of Debbie’s evident alarm.
‘Boilers always pick the worst time to pack up, don’t they?’ John said, sensing her anxiety. Debbie smiled tensely. ‘It’s a bit of an antique, this model – must be at least thirty years old,’ he added.
Debbie was unable to contain her impatience any longer. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.
‘It’s not great news, I’m afraid,’ John replied, looking genuinely sorry. ‘You’ve had a leak inside. Water’s been dripping onto the casing. It’s completely corroded in here.’
Debbie stood next to him and peered into the boiler to see the damage for herself.
‘I can patch it up for now, but it’s only a short-term solution. You’re going to need a new boiler, I’m afraid.’
Debbie groaned and sat back down on her stool, her head sinking. I couldn’t see her face clearly from the window, but I could picture her look of reluctant acceptance. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘Right. Okay. If you could do what you can for now, that would be great. I’m going to have to speak to the bank.’
John nodded respectfully and went to fetch his tools from the van. As he walked back into the café he noticed me for the first time. ‘Hello, puss,’ he smiled, making a detour across the café to give me a stroke.
My interest was piqued and I stood up to greet him. As he approached me I noticed that his sandy hair bore a few
streaks of grey and the bridge of his nose was dusted with freckles. As he held out a hand to stroke me, the corners of his eyes crinkled into a smile. I leant forwards to sniff his fingers, and he tousled my ears teasingly. I responded to his playfulness by wrapping my front paws around his wrist, gripping his skin with my claws and biting the side of his thumb.
‘You don’t want to let me go, do you?’ he laughed, wincing in pain as he tried to twist his arm free. ‘And it’s not often I get to say that!’
I noticed Debbie watching us from the kitchen doorway and, expecting to be told off, I loosened my grip. As she walked towards us, however, I was surprised to see that her look of concern had been replaced by an indulgent smile. ‘That’s Molly,’ she said, and she explained how she had found me in the alley and taken me in.
‘And now she thinks she owns the place, by the look of it,’ John joked, and Debbie tilted her head in agreement.
John gave me a final rub behind the ears before setting to work on the boiler. I lay down in my shoebox, listening as he and Debbie chatted. He had grown up in Stourton, he told her. It had changed a lot since his childhood, what with all the second-home owners and the rise in property prices. A lot of the shops in Stourton were still family businesses, though, and had stayed in the same family for generations.
‘This place was empty for a while, if I remember rightly,’ he said. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Coming up to six months,’ Debbie replied. ‘We were in Oxford before. I’ve never run a café before and it’s been a . . . learning curve.’
John smiled. ‘I remember coming here when I was a kid. It was a greasy spoon back then. Although’ – he peered through the kitchen doorway to the café – ‘it hasn’t changed all that much since then. I’m sure that’s been here for at least thirty years!’ He was looking at the ugly serving counter.
‘Oh, has it really?’ Debbie replied, looking aghast at the metal-and-plastic construction. She scanned the café’s interior unhappily. ‘I suppose the whole place could do with a bit of an update, now that you mention it.’
I had been absorbed in observing the two of them, but a movement on the street caught my eye. Sophie was striding along the cobbles, heading home for lunch. As she crossed the street in front of the café she stopped, distracted by something. The old lady with the shopping trolley and curiously coloured hair was on the other side of the street and had said something to her. Sophie pulled a headphone out of one ear, a frown forming as she listened. It was all over in a matter of seconds and then the old lady was on her way again, the wheels of her shopping trolley rattling over the cobbles.
When she pushed open the café door, Sophie’s face was furious.
‘Oh, hi, Soph. We’ve got hot water again if you want a . . . shower . . .’ Debbie had stepped out of the kitchen to greet her, but Sophie barged past, heading straight for the stairs. ‘What’s wrong, love?’ Debbie called, but the only answer was the sound of a door slamming upstairs. Debbie looked at the floor, embarrassed.
‘Teenagers, eh?’ John said sympathetically when she returned to the kitchen, and Debbie managed a weak smile.
He had done what he could and began to pack his tools away. I wandered across the café to sniff at his bag, while Debbie made out a cheque for the work. She was full of gratitude and promised to be in touch soon about replacing the boiler.
John opened his mouth as if to say something, but then paused, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air. He caught sight of me on the floor next to his bag. ‘Bye, Molly, look after the place, won’t you?’ he said, giving me a quick stroke as he lifted the bag to his shoulder.
As he was leaving he popped his head back through the door.
‘You know, I’m sure I could get that stove working for you, if you ever decide to do the place up.’
‘Thanks,’ Debbie replied thoughtfully. ‘I might take you up on that.’
John left, and for a moment Debbie’s eyes lingered on the door after it had closed behind him.
‘You know what, Molly, I think he’s right. This place needs a facelift. And that monstrosity has got to go,’ she said, eyeing the serving counter with disgust.
Part of me wanted to say that I could have told her that weeks ago, but I thought it was enough to purr encouragingly. After her stressful morning it was good to see a sparkle back in Debbie’s eyes, although whether that was down to the thought of doing up the café or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.
20
Debbie arranged for someone to mind the café so that she could spend the following day looking into the business finances. She carried several heavy folders into the living room and spread them across the table, then sat down with a heavy sigh. She had tied her hair back in a ponytail, and reading glasses were perched on her nose as she worked her way through the piles of paper in front of her. During the course of the morning she made numerous lengthy phone calls enquiring about business-development loans and interest rates, and sat listlessly as recorded music was played down the telephone line. Making a show of supportiveness, I sat on the dining table to keep her company, but before long I had dozed off in an empty foolscap box-file.
Debbie was still engrossed in her work when Sophie got home from school. ‘Hello, love. Gosh, is that the time already?’ she said, looking up, startled. She stretched back in her chair, rolling her head from side to side to relieve the tension in her neck. ‘Tell you what, Soph, why don’t I make us both a cup of tea? I could do with a break from all these numbers.’
Sophie was hovering indecisively in the doorway. Her rucksack was still slung over her shoulder, and I eyed it nervously lest her mood turned and she decided to fling it at me. ‘Yeah, okay,’ she replied, placing her bag and jacket on one of the dining chairs.
Debbie disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with two mugs of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits, which she waved in front of Sophie’s nose. ‘I think we’ve earned these, don’t you?’ she said, opening the packet and offering it to her daughter. Sophie smiled and took a biscuit.
‘So, how was school?’ Debbie asked, a flicker of concern in her eyes as she broached what she knew to be a delicate subject.
Sophie shrugged, taking a bite out of a chocolate chip cookie. ‘Dunno,’ she answered vaguely. Debbie smiled, patiently waiting while Sophie finished her mouthful. ‘My form tutor’s still a moron,’ Sophie volunteered, taking a second bite. Debbie smiled sympathetically. ‘But I sat next to Jade on the bus home, and she said the whole school knows he’s an utter—’ Debbie’s eyebrows had shot up and Sophie stopped herself, pausing to choose her words. ‘He’s an unpopular teacher,’ she said carefully, smirking across the rim of her mug.
This was the most information Sophie had disclosed about her school life in all the time I had known her, and I sensed that Debbie wanted to capitalize on her openness. ‘Does Jade live in Stourton too?’ she probed, casually sipping her tea.
Sophie nodded. ‘Yeah. I might meet her in town this weekend actually.’ She had picked up her phone and started to scroll through a backlog of text messages on her screen.
Sensing that her daughter’s interest had wandered elsewhere, Debbie patted her on the arm as she stood up to clear the empty biscuit packet. ‘Sounds like a good idea – the two of you could get a milkshake together.’
Sophie shot Debbie a withering look. ‘Yeah, all right, Mum. We’re not five years old, you know.’
Debbie lifted her hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Of course not, love. I didn’t mean to suggest—’ She stopped, relieved to see that Sophie was smiling at her.
There were further phone calls during the week as Debbie got the finances in place to pay for the planned refurbishment of the café. On Friday evening Sophie reluctantly agreed to help her move the furniture, stacking the chairs and tables inside the kitchen and clearing the serving counter. The sight of the empty café made me melancholy. It reminded me of Margery’s house when it was being packed up, and t
he sadness I had felt at seeing empty floor where once there had been furniture, and marks on the walls where pictures had hung. I did not want to linger downstairs any longer than necessary, and happily ran up to bed with Debbie as soon as she had locked up.
First thing on Saturday morning I heard the bell above the café door tinkle. It was Jo. ‘Right, boss. What’s first?’ she asked cheerily.
Debbie had got up early and was already kneeling on the floor next to the stove. ‘Hi, Jo. Help me get this lino up, would you?’ she answered. ‘John’s coming later to have a look at the stove, so I want to get the fireplace area cleared.’
Jo took off her coat and hung it up, while Debbie started to score at the floor with a Stanley knife.
‘So John’s coming to help? Well, isn’t that kind of him? And on a weekend, too.’
Something about Jo’s tone made Debbie look up. ‘And what’s that face for?’ Debbie said drily, running the blade sharply along the floor.
‘What face? I’m not making a face,’ Jo replied innocently. ‘I’m merely thinking how kind it is of John to give up his weekend to fix your stove.’ A mischievous smile played around her lips.
‘Well, you’re not here to think – you’re here to work,’ Debbie replied curtly. ‘But for your information, he’s not doing it out of kindness. I will be recompensing him for his time.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Jo muttered under her breath, which Debbie pretended not to hear.
Although Debbie had removed all the furniture from the café, she had left my box on the windowsill. I climbed into it and watched as they moved slowly across the café floor, scoring the lino before ripping it up in jagged sections. After a couple of hours they both looked hot and flustered. Debbie crawled on her hands and knees to the stairs.
‘Soph! Please, love, take pity on two old women and put the kettle on!’ Sophie grunted in response, and a few minutes later she appeared at the bottom of the stairs carrying two mugs of tea. Jo and Debbie gratefully took a mug each, then collapsed side by side on the bare floor, their backs against the wall.
Molly and the Cat Cafe Page 10