Molly and the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  While I had the kittens to look after, Debbie had other demands on her time. The café’s growing popularity presented her with a fresh set of concerns, about staffing levels, suppliers and wage bills. Having borrowed money to pay for the refurbishment and take on new staff, the stakes were higher than ever, if the café didn’t continue to thrive. Even when she was in the flat, Debbie was often preoccupied, attending to business matters on her laptop or making work calls on the phone.

  It happened gradually and imperceptibly but, as time went on, I began to sense that Debbie and I were no longer as close we used to be. By the time she had finished dinner and dealt with the evening’s administrative jobs, she was exhausted and ready for bed. She had stopped confiding in me, the way she used to, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something from me, and that it was tied up with the future of the café. I could not be sure, but I suspected that the time might come when Debbie would have to choose between the café and me. Knowing that Sophie’s wellbeing and security depended on the café being a success, I was in no doubt that, if Debbie was forced to make a decision, she would choose the café.

  At night, when everyone was asleep, I would jump onto the living-room windowsill. The amber glow of the street light illuminated the alleyway below and, if I pressed my head against the glass, I could just make out the dustbin beneath the window. To see the alley and not be able to step out into it, however, increased my feeling of isolation. Staring at the dark alley, I resolved that – if the worst were to happen – I would be prepared. If and when the time came, I would return to the alleyway rather than allow myself to be rehomed by a stranger. Sometimes the thought would rise, unbidden, that I wished the tomcat would come back, that being homeless would be less frightening if I had him by my side. But I knew that indulging in such daydreams would lead only to disappointment and I dismissed them from my mind. I had survived as an alley-cat before; if necessary, I could do so again.

  26

  In the weeks that followed the bombshell of the council’s letter, uncertainty about my future became a constant backdrop to my life. I was intensely conscious that every developmental leap in the kittens took them closer to independence, and me closer to possible homelessness. I lived in a limbo-like state. Sometimes I found the uncertainty unbearable, and I fantasized about running away. At least that would spare Debbie the pain of having to make the decision herself.

  Debbie, meanwhile, was increasingly stressed about the café, which had started to lose customers. When she wasn’t in the café she was at the dining table, going through the accounts or typing emails on her laptop. I couldn’t help but notice that her relationship with Sophie was also deteriorating. Sensing that her mother was preoccupied, Sophie became sarcastic and stroppy. I was reminded, unhappily, of how she had behaved when I first moved in.

  It seemed like things were beginning to unravel for all of us, and the worst part was that I felt responsible. I could see that the presence of the kittens was adding to the pressures on Debbie. They were six weeks old now and were hungry, boisterous and playful. Their adventurousness was no longer confined to the living room: they got into the kitchen cupboards, underneath the beds, and on one occasion Purdy climbed up inside the chimney breast and had to be rescued by Debbie from the soot-filled flue. Much as I adored their liveliness, I bitterly regretted that it was always Debbie who had to step in when one of them needed rescuing, or to clean up their trail of mess and destruction. I could do nothing but stand back and watch and I worried that, much as Debbie loved the kittens, her patience was being stretched to breaking point.

  One evening she had finally sat down with the laptop, having just finished washing up in the kitchen, when Sophie walked in, frowning. ‘Mum, have you seen my geography project?’ she asked sharply.

  Debbie was squinting at the screen through her glasses. ‘Mmm?’ she replied, distractedly.

  ‘Mum?’ Sophie snapped. ‘I left it on the kitchen worktop this morning. It’s gone. Have you seen it?’

  Debbie took off her glasses and turned to look at Sophie. ‘Sorry, love, what did you say?’

  ‘My geography project, Mum. It’s due tomorrow. I left it on the worktop.’ I could see that Sophie’s frustration was about to turn to anger.

  ‘Sorry, love, I don’t remember seeing it,’ Debbie replied. She put on her glasses and turned back to the laptop. ‘I put the recycling out this afternoon,’ she added vaguely.

  ‘The recycling?’

  ‘Yes, there was a stack of old newspapers in the kitchen . . . ’

  Sophie stared at her mother. ‘A stack of old newspapers? And did you happen to notice whether my geography project was on the top of that stack?’

  Debbie frowned and rubbed her forehead. ‘Sorry, love, I don’t recall seeing any project, but I’m not sure—’

  Sophie had gone, slamming the living-room door behind her. I heard her run downstairs, and a few seconds later the café door slammed too.

  Debbie dropped her head into her hands. She sighed deeply, then closed the laptop and stood up, walking across the room to the sofa. Her cheeks were pink and I knew that tears would soon follow. I had tried to keep some distance from the situation, not wanting to inflame matters between mother and daughter by getting involved, but I could not sit and watch Debbie cry. I climbed out of the cardboard box and went to sit by her ankles, looking up at her face.

  Debbie noticed me and smiled tearfully. ‘Oh, Molly,’ she sighed, putting her hand down to stroke my ears.

  That was all the invitation I needed. I jumped up onto her lap and rubbed my head against her damp cheek. I let her cry into my fur until the combination of her tears and my loose hairs sticking to her face meant that she had to reach for a tissue. When she had blown her nose, she held my face between her hands and looked me in the eye.

  ‘Oh, Molly, what a mess I’ve made of things. What am I going to do, eh?’ I blinked at her slowly, wanting to encourage Debbie to keep talking. There may have been nothing I could do to help, but I could listen. ‘I don’t know what to worry about more: that Sophie’s starting to hate me again, or that the café’s going under. So far I’m making a complete mess on both fronts.’ She stroked my ears, and I rubbed my cheek along the side of her hand. ‘You know the really crazy thing, Molly? It turns out that you were what the customers wanted all along, but I didn’t realize until it was too late.’

  I looked at her inquisitively, not following what she was saying. ‘It’s “Molly’s Café”, isn’t it?’ she said by way of explanation. ‘Everyone used to see you in the window, and that’s why they came in. They expected you to be inside. They all loved hearing about the kittens – couldn’t wait to meet them – but now I’ve had to tell people that you won’t be coming downstairs any more. And, well, they’re just not coming through the door like they used to.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘If I let you downstairs, that witch will have me shut down by Environmental Health, but if I keep you up here we’ll lose all our customers and the café will probably go under. So I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t, aren’t I?’

  My head was spinning. I had had no idea my presence meant so much to the customers, and I felt a momentary glow of pride that I had been the reason many of them had come at all. But, on the other hand, this discovery merely reinforced my conviction that I was to blame for Debbie’s predicament.

  While she had been talking, Eddie had woken up and had jumped onto the sofa, his tail happily aloft. He climbed onto Debbie’s lap alongside me and rolled onto his back. I pressed his exposed tummy with my paw and he squirmed from side to side, pretending that my foot was a foe he must fight off. Debbie watched Eddie and her tear-stained face melted into a smile.

  ‘See, Molly – we’re the same, you and I. We’re just trying to do what’s best for our children, aren’t we?’

  I purred in agreement. Even though we were no closer to a solution, I was grateful for Debbie’s words. If nothing else, they made me feel that we were
on the same side once more.

  A little while later Sophie returned home. Debbie and I listened as she let herself into the café kitchen and climbed the stairs.

  ‘Hi, Soph,’ Debbie called quietly.

  Sophie pushed open the living-room door. ‘Sorry about earlier, Mum,’ she said, her voice conciliatory.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ Debbie answered, relief spreading across her face. ‘I’m sure we can find your project – it should still be in the box.’

  ‘Don’t worry Mum, I already found it. It’s fine, just a bit smelly from the bin.’

  Debbie smiled. ‘Phew. Hopefully they won’t mark it down for smelliness.’

  ‘I don’t think they will,’ Sophie agreed.

  ‘I tell you what: shall I make us both a hot chocolate?’ Debbie suggested, and Sophie nodded.

  Debbie reappeared a few minutes later with mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and mini-marshmallows. Sophie’s face lit up, and for a moment she looked like a little girl rather than a teenager. They sat on the sofa sipping their drinks, whilst trying to bat a persistent Eddie away from the whipped cream. Sophie eventually gave up and allowed him to lick a blob of cream from the tip of her finger, his rumbling purr filling the whole room.

  ‘So here’s the deal, Sophie,’ Debbie said, suddenly serious. ‘The way things stand, we’re not taking enough to make the monthly repayments for the loan. If we default on the loan, we stand to lose everything – the café, the flat, the whole lot will be repossessed.’ Debbie paused, and Sophie inhaled deeply. ‘So, the way I see it,’ Debbie continued, ‘we have two choices. We either soldier on as we are, hoping that people get used to the idea of Molly’s Café with no Molly, but possibly defaulting on the loan if they don’t.’ Sophie nodded slowly. ‘Or,’ Debbie went on, ‘we sell up now, before we fall behind on the repayments. We could probably get enough from the sale to break even; maybe even have enough left to use as a deposit on a little flat somewhere.’ She paused, watching anxiously as Sophie mulled over the dilemma. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

  Sophie’s face was intently serious, and I was struck by how quickly she had switched from little-girl mode to grown-up. ‘I think . . . it’s too soon to give up. You’ve put so much into this place, Mum, and I know you can make it work.’ She put her hand on her mother’s knee encouragingly and Debbie eyes instantly welled up.

  ‘I don’t know, Soph. I wish I had your faith in me,’ she replied, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘But what’s the alternative, Mum? If you sell up and take the money – hopefully buy another little flat somewhere else – then what? We’ll just be back to square one.’

  Debbie nodded. ‘I know – you’re right, but it just feels like a massive risk, and I don’t know if it’s fair to do that to you. You’ve got your GCSEs coming up. I should be helping you, not accidentally throwing away your coursework because I’m too busy poring over these bloody accounts!’

  Sophie laughed. ‘Don’t worry about my coursework, Mum. I can handle that. You just need to put everything into making the café work. I know you can do it.’

  Debbie nodded tearfully, and Sophie leant over to give her a hug, squashing the still-purring Eddie between them.

  After they had finished their hot chocolates they both stood up, ready for bed. As Debbie turned out the light, Sophie said, ‘If we do stay here, Mum, what are you going to do about Molly and the kittens?’

  Debbie paused. ‘I don’t know, Soph, I just don’t know.’

  27

  ‘We need to build our profile on social media, apparently,’ Debbie announced one Sunday afternoon from behind the laptop. She and Sophie were sitting at the dining-room table, both hard at work.

  ‘Right,’ Sophie replied vaguely, not lifting her eyes from her schoolwork.

  ‘I should be tweeting and updating our Instagram feed at least twenty times a day, according to this new-business forum I’ve joined.’

  Sophie looked at Debbie, and raised an eyebrow sceptically. ‘Mum, do you even know what Instagram is?’

  ‘Well, no, but I’m prepared to learn! You can show me, can’t you? You’re an expert at all that stuff.’

  ‘I s’pose. I can show you if you like, but I’ve got to finish my revision.’

  Sophie returned to her work, flicking studiously through the pages of her textbook. Debbie started to chuckle, and Sophie’s eyes flicked towards her, puzzled and slightly annoyed.

  ‘What now, Mum?’

  ‘Sorry, love, I was just thinking: who would have believed, six months ago, that I would be pestering you to use Instagram, and you would be telling me that you can’t because you’ve got work to do? Who’d have thought it, eh? Or, as a tweeter-er might say: hashtag-never-saw-that-coming.’ Debbie snorted at her own joke.

  Sophie rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mum. Please don’t ever use the word tweeter-er again.’

  ‘Hashtag-OK,’ Debbie replied with a giggle.

  Sophie dropped the textbook onto the table and glared at her mother. ‘Or the word hashtag. Seriously, Mum, stop distracting me. I’ve got work to do.’

  Although the café’s future still hung in the balance, Debbie and Sophie’s conversation helped to clear the air between them. Debbie seemed to have drawn strength from Sophie’s conviction that she mustn’t give up on the café without a fight. She became ruthlessly focused on trying to make the business a success, and her research on the laptop led her to try all sorts of initiatives. She introduced a customer loyalty card; tried various promotional offers, such as free cup of tea with every slice of cake; and even touted the notion of building a website for the café. That project had faltered, however, when Debbie had innocently enquired, ‘What’s HTML, Soph?’

  ‘Mum, sorry, but no. Just, no,’ Sophie had replied firmly, and Debbie had muttered that maybe the website could go on the back burner for now.

  In spite of Sophie’s evident frustration with some of her mother’s schemes, their bickering remained good-natured. There was an atmosphere of female solidarity in the flat, which extended to me, too. It seemed that Debbie, Sophie and I had all reached the same conclusion: there was no certainty about what the future held for any of us, so we just had to make the best of what we had in the present. It was a strange time, knowing that we could all be about to lose what little security we had, but I took comfort in the camaraderie that had developed between us. Whatever fate had in store, it felt as though we would face it together.

  I did my bit for morale in the flat by raising my kittens to the best of my ability. I made sure they were spotlessly clean at all times and scrupulously attentive to their own personal hygiene. If they were too boisterous or their play became aggressive, I could be a firm disciplinarian, putting them in their place with a swipe of my paw. But I also encouraged their independence and adventurousness, knowing that in later life they might need resilience and courage to fall back on. I took some comfort in knowing that I had provided them with the skills they needed to give them the best possible chance in life.

  When the kittens were about eight weeks old, Debbie was going through the accounts books on Sunday evening when Sophie rushed in, her face flushed with excitement.

  ‘Mum, look at this.’ The kittens sensed her heightened mood and emerged from their various hiding points around the room, keen as always to be at the heart of the action. Sophie held out her phone to Debbie, who was putting her glasses on to view the tiny screen. She looked confused.

  ‘I don’t understand, Soph – is it a funny cat video?’

  Sophie tutted impatiently. ‘No, it’s not a cat video, Mum. It’s a cat café.’

  Debbie’s face was blank. ‘A cat café?’

  ‘Yes, like a normal café, except that it’s got cats. Customers come specifically to see the cats; and to eat, of course.’

  Debbie took the phone from Sophie’s hand. ‘But I don’t understand: how is that possible? How do they get around health-and-safety?’

  ‘I don’t k
now, but it must be possible – someone else has done it!’

  Debbie stared intently at the screen.

  ‘We should do the same, Mum. It’s obvious! We can keep Molly and the kittens, and the customers will love it.’

  Debbie started to smile uncertainly. ‘But that isn’t . . . We couldn’t . . . Surely it can’t be that straightforward?’

  ‘It could be, Mum,’ Sophie laughed. ‘There’s not just one of these places – they’re popping up all over the world. Cat cafés are the in-thing right now, and in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Sophie gestured to the kittens, who had jumped onto the dining chairs and were now scaling the tabletop, ‘we’ve got the cats and we’ve got the café, so we’re practically there already!’

  Debbie’s face wore a look of half-excitement, half-consternation, but Sophie was not done yet.

  ‘And I’ve been thinking, Mum. You can tweak the menu, you know? Cat-shaped cookies, cupcakes with whiskers – that sort of thing. The tourists will go crazy for it.’

  Debbie laughed nervously. ‘I don’t know, Sophie. It sounds lovely, but . . . could it really work?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Sophie answered decisively. ‘You need to ring the council and ask.’

  Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I could feel my stomach lurch with excitement. But, like Debbie, I couldn’t let myself get carried away. A voice in my head urged caution. It all sounded too good to be true.

  28

  Debbie picked up the phone to call the council first thing on Monday morning.

  ‘Yes, hello, I’d like to speak to the department that looks after cafés and food outlets. Yes, thank you, I’ll hold . . . ’ She tapped the handset and looked out of the window, waiting to be put through. ‘Oh, yes, hello. This might sound like a bit of a strange enquiry, but I’d like to speak to someone about turning a café into a cat café. Yes, a cat café. No, not a café for cats – a café for people, with cats in it. Okay, yes, I can hold . . . ’