My tail twitched with frustration as I watched her limp out of the room. I desperately wanted to hear details about how the evening had gone, and her refusal to talk left me feeling thwarted. She made her way slowly upstairs to the bedroom, and I smiled inwardly when I heard her groan, upon finding her bed still covered in piles of clothes.
31
The week after Debbie and John’s date began like any other. Sophie rushed out on Monday morning, late for her bus; Debbie ate a piece of toast at the kitchen sink, before disappearing downstairs to work; and I spent the day in the flat, supervising the kittens. They were almost three months old now, and although I had done what I could to curb their more boisterous tendencies, I couldn’t help but notice the damage they had wrought around the living room: the frayed fabric on the sofa corners, the chewed rug tassels and the scratched wallpaper.
Debbie had never said a word to admonish them for their behaviour, but my heart always sank when I uncovered new evidence of their destructiveness; it meant the time was surely coming when Debbie would rehome them. I knew the kittens would thrive in their own homes, with loving owners and the space they needed to develop into mature, independent cats. I knew it would be wrong to keep them cooped up together with me in the tiny flat. And yet, in spite of all that, my heart ached whenever I thought of being separated from them.
When Debbie returned to the flat that evening she looked tired and worn out. She flopped onto the sofa next to Sophie, kicking off her shoes.
‘Good day at school?’ Debbie asked.
Sophie shrugged. ‘It was all right. Just teachers stressing about exams, as usual.’
Debbie patted Sophie’s arm encouragingly. ‘Nearly there now, Soph, just a few more weeks to get through, then you can relax.’ She flicked through the pile of post that she had carried upstairs with her, sighing when she saw the postmark on one of the envelopes. ‘Another letter from Stourton District Council. I wonder what demand they’ve come up with this time.’ The previous few weeks had been punctuated by the arrival of letters from the town council, each one raising a new objection to Debbie’s plans for the cat café. She grimaced as she ripped open the envelope.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ she said, scanning the letter’s contents.
‘What?’ Sophie replied. Debbie’s mouth had fallen open and her lips were pale. ‘Mum, what’s wrong? You’re worrying me.’
‘I can’t believe it. Nothing’s wrong, Soph. Read this, will you?’ She handed the letter to Sophie, sliding forward to perch on the edge of the sofa.
Not wanting to be left out of whatever crisis was brewing, I jumped off the windowsill and went to sit by Debbie’s feet.
Sophie’s eyes flicked across the letter, her brow knitted in concentration. But, as she handed the letter back to Debbie, she grinned. ‘They’re giving you permission to open the cat café. They’ve said yes, Mum!’
Debbie leapt up, her sudden movement sending me and the kittens scattering across the room in panic. She was clutching the letter close to her chest, as if frightened that someone might snatch it from her. She paced back and forth across the rug, rereading phrases from the letter aloud, reassuring herself that she hadn’t misunderstood their meaning.
‘ “As long as all the cats in question are the owner’s pets and will not to be offered to the public for adoption, it will not be necessary to obtain a licence for the cat café from Animal Welfare.” ’ Debbie emitted a gasp of disbelief. ‘I can’t believe it! After everything they put us through, it turns out all they needed was confirmation that the cats belong to me and won’t be rehomed!’
She let out a high-pitched squeal and began to jump up and down on the rug as the letter’s meaning sank in. The kittens, responding to her excitement, began to chase each other in frenzied circuits around the living room, but Debbie didn’t seem to notice them. ‘“Molly’s Cat Café”. It’ll be your café, Molls – yours and the kittens’. What will the old battleaxe make of that, eh?’ Debbie smiled at me, her eyes glinting. Behind her, Purdy, hotly pursued by Abby, shot up the living-room curtain, startling Debbie and making her shriek.
Sophie stood up and touched her mother’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should sit down while you let it sink in, Mum,’ she said soothingly.
‘Sit down? How can I sit down! This calls for a celebration,’ Debbie shouted gleefully, waving the letter in the air. She ran into the kitchen, where I could hear her rummaging noisily through the kitchen cupboards. ‘Why is there never any champagne when you need it?’ she shouted.
‘Because you drank it the night the kittens were born,’ Sophie replied drily.
‘Well, I should have bought some more to replace it,’ Debbie yelled. ‘Anyone would think we don’t have enough things to celebrate in this flat!’ A few moments later she reappeared, carrying a bottle and two wine glasses on a tray. ‘Right, I’m afraid this is the best I can do,’ she said, placing the tray on the dining table.
‘Oh, Mum, what is that?’ Sophie asked, picking up the bottle dubiously. ‘Lambrini Cherry? Are you kidding?’
‘I know, but it’s the best we’ve got. I won it at the tombola at the school Christmas fair, remember?’ She peeled off a paper raffle ticket, which had been taped to the neck of the bottle, then poured the fizzing pink liquid into the glasses.
‘To Molly’s Cat Café!’ Debbie toasted merrily, clinking her glass against Sophie’s.
Sophie took a sip, winced, then ran into the kitchen to spit her mouthful into the sink. ‘Urgh, that’s rank, Mum,’ she shouted, rinsing her mouth with tap water.
Debbie picked up the bottle and examined the label. ‘Hmm. Expiry date was October of last year. That might explain the vinegary tang. Never mind.’ She took the bottle into the kitchen and emptied it down the plughole.
The following fortnight passed in a state of frenetic activity as Debbie prepared for a final inspection by Environmental Health. She spent her days making adjustments to the café, while I listened to the goings-on from behind the plyboard panel at the top of the stairs. The installation of a new gate next to the serving counter – designed to block feline access to the kitchen – was of little interest to me, but my ears pricked up with curiosity when I heard her accept a large delivery from a pet-supplies van parked outside. When John was set to work in the alleyway with a saw and long pieces of timber, I pressed my nose against the living-room window, eager to see what he was building, but all I could make out were the offcuts of wood that he threw into the recycling bin. Debbie spent her evenings in the flat with Sophie, whose exams were at last finished, and together they devised dishes for the new cat-themed menu.
‘How about Tummy Tickler Teacakes?’ she asked Sophie, tapping her cheek thoughtfully with her pen.
Sophie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Frosty Paws Cake-Pops?’ she suggested in return, while Debbie scribbled keenly on her notepad.
‘We’ve got to have some tuna on there somewhere. It’s Molly’s favourite, after all,’ Debbie insisted. ‘What about tuna-melt muffins, with grated cheese?’ Sophie suggested. ‘Perfect,’ Debbie smiled, as my mouth began to water.
When the day of the inspection arrived, Debbie was agitated. She paced around the flat, unable to eat any breakfast, and smiled wanly when Sophie shouted, ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’ll be fine,’ on her way out.
At the appointed time, Debbie ran down to the café and I listened from the top of the stairs as she showed the Environmental Health Inspector around the premises. She sounded calm and businesslike as she answered his questions, proudly displaying her colour-coded cleaning materials – red for the cat area, blue for the kitchen – and showing him our vaccination certificates. At last Debbie walked the inspector to the café door, bidding him farewell and closing it carefully behind him. Then I heard her squeal and she raced up the stairs.
‘Guess what, Molly – we passed!’ she shrieked, leaping over the plyboard panel and scooping me up into the air.
Her excitement was infectious and I let her spin me around
in the air, even though it made me dizzy.
‘Would you like to go downstairs and explore your café?’ Debbie asked the kittens as they frolicked around her, sensing her mood. With mock-solemnity, she removed the plyboard barrier and ushered them onto the top step.
Purdy led the charge, with the others following behind, all of them torn between excitement and fear. I brought up the rear of the procession alongside Maisie, who preferred to stick close to me for reassurance. When she reached the bottom step, Purdy paused, suddenly cowed by the size and unfamiliarity of the café. Behind her, the kittens formed a nervous queue. I slipped past them to stand on the café floor, encouraging them to follow me. They inched slowly forwards, taking cautious, precise steps across the flagstones as they gazed around them, their eyes wide with wonder.
Only when they had all stepped onto the flagstones did I turn to look too. The café felt instantly familiar. I quickly spotted my trail of paw prints on the floor, and my gingham cushion in the window. But dotted around the café, between the tables and chairs, were scratching posts, polythene play tunnels and platform towers. Debbie had placed two cosy armchairs in front of the stove, each with a cushion reading ‘Reserved for the cat’ propped against its back. On the floor between the armchairs was a basket full of cat toys, which Abby and Bella wasted no time in emptying onto the floor, where they began to bat a catnip mouse between them.
When I turned around I saw that John had fixed wooden planks to one of the walls in a zigzag formation, to make a walkway that led up to a small hammock suspended from the ceiling. Purdy immediately mounted the lowest plank and, flicking her tail from side to side, sashayed up to the hammock at the top. She climbed inside and stared triumphantly down at her siblings.
Debbie and I stood in the middle of the café, watching them play. ‘Do you think they like it, Molly?’ she asked, and I purred at her. I knew they loved it. I did too.
32
Molly’s Cat Café opened for business the following week. I took my role as the café’s figurehead seriously, sitting on my cushion in the window, looking out onto the street with pride. There was a noticeable buzz around the café on launch day: Debbie had draped bunting in the window, and a large chalkboard stood on the pavement outside, declaring the café ‘Open for Coffee, Cake and Cuddles’. Inquisitive passers-by gathered in front of the glass to peer inside, and a glimpse of the kittens was often enough to tempt them through the door.
Just before lunchtime, my meditative daze was interrupted by the sound of wheels rattling on the cobblestones outside. I opened my eyes to see the old lady with the shopping trolley striding past the café, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. I instinctively braced myself for confrontation, but she kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, determined not to look in my direction. Watching her trundle away, I felt a glow of satisfaction. Behind me, Debbie was happily handing out menus and taking orders, while delighted customers played with the kittens. The old woman’s attempt to sabotage the café had failed, and there was nothing more she could do to hurt us.
In those early days I sometimes had to open my eyes and look around, to be sure that the cat café was not a dream. Ever since my incarceration in the flat I had prepared myself for the worst, imagining the regretful look on Debbie’s face as she broke the news that she had found new homes for the kittens and me. I had rehearsed the scene in my mind so many times that it felt real, and I would sometimes wake from a nap with a jolt, convinced that when I opened my eyes I would find that the kittens had gone.
About a week after the café’s relaunch, I was woken by the tinkling of the bell on the door. Still half-asleep and momentarily panicked, I scanned the café to check that all the kittens were present. Reassured that there was no cause for alarm, I watched drowsily as a woman pushed an elderly lady in a wheelchair through the café to a table.
I lowered my chin to my paws and closed my eyes, but something prevented me from drifting off. There was a scent in the air that I recognized, but could not place. Unable to sleep, I jumped down from the armchair and followed the scent trail across the café. Unaware that I was stalking up behind them, the two customers murmured to each other as they perused their menus. My feeling of unease was growing, evoking a sensation that I could only describe as homesickness. When I was a few paces away from the customers, I stopped dead in my tracks. My mind and senses were suddenly alert with recognition: the scent was lavender.
I padded around the side of the wheelchair to look at the figure inside it. An elderly woman was slumped low in the seat, her face hidden behind her menu. Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up, I lifted a paw and tugged at the folds of skirt around the lady’s ankles. She peered over the side of her chair, two rheumy blue eyes in a face framed by soft waves of silver.
‘Well now, who’s this?’ she asked, extending one hand shakily towards me.
With my heart beating in my throat, I stepped forwards to sniff her papery skin. In that instant, a wave of emotion stronger than anything I had ever experienced surged through me and, before I even had time to think, I had leapt over the arm of the wheelchair and into the lady’s lap.
‘I think that cat likes you, Margery,’ said the young woman at the table, as I rubbed my head ecstatically against the soft folds of Margery’s cheek.
‘I used to have a cat just like this,’ she replied, clucking softly as she stroked my body. ‘There, there, puss,’ she whispered, and I purred so loudly that I thought my heart would burst.
When I pulled my back from Margery’s face, I saw that Debbie had walked over to the table and was watching in amazement. ‘This is Molly,’ she said. ‘I’ve only had her for a few months. She was a stray.’
‘Oh, Molly, yes – that’s her name!’ Margery replied, her eyes still on me, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Is that you, Molly?’ She took hold of my face gently, between quivering hands. I purred and rubbed her fingers with my whiskers, wanting to leave her in no doubt of who I was.
So many times, since losing Margery, I had sought solace in memories of our life together. Imagining her smile, or the feel of her hands on my fur, had kept me going when I was alone and desperate. Remembering our happy times at home had given me faith that another loving owner might be out there, somewhere, if only I could find them. But, as time passed, Margery’s image had faded, becoming pale and indistinct like the sun-bleached photographs she had kept on the mantelpiece. Then, when I could no longer call her image to mind, all that had remained was the memory of how she had made me feel: safe, and loved.
As Margery cradled me on her lap in the café, I felt transported back to my kittenhood, believing that nothing could hurt me while I was in her arms. My unhappy time at Rob’s house, the lonely journey to Stourton, my bittersweet memories of life in the alley, even my joy at having the kittens – all fell away, and for a few blissful moments it was just me and Margery, and our love for each other. Just as it had been in the beginning.
I have no idea how long we remained like that, utterly absorbed in each other, feeling as if the world had shrunk to the chair that held us both.
Eventually, unwillingly, I started to become aware of the café around us. I heard hushed voices nearby, the sound of the kittens playing and somebody sniffing above my head. When at last I opened my eyes, I saw Debbie standing next to Margery’s wheelchair, dabbing her cheek with a tissue.
‘She moved into the care home last year. I knew she loved cats, so when I heard about this place I decided to bring her,’ Margery’s companion said quietly.
‘Do you think Molly could really have been her cat?’ Debbie whispered.
‘She’s got advanced dementia and gets confused by a lot of things, but she seems pretty certain about this,’ the carer replied.
‘Molly does too,’ Debbie agreed. ‘I’ve never seen her react like this to a stranger before.’
Debbie brought Margery a pot of tea and a Cat’s Whiskers cookie, pulling up a stool beside her wheelchair.
Margery took her hand. ‘This is my cat Molly, you know,’ she said, beaming at Debbie.
‘I know, Margery. Isn’t it lovely that you’ve found each other again?’
Margery’s smile lit up her face.
‘I wonder how she managed to find her way to Stourton,’ Debbie prompted, at which Margery’s brow furrowed. ‘She’s Molly, my cat,’ she repeated.
I sensed her agitation, and knew that confusion was beginning to descend. I rubbed my head against her hand, trying to reassure her that we were together again, and that nothing else mattered.
All too soon it was time for Margery to leave. Debbie took a photograph of the two of us, before lifting me gently from Margery’s lap. ‘You will come back, I hope?’ Debbie asked, as she walked them to the door.
The carer promised they would return soon. ‘It’s done her the world of good,’ she smiled.
As Margery was wheeled past, she reached out and took Debbie’s hand, grasping it tightly. ‘She’s my cat, you know,’ she said, looking up into Debbie’s face intently.
Debbie squeezed her hand and nodded. ‘I know, Margery. Come back and see her soon.’
Over dinner that evening Debbie told Sophie about what had happened, her eyes filling with tears as she described our reunion. She passed her phone to Sophie, its screen displaying the photo of the two of us.
‘Wow!’ Sophie said, her eyes reddening. She was studying the photo closely when the phone beeped. ‘It’s a text from John, Mum,’ Sophie said, handing the phone back to Debbie. ‘He says you need to talk.’
33
Debbie unlocked the door and stood aside to let John in, gesturing towards the nearest table. Outside, the evening sky was heavy with low cloud, and a sharp wind whipped through the trees, heralding the arrival of a storm. In the dusky half-light of the café I crouched inside the cardboard box by the stove, trying to quell a feeling of foreboding in my stomach.
Molly and the Cat Cafe Page 17