John smiled tensely at Debbie as he walked past her, but she remained resolutely aloof. Although I didn’t understand what had caused this sudden coolness between them, I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew I had played a part in bringing them together, and I had done everything I could to encourage Debbie to trust John. If he had done something to betray her trust, would I have to bear some of the responsibility for that too?
He slung his jacket over a chair and sat down with his back to me. Debbie sat opposite him across a small table, her face pale but composed as she waited for him to speak.
‘Thanks for letting me come at such short notice,’ John began, sounding polite to the point of formality.
‘So, what do we need to talk about?’ Debbie replied briskly. She looked him in the eye, her gaze challenging him.
John sighed and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding it across the table towards her. ‘This came through my letterbox this morning,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought it was only fair to show you.’
Debbie took the single sheet of paper from the envelope. Her face remained impassive as she read, but I could see the page quiver with the trembling of her hands. When she had finished, she folded the letter up and slotted it back inside its envelope.
‘Quite a read, isn’t it?’ she said coldly, placing the letter on the table between them. ‘I notice that whoever wrote it was too much of a coward to sign it. But then, I suppose, poison-pen letters are always anonymous.’ Her voice caught as she spoke and her eyes looked glassy.
I longed to comfort her, to jump into her lap and soothe her with my purr, but I knew this situation was beyond my power to fix. John’s posture suggested that he was looking at her, waiting for her to continue.
‘So I guess you’re here to tell me that you don’t want anything more to do with me?’ Debbie asked matter-of-factly. ‘According to this’ – she waved her hand dismissively at the letter – ‘I’m planning to fleece you for your money, then do a runner. Because that’s what I’ve done before, apparently.’ She took a sharp intake of breath as if, by saying the words out loud, their meaning had hit her for the first time. Her eyes were defiant, but I could see what an effort it was taking for her to stay calm.
‘I never said I believed it,’ John replied quietly. ‘I considered throwing it away and saying nothing about it. But I thought it was better to deal with . . . something like this . . . out in the open. I don’t know who wrote it, but—’
‘Oh, I know who wrote it,’ Debbie cut in, her composure suddenly faltering. ‘The same vicious old woman who tried to have us closed down by Environmental Health.’ Her eyes had narrowed and her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. John remained motionless, looking at her across the table, and for a moment the room was silent but for the sound of the café awning flapping in the wind outside.
‘Vicious old woman?’ he repeated.
Debbie’s eyes flashed at him. ‘The wretched battleaxe who’s always going up and down the parade, shooting me filthy looks, saying nasty things to Sophie in the street. The old bat has had it in for me since the moment we moved in. She even tried to run Molly down with her shopping trolley once.’ She laughed mirthlessly, acknowledging the apparent absurdity of what she was saying. ‘She said it was an accident and scurried away, but Sophie saw what happened, and it was deliberate. I knew the woman was crazy, but I didn’t think she’d go this far.’ The words poured out of her, betraying the resentment that she had kept pent up for so long. When she had finished speaking, her shoulders drooped and she looked down at her hands, avoiding John’s gaze.
I wished I could see his face to gauge his reaction, but his back was squarely to me. He remained silent while he considered her words. ‘An old woman with a shopping trolley?’ he asked at last. Debbie nodded, still staring sadly at her hands. ‘Red hair?’
She looked up. ‘That’s the one. Why, friend of yours, is she?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘Not exactly, but I’m pretty sure I know who you mean. She’s lived in Stourton for as long as I can remember. Used to own this place in fact.’
Debbie fixed him with a stare. ‘This place? You mean the café?’
John nodded. ‘I used to come in here when I was a kid. She was always behind the counter.’ Debbie stared at him, wide-eyed, impatient to hear more. ‘She owned it with her husband, but then one day he disappeared, did a runner—’ John stopped mid-sentence, realizing that he had unwittingly echoed the letter’s accusation against Debbie. ‘Anyway, according to town gossip, he’d run up huge debts: gambling, I think. The café was in their joint name, so when the bailiffs showed up, she had no choice but to sell. After that she seemed to take it upon herself to make other people’s lives miserable. She was always making complaints, writing letters, reporting people to the police for no good reason. After a while no one took her seriously – everyone just ignored her.’
‘Well, I can’t ignore her, can I?’ Debbie cut in sharply. ‘The café nearly went under, thanks to her interference. I thought we were going to default on the mortgage. Sophie and I could have been homeless.’ She swallowed a sob. ‘And now she’s played her trump card by scaring you off. I’ve got to hand it to her, she plays a good game.’ She turned her head towards the window so that John could not see her tears.
‘Who said anything about her scaring me off?’ John replied quietly.
‘Well, isn’t that why you’re here?’ Debbie shot back defiantly. ‘That’s what “We need to talk” usually means. This is a small town. You couldn’t risk getting involved with someone with my reputation.’ She picked up the letter and waved it towards him. ‘There’s no smoke without fire, after all – isn’t that what you think?’
I had never seen Debbie like this before, not even in the heat of an argument with Sophie. Her lips were white and, although she was crying, she looked like she was seething with rage. I held my breath, praying that John would see through her hostility and recognize the hurt that lay underneath. I willed him to say that he didn’t believe what was written in the letter, that the old woman was crazy and that he trusted Debbie completely. But he didn’t say anything. He was looking down at the table, seemingly in no rush to put her out of her misery.
‘I know you don’t get on with Sophie’s dad,’ he began slowly, ‘but that’s all I know. To be honest, it’s never felt appropriate to ask. Your past is your private business—’
‘Not any more, apparently,’ Debbie interrupted, curtly.
John sighed and I saw his shoulders drop. The thought flashed through my mind that he was giving up, that he was about to take his coat and leave. The hairs on my back prickled in frustration. Surely they could see that this mutual distrust was exactly what the old woman had hoped to achieve, and that if John walked out now, she would have won? I wished I could do something to rescue the situation, to make them realize that they were on the same side. But I knew that, on this occasion, there was nothing I could do but watch.
‘Look . . .’ When John finally spoke, his voice was conciliatory. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t believe a word of this letter. Like you said, this woman has clearly had it in for you for a while. But maybe’ – Debbie breathed in sharply – ‘maybe it is appropriate for me to ask about your past. Not because I’m suspicious of you, but just because I’m interested.’
John sat back in his chair to show that he had said his piece. His words had sounded good to me, but Debbie’s face remained stony. Outside, the storm had swept in, blowing sheets of rain horizontally along the parade and rattling the café door in its frame. The sky had darkened to an ominous steel-grey, leaving Debbie and John sitting in near-darkness. I felt my pupils dilate as my eyes adjusted to the low light.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Since you’re interested . . . ’ Her chin dropped and her eyes rested on the table between them as she spoke. ‘Sophie’s father and I ran a business together in Oxford – property management. He did the hands-on maintenance stuff, and I kept things ticking
over in the office at home: answering phone calls, speaking to tenants, that sort of thing. It was my contribution to the household while Sophie was little.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if girding herself to continue.
‘Andrew decided we should buy a place, rent it out and manage it ourselves. He said managing other people’s property was a mug’s game, that the real money was made by the landlords. I wasn’t sure – property in Oxford’s not exactly cheap, and we could only just afford our own mortgage – but he was adamant. He said it would be an investment, a nest egg for our future. He’d already found a place, a repossessed house that was up for auction. The plan was to convert it into flats . . .’ Debbie’s voice cracked, and her eyes stayed fixed on the table.
John had remained completely motionless while she spoke, listening intently.
‘Anyway, we bought it, but the renovations seemed to go on forever. It turned out the property was a wreck: subsidence, damp – you name it. Andrew became obsessed, spending all his time there. Sophie and I hardly ever saw him. Meanwhile I was trying to hold things together at home. The phone was ringing off the hook, tenants complaining that repairs hadn’t been done, and landlords saying the rent hadn’t been paid. And I told all of them that everything would be okay, that we were on top of it, there was nothing to worry about.’ Debbie’s face crumpled. ‘But there was more to worry about than I realized.’ She hung her head, and I could see tears drop into her lap. ‘He’d been keeping the rent money,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Taking it from the tenants, but rather than paying the landlords, he’d been pumping it into that money-pit of a house. I only found out when one of the landlords turned up on our doorstep.’ Her shoulders shook as she sobbed silently.
‘That must have been horrific,’ John said.
‘That wasn’t the worst of it,’ Debbie continued. ‘When it all came out, the police got involved. Andrew claimed that he knew nothing about it, that I’d been responsible for the company finances and he had no idea what had been going on. We were both charged with obtaining property by deception.’
Debbie had slumped low in her chair. She looked broken, distraught, and I was desperate to comfort her.
‘It didn’t wash in court, of course,’ she went on. ‘The bank had evidence that he’d handled all the money transfers. He got nine months, suspended on the basis that it was his first offence. He was liable for court costs and compensation and, because everything was in our joint names, we had to sell our home.’ She exhaled a long breath and lifted her chin. ‘Of course that was when he decided to tell me that he’d met someone else.’
‘The bastard!’ John said. Debbie mustered a rueful smile and pulled a tissue out of her pocket to wipe her eyes.
‘So there you have it,’ she concluded. ‘That’s my dirty laundry, now aired in public, thanks to a bitter, lonely old woman. Yes, I was once investigated by the police, but my name was cleared. The question is: What are you going to do about it?’
34
Jo and Debbie were in the café kitchen a couple of nights later, preparing for their Friday night takeaway. Jo was reading the letter with a look of growing horror, while Debbie separated the slices of their pizza with a knife.
‘The evil witch!’ Jo tossed the letter onto the worktop in disgust. ‘Please tell me John wasn’t taken in by it?’
Debbie shook her head. ‘I thought it was touch-and-go for a while, but no, he wasn’t taken in. Turns out she used to own this place, and has had it in for anyone who’s run it since.’
‘It makes my blood boil, Debs – it really does,’ Jo replied, prising the lids off two bottles of beer. ‘How dare she make accusations like that about you? And in such an underhand way, too. She should at least have the nerve to say it to your face.’
They moved across the café to a table, where Debbie placed the pizza box between them. ‘I know and, believe me, I was livid when I first read it. But then I realized that she’s just a sad, lonely woman who has nothing better to do with her time than try and ruin other people’s lives. She’s tried everything else to get at me, and this was her last-ditch attempt.’ Debbie took a sip of beer, but Jo’s brow remained knitted.
‘I think you’re being very understanding, Debs. I bet her fingerprints are all over that letter. If it was me, I’d get the police onto her. It’s libel!’
Debbie sighed. ‘She’s not worth it, Jo. She’s just a bitter old woman and, despite her best attempts, she’s failed. The café’s doing better than ever, and John and I are okay. I don’t want to waste any more time thinking about her.’
Jo frowned as she took a bite of pizza, seemingly reluctant to let the subject drop. The smell of their meal had drifted up to the flat and the kittens soon appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They sniffed the air hopefully, before running towards the table in search of scraps.
‘You know what?’ Debbie said, placing a pizza crust on her plate. ‘The irony is that if anyone should understand what I’ve been through, it’s her. She went through pretty much the same thing with her husband as I did with Andrew. It’s sad, really, when you think about it. She obviously never got over it.’
‘Maybe it is sad, Debs, but that doesn’t give her the right to try and ruin your life. And I don’t share your confidence that this was her last-ditch attempt. Who knows what she might try next, if she isn’t stopped.’
Debbie shook her head firmly. ‘I appreciate your concern, Jo, but really, I wouldn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’d rattled me. It’s over – she’s lost.’
To make her point, Debbie walked over to the serving counter and picked up the letter, tearing it in half, before dropping it into the bin. When she got back to the table she found that Purdy had jumped into her seat and was sniffing the edge of her plate. Debbie scooped her up and placed her gently but firmly back on the floor.
‘Fair enough – it’s your call, but I’d keep my wits about me, if I were you.’ Jo’s eyes were on Purdy, who, having conceded defeat over the pizza, was scampering up the wooden walkway to the hammock. ‘And maybe you should keep the kittens indoors for the time being. You wouldn’t want them to end up in a stew in the old bat’s kitchen.’
Debbie shot a horrified look across the table. ‘Jo, how could you even suggest such a thing! She’s a bitter old woman, not a psychopath.’
Jo shrugged. ‘I hope you’re right, Debs. But who knows what she’s capable of?’
Debbie chose not to respond, and they carried on eating in silence. When they had finished, Jo placed the cardboard pizza box on the floor and the kittens rushed over, jostling with each other to be the first to get to its contents. I watched as they devoured the drops of melted cheese and clusters of ground beef, oblivious to the conversation going on around them.
I was unable to get Jo’s words out of my mind, however. Much as I wanted to believe Debbie, my instincts were telling me that Jo was right – that there was no way of knowing what the old woman might do next. I closed my eyes and pictured the look on her face as she thrust her shopping trolley towards me on the street. She had wanted to hurt me, of that I was certain. She had tried, and failed, to sabotage the café and Debbie’s relationship with John. Surely her next step would be to hurt the kittens?
My anxiety did not go away, and in the days that followed I was unable to think about anything else. The kittens would soon be old enough to go outside, and I was terrified to think of what might happen if they encountered the old woman in the street. They had led a blessed life and I was convinced that their trusting, friendly natures would make them an easy target for the battleaxe’s ire. It made my blood run cold, just thinking about it.
The summer tourist season in Stourton was under way, the town’s population swollen with visitors. Coachloads of tourists were dispatched in the market square on a daily basis, to meander slowly around the town, admiring its picturesque streets and quaint stone cottages. They wandered in and out of shops in pairs or small clusters, filling their shopping
bags with souvenirs and edible treats. As they passed along the cobbled parade they would often pause outside the café window, pointing at me through the glass. When they pushed the door open, their faces lit up with delight as the kittens rushed over to greet them.
The customers were happy, the kittens relished all the attention, and Debbie was thrilled with the café’s popularity, but still I could not relax. I felt like I was standing guard over my kittens, convinced that – if I dropped my guard – the old lady would pounce. Adrenaline surged through my body every time I heard the rattle of her trolley outside the window. I stared defiantly at her through the glass, but she never once looked at me, keeping her lips pursed and her eyes on the street ahead.
About a week after Jo and Debbie’s conversation, I heard Debbie talking on the phone, booking an appointment with the vet to have the kittens microchipped. I knew that meant they would soon be free to roam outside, and that I would be unable to protect them from the old woman any longer. I had no choice but to act; if I did nothing, I felt sure I would never have peace of mind again.
When the café opened that morning, I jumped onto the window cushion and waited. As soon as the old woman appeared on the other side of the street, I slipped out of the café and followed her.
She walked briskly to the end of the parade, where she turned right and headed towards the market square. I trotted behind her at a discreet distance, dodging a friendly tourist who tried to stroke me. When she reached the square, the old woman went into the fishmonger’s and I darted under a parked car to catch my breath. I hadn’t visited the square since I had first arrived in Stourton as a homeless stray, and I was overwhelmed by the noise and activity that assaulted me from all sides.
It was difficult to reconcile the hectic scene around me with the lonely square I had encountered at Christmas. It was market day, and packs of tourists surged along the pavements, spilling off the kerbs into the path of passing traffic. Shoppers moved slowly between the market stalls, gimlet-eyed as they searched for bargains, tugging dogs or bored children after them. The lively, bustling atmosphere could not be more different from the ambience I had experienced on my first night, but, in my agitated state, it felt no less daunting.
Molly and the Cat Cafe Page 18