The old woman stepped out of the fishmonger’s and made her way across to the far side of the square. I dashed out from under the car and ran over the road, glimpsing the wheels of her trolley as they disappeared into a crowd of shoppers. I pushed into the melee, weaving between legs and pushchairs, and reached the pavement just in time to see her turn down an alley between two shops. I padded closer, peering gingerly around the alley’s entrance. Up ahead, the woman was rapidly disappearing down the passageway and I knew I had to follow. I took a deep breath and entered the alley, automatically dropping to a defensive prowl.
The sounds of the market dropped away, and the rattle of the trolley’s wheels filled the enclosed path, magnified by the stone walls on both sides. I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the primitive instinct that warned me that I was being watched. Panicked, I glanced up to see a pair of cat’s eyes staring intently from the top of the wall beside me. My hackles rose in expectation of an attack, but the cat remained motionless, its eyes fixed with an expression that seemed curious rather than hostile.
A succession of confused images flashed through my mind, memories that had lain dormant for many months. I knew that I recognized the cat, but it took a few seconds to realize that it was the tortoiseshell I had found sleeping on a shed roof, soon after my arrival in Stourton. This was her alley; the same one I had wandered into the morning after my attack by the ginger tomcat. I felt a rush of gratitude when I saw her; it was thanks to her advice that I had sought out the churchyard for shelter, and consequently discovered the alleyway behind the café. I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition in her eye and I blinked at her, wishing I had time to thank her, belatedly, for what she had done for me. But I knew that, if I lingered, I would lose sight of the old woman, so I ran on, feeling the tortoiseshell’s inquisitive gaze still on my back.
At the end of the alley, the woman turned into a terrace of neat brick houses. She crossed the road and walked towards the last house in the row, standing her trolley on the pavement while she opened the garden gate. I darted under the hedge that bordered the front of the garden, and raced towards her front door. While she was fastening the gate shut behind her, I lay down on the path in front of her doorstep and closed my eyes.
I felt the path beneath me vibrate as her trolley rolled towards me. Inches from my prostrate body, the trolley stopped, and I half-opened one eye. The old woman surveyed me with a look of disgust. ‘Scram, cat. Clear off!’ she said, nudging my leg with the tip of her shoe. I remained motionless and let out a pained yowl. Shocked, she leaned forwards, using her shopping trolley for support as she bent down to examine me more closely. She prodded me lightly on the flank with her finger and I let out another cry of pain, at which she straightened up, tutting in consternation.
I saw her cast a furtive look over her shoulder, as if checking to see that she was alone. She took her trolley tightly by the handle, and my heart began to thump in my chest. When I had set off in pursuit of her I had a hazy notion that, by confronting her, I would call her bluff. Now it had started to dawn on me that, in fact, she was about to call mine. Rather than putting an end to her campaign of harassment against Debbie, I had presented her with the perfect opportunity to finish what she had started: to run me over with her trolley and dispose of me in the privacy of her own home.
She yanked the trolley forward, but suddenly veered onto the grass, skirting around me as if I were roadkill. I felt a surge of relief that I was unharmed, which quickly turned to disappointment. Was she simply going to ignore me, leaving me – dying, for all she knew – in her front garden? I lay on the path, holding my breath, willing her not to go inside. I sensed she was looking at me, and I imagined her face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as she considered her options. I was sure she was convinced I was gravely injured. Would it occur to her that, if I was found dead outside her house, she would be the prime suspect?
I heard slow footsteps on the path behind me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Her voice was irritable and impatient. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I began to whimper pitifully. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she tutted.
My ears twitched at the sound of the shopping trolley being unzipped behind me, followed by rustling noises as she moved its contents around. I felt one hand slide underneath my hind legs and another under my shoulders, but I lay still, fighting the natural urge to jump out of her hands and run away. She lifted my limp body off the path and I could hear her shallow breathing as she lowered me carefully into the trolley.
I opened my eyes in time to see her face disappear as she slid the zip shut above me.
35
It was stiflingly close inside the trolley, and pitch black, but for a chink of daylight through a gap in the zip. The sharp corner of a piece of packaging dug into my flesh, and I twisted onto all fours to absorb the impact as the trolley’s wheels bounced along the ground beneath me. There was a strong stench of mackerel emanating from the plastic bag under my paws which, combined with the airlessness and rocking motion of the trolley, made me feel nauseous. I slowed my breathing in an effort to fight the growing queasiness in my belly: I didn’t know what the old lady had planned for me, but I suspected that vomiting over her shopping would not help my cause.
Desperate for fresh air, I began to tug at the zip above me until it snagged on my claw and I was able to work it slowly back along its track. As soon as the gap was large enough, I poked my head through and saw the lady’s knuckles gripping the trolley handle just a few inches from my nose. My relief at breathing fresh air was short-lived, however, as I scanned my surroundings, wondering where she was taking me. There were walls on both sides, and the woman’s back blocked my view ahead.
I stood up on my hind legs and extended my neck as far as I could, trying to see around her body. Something moved at the edge of my vision and I twisted my head, to see the tortoiseshell cat staring back at me. The quizzical semi-recognition I had seen in her eyes on my first journey through the alley had been replaced by a look of bafflement. I blinked at her for the second time that morning, well aware of how bizarre I must look, with my disembodied head protruding from an old woman’s trolley. The tortoiseshell’s tail twitched and she watched in amused silence as I was wheeled past.
As we neared the end of the alley I dropped back down beneath the zip, not wanting to draw attention to myself from passers-by. I could hear the noise of the market square around me, the slam of car doors and the shuffle of feet on the pavement, and before long I felt the uneven bump of cobbles underneath the trolley’s wheels. We stopped, then I heard a bell tinkle as a door opened, followed by a lurching sensation as the trolley was pulled inside.
Relief washed over me as I recognized the familiar sounds of the café around me: the hum of conversation and clink of teacups, and scratching sounds as one of the kittens went to work on a nearby scratching post.
‘Excuse me,’ I heard the old woman say.
A moment’s silence, then Debbie’s voice, sounding surprised, ‘Oh. Can I help you?’
I could imagine Debbie’s shocked expression upon finding herself face-to-face with the woman who had done so much to hurt her.
‘I’ve got your cat,’ the woman mumbled.
‘I’m sorry?’ Debbie answered, and there was no mistaking the fear in her voice. I knew she would be thinking of her conversation with Jo, regretting that she hadn’t paid more heed to her friend’s warnings that the battle axe couldn’t be trusted.
‘She was on my doorstep, I think she might be injured,’ the old lady stammered.
When Debbie answered, she sounded angry and suspicious, ‘Molly? Are you sure? Well, where is she?’
Before she could answer, I popped my head through the gap in the zip. Debbie gasped and watched, speechless, as I wriggled out of the trolley and jumped onto the floor.
‘Molly!’ exclaimed Debbie, rushing towards me. I stood up to greet her, aware of the dumbfounded expression on the old woman’s face.
‘I – er
. . . she was yowling. I thought she was hurt,’ she explained, bewildered by the sight of me in evident good health. I felt a glimmer of pity for the old lady. Although she was telling the truth, her faltering delivery made her sound guilty and unconvincing.
Debbie ignored her, however, as she knelt on the floor to check me all over. Reassured that I was unharmed, she turned to face the old woman. ‘Well, she seems to be all right now.’
‘I – er . . . I thought . . .’ The old woman was beginning to blush, aware that Debbie was scrutinizing her distrustfully. ‘Well, if she’s okay, I suppose I’ll be getting on.’ She began to fiddle with the zip on her trolley, unable to bear Debbie’s gaze any longer.
Debbie watched as the old lady busied herself with her trolley, her face turning a shade of red that almost matched the colour of her hair. I sensed that Debbie was beginning to feel sorry for the woman, whose mortification and discomfort were plain to see. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she offered, politely. The old lady looked startled and, although she opened her mouth to reply, no sound came out. ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’ Debbie suggested.
The woman closed her mouth and glanced down at her feet. ‘I don’t think . . . I’m not . . . ’
Debbie smiled, aware that her friendliness had caught the old woman off-guard, and allowing her time to reply.
‘Well, I suppose, since I’m here, a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt,’ the old woman said at last, casting a nervous look at Debbie, who smiled and grabbed a menu, before leading the woman across the café to a table near the fireplace.
As soon as she had sat down, the old lady was surrounded by the kittens, who were drawn across the café by the smell of mackerel drifting from her shopping trolley. They crawled underneath it and sniffed her shoes and skirt, while I loitered nearby, watching her reactions closely. At first she seemed alarmed by the kittens’ inquisitiveness, nervously trying to move her bag and trolley away from them as they scampered around her, but after a few moments she seemed to relax, accepting that their curiosity was playful rather than menacing.
Debbie brought a pot of tea across the café, and placed a Feline Fancy next to it on the table. The woman stared at the cake, which was decorated with a pink nose and whiskers, then looked up at Debbie in confusion. ‘It’s on the house,’ Debbie explained. ‘Thank you for bringing Molly home.’
The old lady’s face softened. ‘That’s very kind,’ she replied quietly, smiling at the cake. I padded towards her and, as she took her first sip of tea, pressed my body gently into the side of her leg. Instinctively, and without saying a word, she lowered her hand to stroke my back.
‘I can’t believe you gave her a Feline Fancy, Mum.’ Sophie sounded affronted by her mother’s willingness to forgive the old woman’s transgressions. John had come over and the three of them were eating dinner at the dining table. Sophie dropped her cutlery, to emphasize her indignation. ‘After everything she’s done to us! Did she even say sorry for any of it?’
Debbie sighed. ‘Well, she didn’t apologize as such, but we had a chat before she left, and she was very complimentary about the café. I got the feeling she really is sorry.’ She smiled hopefully at Sophie, whose face remained defiantly sceptical. ‘And besides,’ Debbie went on, ‘I think the old dear must have a screw loose somewhere – why else would she zip a perfectly healthy cat inside her shopping trolley and invent some story about her being half-dead?’
I was having a wash on the sofa, but I smiled inwardly, congratulating myself on my acting skills.
John had remained silent throughout Debbie’s account of the day’s drama but, at this, he started to chuckle softly.
‘What’s so funny?’ Debbie asked, sensing mockery in the air.
‘Nothing,’ he replied with a placatory smile. Now it was Debbie’s turn to put her cutlery down as she looked at John to explain. He took the hint. ‘It’s just that . . . has it occurred to you that she might have been telling the truth? That she really did find Molly lying in her garden, playing dead?’
‘Playing dead?’ Debbie snorted derisively. ‘I hardly think so, John. Why would Molly do that? You can see for yourself that she’s as fit as a fiddle.’
All three of them looked at me, but I carried on with my wash, feigning ignorance.
‘Well,’ John said, spreading his palms upwards in a ‘who knows’ gesture, ‘maybe it is just a coincidence. The old woman happened to find Molly in her garden, thought she was injured when in fact she wasn’t, and decided to bring her back to the café. It could be that simple. But I think you’re underestimating that cat, Debbie. I think she knows more than she’s letting on.’
I flicked a glance towards the table, and caught sight of John smiling at me. Blushing, I turned away and busied myself with grooming the base of my spine. John was right of course; I knew much more than I was letting on, and not just about what had happened that day with the battleaxe.
I knew how many challenges Debbie had faced since taking me in, both personally and professionally. I knew how she had been pushed to breaking point by the demands of a failing business and a struggling teenager, and yet still found room, in her home and her heart, for a stray cat and a litter of kittens. I knew there was a time when it had seemed that we might cost her her livelihood, yet she never once sought to blame us. She had held onto us when our very existence must have been a burden, and I had repaid her the only way I could: by comforting her when she was in despair, and by using every power at my disposal to make sure she found the happiness she deserved. Whether she underestimated what I had done for her was irrelevant. She was my owner, after all, and taking care of her was my job.
Epilogue
It is Christmas morning. A full year has passed since my arrival in Stourton, and I am on the dining table watching Sophie and Debbie unwrap their presents on the living-room floor. There is a small stocking of cat treats under the tree, a gift to us all from Margery, but the kittens are more interested in shredding the discarded wrapping paper strewn across the floor. They are lithe young cats now; their limbs are long and muscular and their fluffy fur has been replaced by sleek pelts. But the excitement of Christmas has brought out their playful exuberance, reminding me fondly of their younger selves.
Debbie gets up to go into the kitchen, and Sophie leans against the sofa, engrossed in her new mobile phone, a gift from her mother. Sophie isn’t looking at me, but I blink at her anyway. I am fond of Sophie, and I know she is of me. She no longer exudes pent-up anger whenever I am around, and I can’t remember the last time she called me a fleabag, or complained about my hair on her clothes. Sometimes I even sleep on her bed.
Downstairs, the bell above the café door tinkles.
‘That you, John?’ Debbie calls, over the noise of the kitchen radio.
‘No, it’s Father Christmas,’ John replies.
‘Even better!’ Debbie laughs. ‘Come on up. I hope you’ve remembered the orange juice – I could murder a Buck’s Fizz right now!’
There is a pause. ‘You might just want to come down here first,’ John says.
Debbie steps into the hallway, perplexed. ‘Why – what is it? Please don’t tell me it’s the boiler again . . .’
‘No, it’s not the boiler. It’s just that there’s someone here who seems to want to come in.’
Alarm flickers across Debbie’s face. She takes off her apron and heads downstairs to the café. Intrigued, I jump off the dining table and follow her.
John is standing by the door in the empty café, loosening the scarf around his neck. I register the bag of wrapped gifts on the floor by his feet, and I am aware that he steps towards Debbie and kisses her. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I hear him say.
But I am not looking at them. I am looking at the window.
Perched precariously on the windowsill outside is a cat. He is looking over his shoulder at the street behind, his ears flicking in the wind. He looks nervous, twitchy, as if he is fighting the urge to run.
Sophie has come downstairs too, follow
ed by the kittens, who want to know where everyone has gone. Now we are all standing in the café, looking at the cat on the windowsill. The cat turns back to face the café and his eye catches mine through the glass.
‘That cat looks just like Eddie!’ Sophie exclaims.
‘Indeed he does,’ Debbie agrees. I am not looking at her, but I know she is watching me, and I can hear the smile in her voice. I feel like I am frozen to the spot, dumbfounded.
‘Someone must have told him Molly’s Cat Café is the place to be,’ John jokes. ‘He’s a handsome chap, too. You’ve got room for another one, haven’t you, Debs?’
Debbie pauses, and I can feel her eyes on me. ‘What do you think, Molly, shall I let him in?’
Hearing her say my name rouses me from my daze. I turn and look at her, but my mind is blank. She laughs at me, but her laugh is not unkind. It’s a laugh that suggests she knows what’s going on, and that she understands. I watch as she opens the café door and leans out.
‘Come on, puss, in you come,’ she calls.
The tomcat looks at her and I see his tail twitch. I remember his words to me in the alley: I’m not really a ‘nice lady’ kind of cat. Surely this café full of strangers will be too daunting for his solitary nature? His tail twitches again and his green eyes turn back to me. It occurs to me that he is waiting for me to invite him in. I blink at him slowly, and immediately he jumps down onto the pavement. A moment later he is standing inside the doorway, his head held high in a show of confidence that must have taken more courage than he is letting on. The kittens rush over to him, fascinated and slightly in awe of this mysterious stranger.
Molly and the Cat Cafe Page 19