For my sister, Emma
‘What greater gift than the love of a cat?’
Charles Dickens
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1
The honey-coloured buildings that bordered the market square glowed in the dazzling autumn sunshine. I sat in the dappled shade of an elm tree, watching as tourists and shoppers meandered back and forth along the cobbled streets, soaking up the town’s atmosphere of prosperous gentility.
A cool breeze ruffled my fur and I inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of fallen leaves mingled with the aroma of meats and cheeses from the delicatessen behind me. The clock in a nearby church tower had just struck five and I knew that the bustling square would soon give way to a slower pace, as the shops closed for the day and the visitors made their way home. I yawned and jumped down from the wooden bench, taking my time to stretch languorously before setting off on my own homeward journey.
Keeping to the pavement, I trotted past the numerous tea shops, antiques dealers and gift stores that lined the square, then cut in front of the stone steps of the imposing town hall. The gaggles of grey-haired ladies in sturdy shoes barely noticed me weaving between them, preoccupied as they were with making the most of their last opportunity to buy, before climbing back into their waiting coaches. When I first arrived in the Cotswold town of Stourton-on-the-Hill as a homeless cat, the indifference of strangers would have upset me, but now I strode along, my tail held high, buoyed by the knowledge I, too, had a home to return to.
Careful to avoid the many alleyways that led off the square, which I knew to be the fiercely guarded territory of the town’s alley-cats, I turned onto a smart thoroughfare lined with estate agents’ offices and clothing boutiques. I deftly picked my way beneath gates and over fences, until I found myself in a narrow, cobbled parade of shops beside a church.
The parade serviced some of the town’s more mundane requirements, by means of a newsagent, bakery and hardware shop. But at the end of the parade, was a café. Like its immediate neighbours, the café was modest in size, but its golden stone walls exuded the same warmth as its grander counterparts on the square. Its front aspect was dominated by a curved bay window, framed by hanging baskets from which geraniums trailed, a little straggly, but still in flower after the long summer season. The only indicator that this café was different from any of the other eating establishments in Stourton was the chalkboard that stood outside its entrance, proclaiming the café ‘Open for coffee, cake and cuddles’. This was Molly’s, the Cotswolds’ only cat café, and it was my name printed in pink cursive script across the awning above the window.
Nosing through the cat flap in the café’s front door, I was immediately enveloped by the aura of tranquillity that only a room full of dozing cats can generate. The café had begun to empty after the teatime rush, but a few tables remained occupied, the customers chatting in hushed voices as they drank tea from china cups. The café’s decor was as familiar to me as my own tabby markings, from its beamed ceiling and warm pink walls (the same shade as the trail of paw prints that snaked across the flagstone floor, the result of my encounter with a paint tray when the café was being decorated), to the candy-striped oilcloths on the tables and the handwritten Specials board on the mantelpiece above the wood-burning stove.
As I made my way across the flagstones I glanced around the room, making a mental note of my kittens’ whereabouts. There were five of them – from my first and only litter – and their unexpected arrival just over a year earlier had, indirectly, brought about the café’s transformation from rundown sandwich shop to thriving cat café. I saw Purdy first: she was draped proprietorially across the cat hammock that hung from the ceiling by the stairs, her white-tipped paws dangling over the edges of the hessian fabric. She had been the first-born of the litter and thus had assumed certain privileges over her siblings, which included laying claim to the highest napping spot in the room. As I picked out a path between the tables and chairs, I spotted her sister Maisie on the sisal cat tree that stood in the middle of the room. Maisie was the smallest and most timid of the kittens. She loved to observe her surroundings from the domed bed that protruded from the cat tree’s trunk, her watchful green eyes monitoring the café’s activity from her private refuge.
My destination was the sun-faded gingham cushion in the bay window. This had come to be known as ‘Molly’s cushion’ by the café’s staff and customers, because it had long been my favourite place to sit, allowing me to observe the goings-on both inside the café and on the street. I jumped up and turned in circles a few times, kneading its soft surface with my paws, enjoying the familiarity of its smell and feel. Around me, the last few customers pulled on their jackets, gathered their shopping bags and settled their bills. Abby and Bella, always an inseparable pair, had taken joint possession of one of the armchairs in front of the stone fireplace. They were curled up together, with their eyes closed, engaged in a reciprocal wash.
Debbie, our owner, stepped out from behind the wooden serving counter and moved methodically across the room, clearing tables. With the faintly weary air she habitually carried at the end of the working day, she went over to the table nearest the door, lifted her forearm to push the wispy blonde fringe out of her eyes, then began to stack the empty plates and cups onto the crook of her arm. Her blue eyes creased into a smile when Eddie – the only boy in my litter – jumped up onto the tablecloth and began to sniff hopefully at the half-empty milk jug. ‘Eddie, you naughty boy! Where are your table manners?’ Debbie chided him, giving him a gentle shove onto a chair. He gazed longingly after her as she – and the milk jug – disappeared back into the kitchen, before he finally jumped down and wandered disappointedly away.
A flurry of movement outside the window caught my attention. A song thrush was bouncing along the guttering on the buildings opposite, chirping persistently in a shrill warning call that announced the presence of a cat nearby. I craned closer to the window to scan the street and glimpsed a large black-and-white cat striding along the cobbles. Even at a distance, the cat’s rangy frame and confident gait were instantly recognizable: it was Jasper, the father of my kittens. Before he reached the café he turned a corner and vanished out of sight. I knew he would be heading to the alleyway that ran along the rear of the parade, where he always went to wait for the café’s closing time.
The warmth of the low sun, intensified by the windowpane, began to take its soporific hold on me. I would meet Jasper outside later, for our customary evening walk, but first I felt myself succumbing to the irresistible urge to nap. I lay down on my cushion and tucked my paws neatly beneath my body, purring lethargically as a feeling of peaceful contentment spread through me. I was comfortable, I was well fed and I was surrounded by the people and cats I loved. Life was good, and as my head began to nod gently on the gingham cushion, I could see no reason why it would not stay like this forever.
2
I had just slipped into a doze when the brass bell above the café door tinkled. My ears flickered drowsily, but it took a shriek of surprise from behind the counter to jolt me back to full consciousness.
‘Oh my God, Linda!’
Startled, I lif
ted my head to see Debbie dash across the now-empty café to greet a woman standing on the doormat. I knew immediately that the woman was not a regular Molly’s customer. She was wearing a faux-fur gilet, tight white jeans and high-heeled leather boots, and her blonde hair fell in bouncy layers around a face that was half-obscured by a pair of giant sunglasses. As Debbie reached her, the woman pushed the glasses onto the top of her head and smiled. ‘I was just passing and thought I’d pop in. It’s about time I checked out the famous Cat Café,’ she said, wrapping Debbie in a tight embrace.
‘Well, this is it. What do you think?’ Debbie replied, lifting her shoulders in a self-deprecating shrug.
Linda looked around, briskly surveying the café’s interior. ‘Very nice, Debs,’ she nodded approvingly. ‘I like it. Homely.’
Debbie glanced over Linda’s shoulder at the door. ‘Where’s Ray? Are you both up from London for the day?’ she asked.
‘No, no, Ray’s not here,’ Linda replied, in a tone that made Debbie look twice at her. ‘I’m allowed to visit my sister on my own, aren’t I?’ Linda added, a touch defensively.
‘Of course you are,’ Debbie gushed, ‘I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,’Linda answered airily. ‘I just thought it’s about time I made the effort to come out here and see you – and Sophie, of course.’
‘Come on, let me get you something to eat,’ Debbie said, pulling out a chair and motioning Linda to sit down.
Linda shrugged off her gilet to reveal a clingy pink top and numerous necklaces draped around her neck. She picked up a menu card while Debbie stood beside her, patiently attentive. ‘Feline Fancy; Frosty Paws Cake Pop; Cat’s Whiskers Cookie – it all sounds delicious, Debs,’ she murmured, while Debbie beamed with pride. Linda perused the menu with a look of tortured indecision, before announcing, ‘I’ll have a Feline Fancy and a pot of Earl Grey tea, please.’
As Debbie bustled around the wooden serving counter and into the kitchen, a beeping sound issued from the bag by Linda’s feet. Frowning, she leant over, plucked a mobile phone from inside and began to tap rapidly on its screen. While she typed, I studied her from the window cushion, looking for signs of resemblance between the sisters. Everything about Linda’s immaculately groomed presentation seemed at odds with Debbie’s casual style, from the lacquered nails to her figure-hugging clothes and coiffured hair. I tried to imagine how Debbie might look if she put a similar amount of effort into her appearance, but my mind drew a blank. For as long as I had known her, Debbie had always prioritized comfort over glamour. On the few occasions she had attempted a more polished look, the episodes had ended with her slumped in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, staring at her reflection in despair. ‘Oh, what’s the point?’ she had sighed, before tying her hair back in its customary ponytail and pulling on an old sweater.
Cheered by the last-minute arrival of a customer, my son Eddie padded over to Linda’s chair to sit expectantly at her feet, hoping to charm her for titbits. Linda was unaware of his presence, however, and continued to scowl as she scrolled across the phone’s screen with her thumb. Eddie, ever optimistic, raised a paw and patted gently at the leather tassel on her boot, making Linda jump in surprise.
‘Oh, hello, Puss,’ she murmured distractedly, leaning sideways to peer down at him.
Eddie gazed beseechingly at her, but Linda’s heavily made-up face remained blank. I exhaled impatiently through my nose. This lady, I knew with absolute certainty, was not a cat person. No one who loved cats would have been able to meet Eddie’s pleading eyes and not lower a hand to stroke him. Evidently, I concluded with a slight bristling of my fur, it was not just her appearance that distinguished Linda from her sister.
A few minutes later Debbie emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray. ‘Here you go. One Feline Fancy and a pot of Earl Grey. Bon appetit!’ she said, carefully placing the chintzy teacup and plate onto the table. Linda smiled with delight upon seeing the cupcake, which was decorated with pointy cat’s ears and whiskers. Debbie took the chair opposite her. ‘Have you got to rush off or can you stay for dinner? I’ll be done in half an hour or so,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m not in a hurry at all – dinner would be lovely. I’ve . . . got a lot to tell you,’ Linda replied, before taking a bite of her Feline Fancy. ‘Oh my God, Debs, this is divine,’ she added quickly through a mouthful of cake, lifting a napkin to dab her lips.
A flicker of alarm crossed Debbie’s face. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, a faint note of concern in her voice.
‘Yes, of course,’ Linda answered lightly, suddenly absorbed in examining the sachets of sweetener in a bowl on the table. Eddie, sensing that his chances of a fruitful scrounging mission were fading, sniffed disconsolately at the floor around Linda’s feet, before padding over to the vacant armchair by the fireplace. Linda, meanwhile, seemed determined to look anywhere other than at Debbie’s enquiring face.
‘Well, look,’ Debbie began brightly, ‘I’ve got to clear up, but why don’t you go up to the flat when you’ve finished your tea? Sophie will be back from college in a bit. We can all have dinner together.’ She got to her feet and retied the strings of her Molly’s apron behind her back.
‘That would be lovely, Debs. Let’s order a takeaway – my treat,’ Linda replied.
Debbie brought the chalkboard in from the street and turned the door sign to ‘Closed’, before heading back into the kitchen, where I could hear her talking to the staff as they stacked crockery inside cupboards and wiped down the stainless-steel surfaces. In the café, Linda sipped her tea, pressing her fingertips against the china plate to pick up the remaining crumbs of cake.
The sun had now dropped behind the tiled rooftops on the parade, and the warm yellow light that had filled the café was replaced by the cool tones of the October evening. My ears flickered as a gust of wind rattled the awning outside and a draught seeped through the wooden window frame, sending a shiver up my back. Linda was engrossed in her phone once more, its blue glow illuminating her face. When she had drained her tea, she tossed the phone back into her bag and, as she straightened up, her eyes met mine for the first time. She appraised me coolly, as if I were merely another of the café’s fixtures and fittings. For the second time since Linda’s arrival, my fur bristled.
After a couple of moments my unblinking stare seemed to unnerve her. She stood up and carried her plate and teacup over to the counter. ‘That was lovely Debs. I’ll head upstairs now,’ she called through to the kitchen.
Debbie appeared in the doorway, a pair of sopping wet yellow rubber gloves on her hands. ‘Good idea. I won’t be long. Oh, I almost forgot! Have you seen? That’s Molly.’ Debbie gestured with one dripping glove towards the window where I was still staring defiantly at Linda’s back.
Linda turned and her eyes flicked briefly in my direction. ‘Oh, yes, I thought I recognized the famous Molly,’ she said, with an emphasis that struck me as somewhat sarcastic. There was a pause, during which Debbie smiled indulgently at me while Linda looked as if she was struggling to think of something else to say. ‘She’s been watching me since I got here,’ she remarked eventually.
‘Well, don’t forget: it’s her name above the door, so she does have the right to refuse entry,’ Debbie joked.
Linda emitted a fake-sounding laugh and walked back to the table to fetch her belongings. Feeling suddenly protective towards the empty flat, I jumped down from the windowsill to follow her as she climbed the stairs, holding my breath as her sickly-sweet perfume filled my nostrils in the narrow stairwell.
Rounding the banisters into the hallway, Linda glanced briefly into the tiny kitchen on her right, before turning left into the living room. I slunk in silently a few paces behind her and crept across the room to an empty shoebox that sat on the floor next to the television. I climbed into the box to watch, as Linda made an inquisitive circuit of the living room, takin
g in the dining table cluttered with unopened post, a bowl of overripe fruit and a stack of lever-arch files; the well-worn sofa and armchair, whose threadbare fabric was concealed by an assortment of colourful cushions and fluffy throws; and the coffee table that was overflowing with old newspapers and an empty box of tissues.
Noticing two photographs among the jumble of ornaments that stood on the mantelpiece, Linda glided across the rug for a closer look. She glanced cursorily at the cardboard-mounted school portrait of Sophie, Debbie’s teenage daughter, but her eyes lingered longer on the photo of Debbie beaming with pride, as she held me in her arms on Molly’s launch day. Her curiosity satiated, Linda turned back to face the room, with a faintly bored expression. She casually swiped a magazine from the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa, kicking off her boots with a relieved groan.
Like all cats, I had an instinct for evaluating people’s laps and, as I observed Linda, I tried to picture myself jumping into her lap for a cuddle. But, try as I might, I could not imagine feeling comfortable in it: it was not a lap that I would classify as inviting. Overall, there was something I found off-putting about Linda, and it was not just to do with her spiky boots and talon-like fingernails. I guessed that Linda was a few years younger than Debbie, probably in her mid-forties, but whereas Debbie’s physique gave an impression of softness and curves, Linda seemed to be all angles and edges. Her face, which was a curious shade of orange, was longer and thinner than Debbie’s, and her nose and chin were more pronounced.
Linda sat flicking through the magazine absent-mindedly for about fifteen minutes, until Debbie’s heavy end-of-the-day tread could be heard on the stairs. ‘One day my knees are going to pack up on me, I swear,’ she complained, collapsing onto one of the dining chairs with an involuntary ‘oof’ noise and rubbing her kneecaps with both hands.
Linda sprang up from the sofa. ‘Let me get you a cuppa, Debs. You stay here.’ She rummaged about noisily in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets in search of mugs and teabags.
Christmas at the Cat Cafe Page 1