Christmas at the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  Debbie gave a reluctant nod.

  ‘Do you think you can carry on waiting tables until you retire?’ Linda pressed, with a tight-lipped smile.

  Debbie shrugged submissively.

  ‘Nobody wants to think about growing old, but you’ve really got to start planning ahead, Debs. You know I’m right.’

  Linda sat back triumphantly in her chair. Opposite her, Debbie’s head was bowed and she wore the hangdog expression of a chastised child.

  ‘With my help, Debs, we could build the brand together,’ Linda bore on. ‘Within five years there could be branches of Molly’s all over the Cotswolds.’

  Debbie fiddled with her hair, gazing at the floor by her feet. ‘But, Linda,’ she said finally, ‘what if I don’t want to be responsible for a chain of cafés? It’s enough responsibility just keeping this one going.’

  ‘That’s exactly my point, Debs,’ Linda riposted brightly. ‘With me as your business partner, and a management team in place, you wouldn’t need to bother yourself with all the day-to-day responsibilities any more – you could delegate all of that.’

  Debbie looked blank, as if she had run out of objections in the face of Linda’s relentless sales pitch. She sat in silence for a few moments, trying to gather her thoughts. Eventually she said, ‘But how would I pay for this brand expansion? Molly’s is doing well at the moment, but to think about taking on new premises . . . I haven’t got the money for . . . Oh!’ A look of horror spread across her face, as Linda broke into a broad grin.

  ‘But you could afford it, couldn’t you, Debs, if you used Margery’s legacy to pay for it?’

  Debbie held up her hands, palms outwards, fingers spread. ‘No way, Linda – that’s out of the question!’ she exclaimed, her eyes round with horror.

  ‘Is it, Debs? Says who?’ Linda was hunched forward earnestly. ‘Margery left that money to Molly, remember, to make sure she would always be looked after. And what better way to look after Molly’s interests than to make sure that her future – and the café’s, and yours – is secure?’

  Debbie lowered her hands to her lap and her head drooped. She looked defeated.

  ‘Just promise me you’ll think about it, Debs,’ Linda pleaded. ‘It’s what Margery would have wanted.’

  21

  The following day brought ominous grey clouds scudding low across the sky, and by lunchtime the rain had arrived, driving down on the parade in icy sheets. The thought of Eddie enduring the wintry conditions alone, outdoors and without shelter, consumed me. In spite of the weather, I slipped out and made straight for the alleyway, to curl up beneath the fire escape. Hearing the relentless pounding of raindrops on the iron steps above me, and feeling the winter chill seep into my bones, was a kind of penance, as if I was sharing, at least to some degree, Eddie’s suffering.

  As I made my way back from the alleyway that evening, I rounded the corner to see Jo on the cobbles in front of the café. She was battling to steady her umbrella against the lashing rain, clutching a bag from the Indian takeaway close to her body with her free hand. I broke into a run and slipped in behind her when she opened the door and a blast of cold air rushed into the café with us, causing the paper napkins to flutter in their holders and the window blinds to tap against the glass.

  ‘Hiya, Debs, food’s here,’ Jo shouted, shaking out her umbrella on the doorstep. She walked across the flagstones, pausing by the cat tree to deliver an amused double-take at the photo of Ming suspended from the bunch of mistletoe.

  ‘It’s Ming-istletoe. Linda’s idea,’ Debbie explained, deadpan, as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  ‘Of course,’ Jo murmured, stifling a smile.

  She deposited the bag of food on the counter and walked over to the fireplace. Purdy, who had been spread out on the flagstones, jumped up and wrapped herself around Jo’s ankles, scent-marking her jeans enthusiastically with the sides of her mouth.

  ‘Hello, Purdy,’ Jo cooed, bending over to rub her briskly around the whiskers. I could hear Purdy’s purr from the windowsill. ‘So, how’re things with you, Debs?’ Jo asked, drying the backs of her rain-soaked legs in the warmth from the stove.

  Debbie made a face that was half-grimace, half-smile, then pulled something out of her back pocket. ‘Have a read of that,’ she said despondently, handing the folded envelope to Jo. The letter had arrived in the post that morning; I had recognized the solicitor’s insignia, and noticed how Debbie had swiftly plucked the envelope off the mat and stuffed it in her apron, looking around furtively to make sure Linda hadn’t seen.

  ‘Hmm, they’re turning up the pressure, aren’t they?’ Jo said, casting her eyes over the letter’s contents while Debbie gathered plates and cutlery.

  ‘I can hardly blame them,’ replied Debbie. ‘They need to know what I plan to do, but . . .’ Her posture slumped and she stared at the crockery in front of her.

  ‘But, what?’ Jo asked. ‘I thought you’d already decided to decline the legacy.’

  ‘I had, Jo!’ said Debbie fervently. ‘But that was before Linda started going on about how Margery might not have wanted David to inherit. She thinks David’s trying to bully me and that I should respect Margery’s wishes and . . . Oh, I just don’t know any more,’ she wailed.

  Jo pulled a stool towards the counter and sat down, hungrily ripping open a paper bag of poppadoms.

  ‘She’s making me doubt myself, Jo,’ Debbie continued, looking dejected. ‘Am I being naive for thinking the money should go to David, regardless of Margery’s will? I know how much Molly meant to Margery, and David certainly isn’t the easiest of people—’

  ‘That sounds like an understatement, Debs,’ Jo interjected, taking a bite of crispy poppadum.

  Debbie’s head dropped. ‘He was awful, Jo, I’ve never felt so belittled by anyone in my life,’ she admitted. ‘But that doesn’t make it right to disinherit him, does it?’ she asked, her eyes round with worry.

  ‘There’s no easy answer,’ Jo agreed. ‘But Linda is right about one thing. A bit of financial security for you and Sophie wouldn’t go amiss, would it?’

  Debbie winced. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ she asked. ‘That’s what’s so horrible about this whole situation. Linda knows I’ve got no pension, and no one to depend on financially. She knows that thinking about the future terrifies me, and she’s using it to justify taking the money.’

  Jo did her best to convey sympathy whilst simultaneously shovelling a handful of poppadum shards into her mouth.

  ‘If it makes you feel any better, Debs,’ she said, as they moved their meal over to a table and sat down, ‘I know exactly what you mean about financial security, or lack thereof.’

  Debbie pulled herself out of her torpor and looked at her friend with concern. ‘Business still slow?’ she asked kindly.

  ‘Stourton’s changed, Debs,’ Jo complained. ‘My humble hardware shop isn’t in keeping with the place any more. We don’t fit in with all the beauty salons and designer boutiques and . . . cat cafés all over the place.’

  Debbie poured out two large glasses of wine. ‘On behalf of the cat cafés, I apologize,’ she said sincerely, handing a glass to Jo. ‘But people will always need Hoover bags, surely?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘That’s true, Debs, but they can get them from the market, can’t they? Just like they can get most of what I stock from the market.’

  Debbie gave her friend a sympathetic look and there followed a sisterly silence while the two of them ate and drank.

  ‘I’ve got to be honest, Debs,’ Jo said gloomily. ‘If someone left Bernard money in their will, I’d think very seriously before turning it down.’ She managed a half-smile and took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Well, it could happen,’ Debbie replied, determinedly upbeat. ‘I’m sure there must be a rich benefactor out there somewhere, with a soft spot for arthritic Labradors.’

  ‘Arthritic Labradors who are slightly incontinent and a bit smelly,’ Jo clari
fied.

  Debbie chuckled. ‘How is Bernard, anyway?’ she enquired.

  Just as Jo had always taken an interest in me and the kittens, Debbie also felt an affectionate fondness for Jo’s dog.

  ‘Oh, he’s plodding on, bless him,’ answered Jo. ‘I took him to see my dad last weekend on the farm. They were like two peas in a pod, wheezing and limping around the yard together.’ She was smiling, but her eyes looked damp.

  There was a sudden rattle and tinkle, followed by a gust of night air as the café door opened. Debbie and Jo both looked up, surprised by the unexpected interruption.

  ‘Oh, hi, sweetheart,’ Debbie said, twisting in her chair to see Sophie standing on the doormat. ‘You’re home early.’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘My plans changed. What’re you eating?’ she asked, drawn towards their table by the spicy aroma of their food.

  ‘Indian. There’s plenty left. Why don’t you join us?’

  Sophie stood beside them, considering the offer. ‘Okay,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a plate.

  ‘So how are you?’ Jo asked, when Sophie had pulled up a chair alongside them and set about heaping her plate with lukewarm curry. ‘I’ve hardly seen you recently.’

  ‘That’s because she’s hardly ever here!’ Debbie chipped in, with a pointed look at her daughter.

  ‘And why do you think that is, Mum?’ Sophie riposted drily.

  There was a pause, during which Jo glanced from mother to daughter. ‘I guess it must be a bit . . . crowded . . . in the flat at the moment?’ Jo said diplomatically.

  ‘You could say that,’ replied Sophie, a distinct edge of bitterness to her voice. She tore off a chunk of doughy naan bread and dipped it into the sauce on her plate.

  Next to her, Debbie had assumed a miserable expression and seemed to have sunk lower in her chair. Jo carried on eating, eyeing the pair of them surreptitiously.

  ‘So,’ Jo said, in a ‘changing the subject’ voice. ‘What do you think about Margery’s legacy, Soph? What do you think your mum should do?’ At this, Debbie’s body visibly tensed.

  ‘I dunno, really,’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I think it’s a bit of a weird thing to do, leave all your money to a cat. But then I also think David sounds like a bit of a d—’

  ‘Sophie!’ Debbie warned.

  Sophie rolled her eyes, continuing to muse on the dilemma as she chewed. ‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘that even if you’re not going to keep the money, you should string it out for as long as possible. Make David sweat over it. At the very least, that might teach him not to go around treating people like sh—’

  ‘All right, thank you Sophie,’ Debbie said sternly, sitting up straight to address her daughter.

  ‘She’s got a point though, Debs.’ Jo laughed. ‘It might not be such a bad idea to sit tight till New Year. Give yourself time to think about it, before you decide one way or the other.’

  ‘And prolong the agony even further?’ Debbie grimaced. ‘No, thanks. I don’t want to receive a court summons on Christmas Eve, if it’s all the same to you.’ She heaved a sigh and slumped back down in her chair with an air of self-pity.

  ‘I suppose,’ Jo replied, glancing at Sophie, who responded with an eye-roll. ‘What’s John got to say about it?’ Jo asked, hopefully. But the mention of John merely made Debbie’s shoulders sag still further.

  ‘Not much,’ she said in a long-suffering voice. ‘I haven’t heard from him for a couple of weeks. I expect he’s had enough of me.’

  A gloomy hush settled on the table. It seemed that the more Jo tried to raise Debbie’s spirits, the more determined she was to see the worst in her situation. No one spoke for several minutes until, eventually, Sophie broke the silence.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mum,’ she hissed irritably. ‘Enough with the pity-party.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Debbie replied, looking stung.

  ‘Well, are you surprised you haven’t heard from John?’ Sophie snapped. ‘The last time you saw him, you practically bit his head off about the legacy.’

  Debbie’s brow furrowed indignantly, and she looked at Jo for backup. But Jo was staring hard at her wine glass, keen not to get involved.

  In spite of Jo’s presence, Sophie made no attempt to soften her accusatory tone. ‘Honestly, Mum, you don’t get it, do you? First, you were so wrapped up in the whole Linda saga, and now in the whole legacy saga, that you seem to have forgotten that other people have feelings and might have stuff going on in their lives, too. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.’

  Debbie stared at Sophie with a hurt look. ‘But I didn’t . . . I’m just trying to do the right thing by everyone, Soph. I didn’t ask for any of this—’

  ‘I know you didn’t ask for any of it, Mum,’ Sophie interrupted impatiently. ‘We all know that. But instead of letting Linda and David ruin your life, why don’t you just get off your backside and do something about it?’ Anger flashed in her eyes, and Debbie’s mouth had opened, but no words came out. Across the table, Jo was looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Honestly, Mum,’ Sophie continued authoritatively, ‘you need to start taking a bit of responsibility for your life. If you think you should decline the legacy, then do it. And if Linda’s interference is getting you down, why don’t you just tell her to f—’

  ‘Okay, thank you, Soph,’ Jo cut in with a tense smile. ‘I think you’ve made your point beautifully.’

  Sophie sat back in her chair. Next to her, Debbie looked stunned. ‘You’re right, Soph,’ she said. ‘I guess I have been a little . . . self-absorbed recently.’ Sophie did not meet her mother’s gaze, but a grunt indicated assent. ‘And you’re absolutely right: I need to make up my own mind about what to do.’

  Another grunt.

  Debbie placed a hand on Sophie’s arm, and her eyes rested on her daughter with an expression of shrewd concern. ‘So . . . I guess I’ve also forgotten to ask what’s been going on in your life, haven’t I?’ she asked.

  Sophie was staring at the piece of naan bread in her hands, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces, until it disintegrated into crumbs on the table.

  Jo drained her glass and tilted the empty wine bottle, looking at it with fierce concentration. ‘I think I’ll just pop out for another bottle,’ she murmured, standing up and grabbing her jacket from the counter. Within seconds she was gone from the café, leaving mother and daughter alone. Two spots of pink had appeared in Sophie’s cheeks and she looked like she was fighting back tears.

  ‘Well?’ Debbie prompted gently.

  ‘Well, since you ask, Matt and I have split up,’ answered Sophie, her bottom lip trembling.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Debbie replied, draping her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry. When did that happen?’

  ‘Tonight,’ Sophie whispered.

  As Debbie leant in, Sophie’s restraint suddenly dissolved and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Debbie pulled her daughter towards her, resting Sophie’s head against her neck and stroking her hair. As Sophie sobbed, Debbie murmured soothingly into her ear. ‘It’ll be okay, sweetheart, I promise. Everything’s going to be okay.’

  22

  When Linda emerged from the bathroom the following morning, Debbie was waiting in the hallway for her.

  ‘John’s coming round for dinner tonight, Linda, so could you make yourself scarce this evening?’

  I peered around the kitchen doorway to watch them. Adjusting her makeshift towel turban, Linda looked taken aback. ‘No problem,’ she replied compliantly.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ said Debbie, heading briskly into the bathroom and locking the door behind her.

  Later, when Sophie finally wandered down from her bedroom, puffy-eyed and pale-faced in her pyjamas, Debbie patted a dining chair and beckoned for her to sit down. She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged moments later with a plate of sticky pastries and a mug of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows.

  ‘There you go, Soph. Sugar and
carbohydrate. The best-known cure for a broken heart,’ she said, lowering them onto the table.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ Sophie said, breaking into a smile. ‘Did I hear you say John’s coming over tonight?’ she asked, licking icing off her fingertips.

  ‘Yep,’ Debbie said decisively. ‘I took the advice of my ever-so-mature seventeen-year-old daughter’ – Sophie smiled bashfully – ‘and texted him this morning to invite him round, to say sorry for how I’ve been behaving recently.’

  Sophie looked quietly impressed. ‘Good on you, Mum,’ she said approvingly, taking a noisy slurp of hot chocolate through the swirls of whipped cream.

  After breakfast, Sophie retreated to her bedroom, Linda took Beau out for a walk, and Debbie set about tidying the flat with a look of resolute industriousness. I watched from the sofa as she ruthlessly disposed of piles of newspapers, emptied wastepaper baskets and cleared the dining table of its accumulated clutter. Eyeing the mound of Linda’s belongings, she marched over to the alcove and shoved as many of her sister’s clothes as possible inside the suitcase. When it was full to bursting, she forced it shut and pushed it roughly against the wall next to the pet carrier. Then she dusted the surfaces, and pushed the Hoover around with a look of grim determination. Finally satisfied, she fell heavily onto the sofa next to me. ‘That’s better, isn’t it, Molls?’ she panted.

  The evening started well. Following her sister’s instructions, Linda had gone out and – an added bonus – had taken Beau with her. I padded around the pristine flat, enjoying the change in atmosphere occasioned by their absence. In the living room the lights were dimmed, candles flickered on the table and music played softly on the stereo. Debbie had done a thorough job with the air freshener, and any lingering trace of Beau’s musky odour was masked by the artificial scent of freesias. Stalking from room to room, I felt a glimmer of territorial pride; for the first time in ages, the flat felt like our home again.