Molly and the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  For Suse and Louis

  Behind every successful woman there is often a rather talented cat

  Anon

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  The Real Cat Cafés

  The Feline Fascination that inspired Molly and the Cat Café

  Extract from Christmas at the Cat Café

  1

  I don’t remember much from my early kittenhood, but when I close my eyes I can vividly recall the delight on Margery’s face when I was placed on her lap for the first time, a mewling ball of tabby fluff.

  ‘Well now, who’s this?’ she said gently, as I gazed up at her with not-long-opened eyes.

  Margery’s friend answered, ‘This little thing is Molly. She’s eight weeks old. Her mother was a stray. The others from the litter have all been homed, so she’s the last to go.’

  I squinted into Margery’s face as I sat on her lap. Her skin was soft and downy, settling into deep folds around her kind-looking eyes. She had short silver hair carefully groomed into waves that framed her face. But what I remember most about Margery in those days is her smile. It was a smile that made me feel I was the most important thing in her world or, as Margery would have put it, ‘the best thing since sliced bread’.

  ‘I thought you could do with some companionship,’ the friend continued. ‘I know you’ve been lonely, since Malcolm passed away. A nice lap-cat could be just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Well, I think Molly is . . . the cat’s whiskers.’ Margery answered softly, and there was no mistaking the pleasure in her voice.

  And, with that, it was settled: Margery was to be my owner. She tickled me under the chin and I started to purr, tentatively at first, but as I relaxed my purr grew to a loud, steady rumble. Margery began to laugh at how much noise ‘a little scrap’ like me could produce.

  As the months passed and I grew from kitten to young adult cat, Margery and I established a cosy partnership, based on mutual adoration. Margery enjoyed having someone to talk to and take care of, and I relished being the object of her loving attention. As an active, growing youngster, I was constantly hungry, and Margery seemed to delight in my insatiable appetite. She not only bought me the choicest cat food available, but would also make sure to save a portion of her own meals for me: chicken, lamb chops, a nice piece of salmon – whatever Margery cooked, there was always a Molly-sized portion put to one side in a dish on the counter.

  Margery’s house quickly became my domain: I could nap where I chose and do whatever I liked. With such a comfortable life indoors, I never particularly felt the need to explore the world outside Margery’s home. From her bedroom window I could see the roofs of houses in the village and the rolling slopes of the fields that lay beyond. I did, on occasion, wander out of our cul-de-sac, but to be honest the village we lived in held no great appeal for me. There was not much to it: a parade of shops, a church and a couple of pubs. I knew that other cats from the village enjoyed hunting in the churchyard; but, being so well fed at home, I rarely put my hunting skills into practice.

  You are probably thinking I was lucky, and I would have to agree with you. Life with Margery was all that a cat could hope for, and I loved everything about it. But that was before Margery’s sadness started.

  ‘There you go, Molly,’ Margery whispered one day, when I was about a year old. She bent over, using one hand to steady herself on the kitchen worktop, and placed my food bowl carefully on the linoleum floor. I began to purr in anticipation, I was hungry, and had been waiting patiently while Margery moved slowly around the kitchen, completing the domestic chores that always preceded my teatime.

  I hopped down from the kitchen table, but a quick look in my bowl confirmed my worst fears. I sniffed warily at the contents, hoping that the beige-coloured mushy substance might conceal something feline-friendly, but my hope quickly turned to disappointment.

  ‘It’s mashed potato, Molly – your favourite,’ Margery said helpfully, noticing my reluctance. Suspecting this was the only meal I was going to be offered, I gingerly licked the contents of the bowl. With trepidation I took a tiny mouthful. The taste was bland and the consistency lumpy, and as I attempted to swallow it, I realized something solid had become lodged in the back of my throat. I felt my body spasm as I retched the offending mouthful back up onto the linoleum. I peered at it closely. It was a piece of unmashed potato, grey-looking and inedible. Not for the first time in recent weeks I realized that an evening hunting expedition would be required to satisfy my appetite.

  Trying to ignore the hunger pangs in my stomach, I glanced up at Margery, who was now busying herself at the kitchen sink. Something about the way she was muttering worried me. I had grown familiar with her domestic routines (she had carried out the same tasks every day for as long as I could remember), but I could sense that she was feeling uncertain and anxious. She carefully washed up a saucepan in the sink, taking time to dry it thoroughly with a tea towel. Afterwards she stood clutching the pan to her chest, looking nervously around the kitchen. She opened the fridge and placed the pan inside, then tutted to herself and removed it again. She proceeded to open the doors of various kitchen cupboards, frustrated to find them full of glasses or chinaware. I knew this was not her normal behaviour; or, rather, it hadn’t been normal in the past, but there was no escaping the fact that incidents like these had been happening increasingly frequently of late.

  Leaving my bowl of sludgy mashed potato behind, I padded across the kitchen and stood in front of the one cupboard that she had not yet checked. Standing proudly with my tail erect, I meowed loudly.

  Margery was looking around the kitchen distractedly, and it took a few yowls to attract her attention.

  ‘What is it, Molly?’ she asked, her tone slightly irritated.

  I rubbed my head profusely against the cupboard door, willing her to understand my gesture.

  Margery paused and stared at me vacantly for a moment, before leaning down and pulling the cupboard door open. ‘Oh, Molly, you clever girl!’ she exclaimed, on seeing a neat stack of saucepans inside. She placed the pan in its rightful place, then rubbed me behind the ears. I purred, touched by her gratitude, but underneath I felt a sense of disquiet deep within me.

  Margery and I had been through this routine countless times in recent months. I had grown adept at watching her movements closely, noting whenever she did anything out of the ordinary, such as placing her reading glasses in the fridge or her house keys in the bathroom cabinet. When, as inevitably happened after such an occurrence, she became distressed, I would help her retrace her steps, meowing at the spot where I knew the missing item to be. At first I thought it was a game that she and I were playing together, and I congratulated myself on my powers of observation and memory. But over time I noticed that Margery didn’t enjoy the game as much as I did. In fact she was often upset and agitated, scolding herself for her stupidity.

  From the outside, our life looked as though nothing had changed: Margery still pottered around the house, dusting and tidying while I dozed on the sofa, and I did my
best to help her with the crossword, by sitting on the newspaper and batting at her pen while she filled in the empty squares. But she was smiling less and less, and sometimes I would find her crying in the armchair as she gazed out of the window. I did my best to comfort her, rubbing up against her cheek and purring loudly, but I sensed something was wrong that was beyond my power to fix.

  There were the lapses in memory, the befuddlement, the anxiety about lost chequebooks and misplaced keys. These were infrequent at first, but gradually they became more common, until eventually they became the norm. Even with my observation skills to help guide her, Margery seemed to be losing her grip on the day-to-day practicalities of her life. Of our life.

  Having placed the clean saucepan in its correct cupboard that day, Margery went into the living room to watch television. I considered curling up alongside her to spend the evening in companionable silence, but I was hungry and I knew from experience that I could not count on Margery to remember to feed me again that evening. I had a cursory sniff of the cold mashed potato, which had begun to congeal in my bowl, before slipping out through the cat flap, on the hunt for some small rodent to supplement my dinner.

  When I returned home later that evening, Margery had gone to bed. I performed my usual night-time patrol around the house, checking that all the windows were closed, the front door was locked and the oven had not been left on. Satisfied that the house was safe and secure, I curled up on the sofa and went to sleep.

  The following morning I was having a wash on the living-room windowsill, listening to the sounds upstairs as Margery moved slowly around her bedroom, getting dressed and brushing her hair. I hoped today would be a good day for Margery and me: that she wouldn’t be tearful, and that she would remember to give me breakfast. Hearing her tentative steps on the stairs, I jumped down from the windowsill.

  Watching her closely, to make sure she negotiated safely the twist at the bottom of the stairs, I trotted out of the living room with my tail up in greeting. I chirruped a ‘hello’ and rubbed up against her ankles.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

  I purred in reply.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. I looked up at Margery and saw that familiar confusion in her eyes, beneath a furrowed brow.

  I meowed at her. ‘I’m Molly,’ I wanted to say. ‘I’m your cat!’

  She tilted her head to one side, looking at me quizzically. I willed her to recognize me, to say my name again and laughingly reassure me that she could never forget who I was.

  ‘Have you come from down the street, puss? You need to be getting home – your owner will be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  She walked past me to the front door and picked up the keys, which just the previous evening I had checked were in their correct place on the shelf. She carefully unlocked the door, struggling with the chain for a couple of moments before pulling it open. Then she smiled at me, evidently expecting me to be grateful that I was being released, free to go home. I stood on the hall carpet, my tail twitching.

  ‘Well, go on then. I expect you’ll be wanting your breakfast soon.’

  I could feel my eyes start to prickle. Margery’s disorientation had often left me bewildered, and her distress at those moments when she seemed to comprehend what was happening to her had made my heart ache. But never before had I felt pain like this. This was different. It was the pain of not being recognized; of looking into my owner’s eyes and seeing not love, but confusion. It was the pain of feeling like a stranger in my own home.

  Not wanting Margery to see my suffering, I lowered my head and slipped past her and out through the front door.

  2

  Margery continued to have good days and bad days, but the bad days far outnumbered the good. I learnt not to feel so hurt when she couldn’t remember my name, or appeared to forget my existence until I yowled out of hunger or sheer desperation to be noticed. It felt to me as though Margery was somehow disappearing, vanishing further and further down a tunnel inside her mind. Physically she looked smaller and frailer too, and my fur would prickle with anxiety as I watched her shakily climb the stairs at night.

  Margery’s son had begun to visit the house more often. He was a small, wiry man who gave off an air of perpetual impatience, as if there was always somewhere else he needed to be. I found him difficult to warm to. I could never get the measure of him, and as much as Margery loved to see him, I sensed that his hurried air made her agitation worse. I wished I could get him to settle and relax, to spend some quality time with his mother, rather than wanting to be on his way as quickly as possible. I tried to encourage him to stay by jumping on his lap whenever he sat down, but he merely shoved me off irritably. I would retreat to another part of the room and try to convey my disapproval from a distance.

  ‘So how are things, Mum? You been looking after yourself?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, I’m very well, thank you, David. And how’s . . . ?’

  I could see Margery’s mortification as she struggled to remember her daughter-in-law’s name.

  ‘Pat’s fine, thanks. The kids are all right too – that is, I think they are. Hardly ever see them these days, to be honest.’

  I could see that Margery was thrown, desperately trying to picture who ‘the kids’ – her grandchildren – were. But David didn’t seem to pick up on these cues, and would carry on talking about his family or job as if Margery was fully cognizant of every detail of his life. Margery just smiled politely and tried to follow what he was saying.

  She was always upset to say goodbye to David at the end of his visits, and I knew to expect tears after he had gone. Margery couldn’t put into words how she was feeling, even to me, but I did what I could to comfort her just through my presence. Usually stroking me seemed to calm her down eventually.

  One afternoon in late summer, after an exuberant session of butterfly-chasing in our garden, I crept inside the house and climbed upstairs to find David going through piles of boxes in Margery’s spare room. Unable to restrain my innate curiosity (not to mention my feline love of cardboard boxes), I jumped into the midst of the operation to investigate. David had his head inside a large open box, so I found myself nose-to-nose with him amidst a pile of dusty paperwork. Evidently I took him by surprise, because he swore loudly and immediately scooped me out of the box and dropped me onto the floor. Undeterred, I found a stack of cardboard on the other side of the room and spent a pleasant hour exploring whilst keeping an eye on what David was doing.

  After a while I settled down inside a box, enjoying the rays of sunshine that were warming it through the window. David seemed to have forgotten I was there.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum, why on earth have you kept all this stuff?’ he muttered, and I could hear him roughly shoving piles of paper into a dustbin liner. At one point his mobile phone rang and he swore under his breath, before retrieving it from his back pocket.

  ‘Hiya, Pat, I’m up to my neck in it here. There’s eighty years’ worth of rubbish lying on the floor in front of me, and I’m only on the first room.’

  David stood up and closed the spare-room door, evidently trying to keep Margery from overhearing the conversation. I watched and listened in silence from my vantage point inside the cardboard box.

  ‘No, I haven’t spoken to her about it yet. I know, I know.’ I could tell he was getting annoyed. ‘I’ve got to time it right. Got to pick the right moment or she’ll go to pieces. But I’m making a start by clearing some of this rubbish out. I will tell her – yes, I know, soon. But you know what she’s like, so determined to be independent.’

  Inside my cardboard hiding place I could feel alarm starting to spread around my body. I couldn’t imagine what it was that David hadn’t told Margery, but it was obviously something that would upset her. I remained still, praying he would say more to enlighten me, but instead he became impatient with Pat and ended the phone call with a curt, ‘Look, I’ve got to get on with this. We’ll talk about it later.’

  Over the next fe
w weeks David continued to visit the house regularly. He would let himself in and call out to Margery from the hallway, ‘Hi, Mum, it’s David. I’m here to help you tidy up.’

  But what he called ‘tidying’, I saw as the dismantling of our home, one room at a time. Over and over again he filled the boot of his car with soft furnishings, bags of old clothes and piles of papers, reassuring Margery that it wasn’t anything she needed and saying that it was only fit for the tip.

  Margery seemed too frightened to protest. Usually she would take herself into another room rather than watch her possessions being ransacked. Occasionally I saw a wistful look in her eye as she studied a pile of belongings that had been earmarked for the charity shop.

  I, however, was furious. How dare he come into our home and make completely arbitrary decisions about what Margery – and, for that matter, what I – was or wasn’t allowed to keep? Time and again I would find that one of my favourite things – a moth-eaten old picnic rug or a hessian foot stool – had been taken to the tip without my knowledge.

  The house no longer smelt like home, either. The distinctive scent of lavender, which had always suffused Margery’s clothes and furniture, was now smothered by the chemical reek of polish and detergent, so overpowering that they made my eyes water and my throat sore.

  During this time I spent my days patrolling the house, attempting to reclaim my territory by rubbing my scent glands on as many surfaces as possible. But it was a hopeless task, in the face of David and his relentless packing, boxing and cleaning. If Margery wasn’t around, David made no attempt to hide his dislike of me, shooing me out of the house at every opportunity, although I noticed that in front of Margery he still maintained the pretence of finding me endearing.

  There is no doubt in my mind that the upheaval at home made Margery’s confusion worse. I could see her deteriorate in front of my eyes. She had all but stopped eating, having given up cooking weeks ago when she could no longer hold all the stages of the process in her mind. She found it difficult to settle – like a wary cat expecting to be attacked – and would repeatedly go to the front window and peer out, as if waiting for something or someone.