Molly and the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  I remained in my hiding place while I considered my options. I could make my way around the back of the building to scavenge in the bins for scraps, or I could try something more ambitious.

  A customer was standing in front of the fruit and vegetable display, unwittingly dangling her leather shopping-basket about six inches from my nose. As she handled some of the produce on the table above me, I tiptoed forward and inhaled deeply. I could smell cheese, prawns and white fish, and my mouth began to water. The lady dropped some vegetables into the bag and then made her way towards the till.

  Having paid for her shopping, she walked back across the shop to the exit. I darted out from under the table and followed, slipping through the automatic doors after her. I crossed the courtyard a few paces behind her, feeling excited and nervous, wondering if this could be the opportunity I had longed for: the moment I found my next owner.

  She rummaged in her handbag for her car key and pointed it at a large, expensive-looking car, which bleeped in response. I was just about to begin my charm offensive, when she swung the boot open and a dog leapt out. Instantly, my tail fluffed out and I hissed as memories of Stan, Chas and Dave rushed into my mind. The dog was attached to the car by a leash, but that didn’t stop him straining against it so hard that his eyes bulged. The woman turned round and, for the first time, noticed me.

  ‘Urgh, where did that stray cat come from?’ she said, her face contorted in revulsion.

  This was not going according to plan. I had intended to mew piteously at this point, and to rub my head endearingly around her boots. Instead my ears were pinned back against my head, my back was arched, every hair was standing on end. It was beginning to dawn on me that this scene was unlikely to have a happy ending.

  ‘Stop it, Inca. Inside!’ she instructed the dog, which, reluctantly but obediently, jumped back into the boot of the car.

  She glared and waved a rolled-up umbrella at me as if I were vermin. Defeated, I gave a final parting hiss before breaking into a run through the car park and out onto the grassy verge.

  Back on the muddy track, my annoyance gave way to disappointment. I had not had much time to dwell on my loneliness since making the decision to set off for town, but seeing the customers in the farm shop had given me a pang that felt like homesickness – a longing for a home, and an owner to call my own. Not just someone to protect and feed me, but someone whose face would light up when I walked into the room, who would be delighted if I jumped onto their lap for a cuddle. My life as a solitary, wandering cat was so different from my previous existence that I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be a pet, and to feel loved. My experience at the farm shop had reminded me that the world of humans and their houses, with their cosy kitchens and open fires, was still out there, but seemingly further out reach than ever.

  Trying not to let self-pity swamp me, I trudged along the verge. The rain had stopped, but there was no escaping the winter chill in the air now, and the watery sun was already setting in the sky. The mud under my paws was cold and beginning to set hard: a frosty night lay ahead.

  I followed the curve of the road and looked up to see a long hill stretching ahead of me. I could make out the orange glow of street lamps at the top, and the distant silhouette of buildings and rooftops. I felt a tingle of excitement: this must be the town Nancy had talked of.

  The wind seemed to cut through me as I plodded up the hill. Cars raced past, their headlights glistening on the wet asphalt, their drivers no doubt rushing to get home for the evening. When I saw a road sign that read ‘Welcome to Stourton-on-the-Hill, historic market town’, I felt a strange mixture of relief and nervousness. I knew nothing about this town, but had set my heart on it as the place where I would find a home and an owner. Now that I had finally arrived, the enormity of my challenge began to hit me.

  The light was fading and it had started to drizzle again. Normally I would have taken this as my cue to stop, to find a nook in the side of a wall or a hollow tree trunk and curl up for the night. My paws were numb with cold, my fur was soaked through, and I was beginning to feel chilled to my bones. But I felt an urge to push on, to make it into town before nightfall.

  At the outer edge of the town, I hopped up onto the pavement, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable as I passed between shops and parked cars. I paused outside a takeaway restaurant – the smell of spicy meat that wafted out of an air vent made me painfully aware of my hunger. Stepping forward to peer through the restaurant window, I jumped when I saw a wild-looking cat inside, staring at me with a look of panic in its eyes. Startled, I stepped away from the window, my heart racing with shock. Slowly, I crept forwards, approaching the glass for another look. This time, it took only a moment to confirm my worst suspicion: that the wild cat in the restaurant was, in fact, my own reflection looking back at me.

  I stared at myself in the glass in disbelief. Where once I had had soft flesh, there was now lean muscle. I could see the knobbles of my spine protruding through my fur, which was dull and matted in places. But it was my face that most surprised me – my chin looked pointed and my eye sockets were hollow. I recoiled in horror, thinking that I looked just like a stray. My heart sank as I realized that was exactly what I had become.

  At that moment a man came out of the restaurant clutching a paper bag full of food containers. I closed my eyes momentarily to savour the delicious aromas of lamb and chicken. The man pulled his jacket up over his head to shield himself from the rain, then broke into a run. His feet splashed through a puddle as he ran past me, soaking me with dirty water. I shook what I could off me, knowing that I needed a thorough wash. I also knew I would have to find somewhere to shelter before I could afford myself that luxury.

  I heard church bells in the distance. They reminded me of the clock on Margery’s fireplace: six chimes meant my dinner hour, and she was never late, placing my china dish in front of me with a ‘There you go, lovie’. I would eat happily, knowing that once dinner was finished we would settle down for a cuddle on the sofa. She would stroke my back and talk to me as she watched television, and I would purr in reply. That was how it had been with Margery – a routine that had evolved between us, an innate understanding of what the other wanted and needed.

  Was it possible that I would ever have that sort of relationship with another person? And, if such a person were out there somewhere, in Stourton-on-the-Hill, how was I to go about finding them?

  9

  The sky had darkened ominously and heavy droplets of rain pounded my back, but I knew I had to keep walking. My first priority was to eat, and then to find shelter for the night. I lowered my head and followed the sound of the church bells, hoping they would lead me to the centre of town. As I plodded along the pavement a man ran out of a shop in front of me, shaking his umbrella open and spraying me with rainwater. Startled, I darted into a doorway and shook the loose water from my fur. When I peered out, I saw shoppers rushing along the street, their faces hidden by hoods and umbrellas.

  I ducked back into the doorway, allowing myself a brief respite from the rain. Rivulets of water gushed along the kerbside gutter a few feet away from me, the drains overflowing in the downpour. The rain bounced relentlessly off the rooftops and dripped from shop awnings onto the pavement. It sounded hard and unforgiving, not like the soft pattering noise of rain falling on fields or hedgerows. My fur was soaked through and my paws were numb with cold, although I knew I had no choice but to carry on, in spite of my discomfort.

  I slipped out of the doorway and, avoiding the rain-splashed kerb, ran as fast as I could to the end of the street. My head remained bowed as I followed the pavement round a bend, at which point I stopped, my ears twitching as they detected a change in my surroundings. The intense, echoing quality of the rain in the narrow street had gone and I sensed that the town had opened up in front of me. I could hear human voices on all sides, car engines and the clanking of metal in the distance. Feeling an urge to seek cover and get my bearings, I dashed between the w
heels of a parked car and twisted my body rapidly from side to side, flicking the loose water from my fur. A shiver was starting to spread through my bones and my instincts were telling me to wash and sleep, but I knew it was too risky to settle down here. Exhausted though I was, my mind vividly recalled the look on Nancy’s face as she instructed me, ‘Never. Ever. Sleep underneath a parked car. Got it?’

  Night was falling fast and I could not afford to linger. I peered out from under the car bonnet. Up ahead, buildings of honey-coloured stone faced onto a handsome market square, their mismatched rooftops silhouetted against the steel-grey sky. In the square, traders were packing away their market stalls, dismantling poles and loading unsold stock into their vans. The shops were closing for the night, but there were still a few people on the streets, grim-faced and laden with bags. After so long away from human habitation, I struggled to take in the scene before me. But it was not the noisiness of the square, or the bustling activity of the market traders, that made me catch my breath – it was the lights. Everywhere I looked there were bulbs strung between lamp posts, cables of fairy lights snaking through window displays, and illuminated stars twinkling in doorways. On the far side of the square, white bulbs were wreathed around a large fir tree. There was no mistaking the signs all around me: Christmas was coming.

  As the shock of this realization sank in, I was reminded afresh of the life I had lost. When I had lived with Margery, Christmas had been my favourite time of year. The first sign of it was the appearance of Margery’s small artificial tree by the front-room window. I would sit on the windowsill next to its sparse, bare branches, waiting patiently while Margery rummaged in the understairs cupboard for the box of decorations. As soon as she placed it on the living-room floor I would jump down and dip my paw into the mound of baubles inside, delighting in the rattling sound they made as I tried to catch them with my claws.

  Margery would remove ornaments from the box one by one and hang them carefully on the tree, while I lurked behind, waiting to bat them off the branches with my paw. Margery would chide me, ‘Tsk, Molly!’, but she smiled as she spoke and never made any attempt to stop me. Once the baubles were in place, she would pull a long string of tinsel from the box and I would pounce on it, wrestling with its rustling fronds until Margery tugged it out from underneath me, laughing. She would weave a string of coloured lights around the tree and place a sparkly star at the top, then would stand back to appraise her work. ‘There, Molly, what do you think?’ she would ask, and I would purr in approval.

  I slid out from under the car now, feeling vulnerable and exposed as I began to skirt around the edge of the square. The market traders were oblivious to my presence as I slunk behind their vans. I glanced up at each shop I passed: their windows were full of antiques, cookware or walking boots and waxed jackets. A chalkboard on the pavement alerted me to the presence of a pub up ahead. Its door was open onto the street, inviting passers-by to take refuge from the chill and damp outside. I tiptoed into its wooden porch, glimpsing a cosy wooden-beamed bar and a roaring log fire inside. It was almost temptation beyond endurance, to see people warming their feet by the flames and not slip across the room to join them. But the aroma of damp dog hung in the air, and the ‘Dogs welcome’ sign on the door left me in no doubt that this was an establishment that favoured dogs over cats.

  As I continued my circuit of the square, I passed a bookshop and an interior-design store with swathes of fabric draped across a chaise longue in the window. My stomach rumbled insistently, reminding me that I needed to find something to eat as a matter of urgency. I came across a bakery that proclaimed its ‘organic artisan breads’, but its shelves were empty and it was dark inside. By the time I reached the Olde Sweet Shoppe on the corner of the square I was downcast. The window displayed rows of glass jars, each full of sugary concoctions that held no appeal whatsoever for a cat in desperate need of a good meal.

  By now the market traders had packed their vans and left, and the dark streets had begun to empty of pedestrians. I felt a growing sense of panic, wondering where I could go to find food. I ran across the square towards an entrance gate, through which I could see an imposing brick building set back amidst a well-kept garden. A smartly dressed couple hurried past me and made their way through the grounds towards the building’s floodlit entrance. I followed them, mindful to keep a discreet distance, and as they pushed open the heavy wooden door, the delicious aroma of cooked food drifted down the path towards me. I climbed a grassy bank and nestled under the branches of a yew tree, from where I could see into the restaurant inside.

  I was transfixed by the luxurious scene on the other side of the glass. Diners sat at linen-covered tables, their faces lit by the glow from flickering candles. Some of them wore coloured paper crowns, the kind I remembered Margery wearing as she ate Christmas lunch. They looked pink-cheeked and in high spirits, refilling their glasses with growing frequency as their crowns slipped forward over their eyes. The sound of their laughter pierced the stillness outside, and I watched in fascination as waiters glided between the tables, placing plates of food in front of them with great ceremony. Women in heavy jewellery pushed food demurely around their plates, flicking glossy hair over their shoulders with an air of nonchalance.

  Could there be a potential owner for me among this restaurant’s clientele? Surely some of them must be cat-lovers, I thought, but how was I to know which? I recalled the reaction of the woman I had followed at the farm shop: her face had shown undisguised revulsion when she had discovered me loitering near her car. Studying the perfectly groomed women in the restaurant, I felt sure they too would not welcome any overture of friendliness from a cat that looked the way I did.

  The screech of an owl in the treetops above me brought an end to my musings. I did not have time to allow myself to dwell on my hardships. I needed to find something to eat.

  10

  Dense shrubbery ran around the edge of the restaurant’s grounds and it did not take me long to hunt a mouse. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, and I allowed myself the luxury of a perfunctory wash under a rhododendron bush whilst waiting for my meal to settle. By the time I had finished, the clouds had cleared to leave a cold, starry night. The air temperature was dropping and the ground underneath my paws was beginning to harden. My next challenge was to find somewhere dry to spend the night.

  Padding across the flowerbeds at the back of the restaurant, I noticed a short flight of stone steps leading to the street below. I crept silently down the steps, finding myself on a narrow, shop-lined road. A street light opposite illuminated the entrance to an alleyway between two shop fronts. Keen to get off the exposed pavement, I ran over and took a few tentative steps into the alley. It was enclosed by drystone walls, but up ahead I could see the backs of houses that bordered it on both sides.

  As I inched along the path I scrutinized the windows of the houses that overlooked me. I felt a surge of optimism as I made out signs of human habitation within: pot plants on the windowsills, the flickering light from television sets, and dishes stacked messily next to sinks. Glimpsing the domestic clutter of strangers, I felt a wave of homesickness that made my throat tighten and eyes prickle. How I longed to be a part of someone’s home once more, to feel the warm glow of security that comes from being in familiar surroundings, knowing that you are safe and loved.

  I wanted to get closer to the houses, to peer through the windows and see the people who lived inside, but it felt as though the further I went along the alley, the more isolated I became. The alley was unlit and silent, apart from the clicking of my claws against the path. The hairs on my neck bristled as I thought I heard something move on the other side of the wall. I froze on the spot, my ears twisting to locate the source of the sound, but the alley was silent again. I took a deep breath, telling myself that what I had heard was an echo of my own footsteps. Trying not to panic, I picked up my pace to a trot, my eyes fixed on the alley’s exit up ahead.

  Suddenly there was movement on
the wall above me. A security light on the back of one of the houses flashed on, and for a few seconds everything was lit up by a blinding white light. I backed against the wall and turned my head frantically from side to side, but I could see only the empty alley. The security light flicked off, everything went black and I held my breath as my eyes readjusted to the darkness.

  My blood was thudding in my ears and I felt as though every hair on my body had stood on end. There was a scuffling noise on the wall, and I glanced up to see a shadowy shape leap down onto the path in front of me. I gasped, finding myself face-to-face with the orange eyes of a ginger tomcat. His spine was arched and his ears were pinned back against his head as he growled menacingly. Instinctively my body posture mirrored his. My back arched and I flattened my ears, letting out a low growl of warning. The ginger cat didn’t move a muscle. His narrow eyes were still fixed on mine, daring me to make the first move. He was a large, intimidating creature, his physical strength evident in his muscular frame. The patchwork of scars on his ears left me in no doubt that he was an experienced fighter. I had my back to the wall, and to escape I would have to run past him, exposing my vulnerable rear to his attacks. He began to yowl again, as if challenging me to try.

  Suddenly there was a scraping noise from above, as someone slid open a window in one of the houses. Startled, the tomcat spun round to look, and I seized my chance, bolting back down the alley in the direction of the restaurant steps. I heard scuffling behind me and knew that the tomcat was in pursuit. I sprinted towards the halo of lamplight that glowed at the end of the alley, but as I ran, my energy start to sap away. The exhaustion of my long walk in the rain was taking its toll and I could feel the strength draining from my muscles. I knew the tomcat was gaining ground and I braced myself for the inevitable attack.