Molly and the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  It came in the form of a searing hot pain in one of my back legs. I instinctively kicked out at my attacker and he, having delivered his knockout blow, backed off. I turned and hissed at him, aware of the burning sensation that was spreading down my leg and making my paw feel as though it was on fire. A cruel smile spread across the tomcat’s eyes as he looked at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with a leer. ‘This alley’s taken.’

  ‘You only needed to say,’ I answered pitifully. He grinned as I limped towards the end of the alley.

  Back out on the street, I felt light-headed, shaking with shock at what had just happened. I didn’t know where to go, but I knew I had to get as far away from the alley as possible. Trying not to put any weight on my injured leg, I retraced the route I had taken earlier, limping across the restaurant grounds until I found myself back in the market square. The pain in my leg was becoming unbearable and I knew I urgently needed to find somewhere under cover to tend to the wound. I hobbled towards a large yellow skip by the side of the kerb on the corner of the square. The skip was overflowing with rubble and waste, and stacked up beside it were piles of wooden crates and pallets. There was a musty, dirty smell coming from the crates, but I didn’t care. I forced myself through a gap between two pallets and burrowed forward until I reached the cold metal of the skip.

  I slowly lowered myself to the ground and twisted round to examine my injured leg. The puncture wounds left by the tomcat’s teeth were visible through my fur, and I could see that the flesh around them was swollen and tender. I licked the area as gently as I could, trying to minimize the pain that my rough tongue inflicted on the inflamed flesh. Once I was satisfied the wound was clean, I curled into a ball, hoping that sleep would provide some respite from my suffering. But when I closed my eyes I saw a muddled amalgamation of memories from the day: the red-faced diners in the restaurant, the ginger tom’s leering eyes, the rain-soaked shoppers their faces hidden by umbrellas.

  Desperate to put a stop to the endless loop of unsettling images, I forced myself to think of Margery. I tried to imagine her stroking and comforting me, telling me that it would all be better in the morning. But I couldn’t summon up a clear picture of her face – it was as if she was out of focus somehow, her features vague and blurry. I didn’t know if it was the effect of the bite or if I had simply forgotten what she looked like, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hold her face in my mind. It was a bitter blow. I felt like I was losing Margery all over again, just at the moment when I needed her most.

  11

  Unable to sleep, I shivered next to the skip in a feverish state, convinced I could see the amber eyes of the alley – cat glaring at me through the pallets, or hear his menacing yowl somewhere in the square. It was impossible to find a comfortable position and I experienced a searing hot pain whenever I moved my leg. Time passed agonizingly slowly as I hovered on the edge of consciousness until my mind eventually succumbed to exhaustion and I dropped into a blissful blackness.

  I was woken with a start by a chorus of human voices singing nearby. I lifted my head and listened, my ears twitching at the familiar-sounding music. Margery had loved to listen to music like this on her radio at Christmas, singing along happily while she prepared our Christmas dinner.

  The throbbing in my leg snapped me out of my reverie. I winced as I stretched my leg out to examine it, but was glad to see that the swelling had gone down and the puncture marks had begun to scab over. I washed the wound, then slowly stood up, using my front legs to support my weight while I cautiously straightened my hind legs underneath me. I was wobbly, but apart from some soreness around the bite mark and a residual ache in the leg, I felt okay. I arched my back in a stretch, relieved to feel that my mind was at one with my body once more.

  Crawling out of the pile of crates, I squinted in the winter sun. The town square was almost unrecognizable from the rain-soaked scene of the previous night. The shops were open and busy with customers. The yellow stone walls of the buildings on all sides glowed warmly against the blue sky, and their windows sparkled as they reflected the bright morning sunlight. The Christmas carollers who had woken me were standing in a semicircle in the middle of the square, wearing heavy coats zipped up to their chins. They all smiled as they sang, and one of them rattled a bucket full of loose change at passers-by.

  Careful not to put any weight on my injured leg, I made my way gingerly around the square. The alley-cat’s parting words – This alley’s taken – were playing on my mind. Hobbling slowly along the pavement, I noticed for the first time that there were alleyways all around the square, their entrances so narrow and inconspicuous that I hadn’t seen them the night before. Spotting the telltale gap between a sweet shop and the bakery, I tiptoed over and stood at the alley’s entrance. I sniffed the stone, but could not detect any traces of feline scent. In the morning sunshine, with the occasional shopper passing through, the alley did not look terrifying. If it wasn’t already taken by another cat, perhaps this was my chance to mark out a territory for myself.

  I took a few steps along the alleyway and made use of a litter bin to jump up onto the top of the wall that ran alongside the path. My hackles rose instinctively when I saw the unmistakeable shape of a cat up ahead, basking in the sunshine on the flat roof of a shed. My tail flicked from side to side as I considered what to do next. I tiptoed closer. The cat was fast asleep, a neat crescent of tortoiseshell fur, with her tail tucked snugly around her body. Her eyes were shut tight and she had tilted her face up towards the sun, with her mouth curled into a smile. I stood on the wall, watching her fur rise and fall with her breath, envying her ability to feel relaxed enough to sleep out in the open.

  The sound of dogs barking in the square brought her nap to an abrupt end. She jerked her head upright, ears flicking in response to the noise. Her eyes had opened, but the inner eyelids were still visible as she made the sudden shift from sleep to consciousness. She looked around and, noticing me on the wall, jumped to her feet and began to growl.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m Molly. Sorry – I didn’t mean to scare you.’ I replied in the calmest voice I could muster, though I was beginning to shake with fear.

  The cat glared at me. She looked young, but there was no mistaking her threatening demeanour.

  ‘I’m new to the town,’ I continued, my tone placatory. ‘I’m just looking around. Getting to know the place.’

  She eyed me suspiciously and I blinked slowly, then averted my gaze, the universal feline indicator of non-aggression.

  ‘You’re new round here?’ she repeated.

  I nodded. ‘I’ve been walking for weeks, got here last night. I’m looking for somewhere to live, but I was attacked in an alley last night.’

  I saw her eyes flash – I wasn’t sure whether with anger or concern.

  ‘You can’t just come and go as you please, you know. There are rules.’ She frowned as she looked me up and down. I sensed her confusion, and that she was unsure whether to regard me as a threat or take pity on me.

  ‘So is this . . . your alley?’ I enquired, glancing at her face, in the hope that she might say more to enlighten me.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes held mine for a moment, then she went on, ‘They’re all taken. The alley-cats have them marked out. Where did you say you were attacked?’

  I described the alley behind the restaurant, and the ginger tom with amber eyes. She winced.

  ‘Hmm. I know the one you mean. Bad move. Really bad.’ She registered my look of dismay. ‘It’s probably best if you avoid the alleys, at least until you’ve settled in a bit,’ she explained in a conciliatory tone.

  My head was spinning. It was starting to dawn on me that the town’s alleyways were a network of feline territories and that, in my naivety, I had stumbled into the domain of a notorious fighter. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for my bad luck or to berate my ignorance for not acting with more caution.

  ‘I’m hop
ing to find an owner, really. Someone who loves cats. A home.’ I could feel moisture welling up in my eyes.

  The tortoiseshell cat looked at me pityingly. ‘You’ll have a job round here. The people in this town are all about their dogs, in case you haven’t noticed. Cats don’t get a look-in,’ she said ruefully.

  As if on cue, a woman walking a dog entered the alley. The dog growled and lunged forwards, straining against his collar to reach us. The tortoiseshell cat jumped to her feet, hackles raised, and hissed at the dog as he passed in front of us.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. Why don’t you try the churchyard? You should at least find shelter there. But you’ve got to leave now – I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’

  She leapt from the shed roof up into the branches of a tree while I stayed on the shed roof, eyeballing the dog as he was dragged away down the alley. When he had gone I looked up into the tree, but the tortoiseshell cat had disappeared.

  Feeling disconsolate, I made my way across the square in the direction of the church spire. I entered the churchyard through a wooden gate, savouring the peaceful atmosphere, which was in stark contrast to the bustle of the square. A pigeon cooed from the church roof as I settled down behind a row of headstones for a wash. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the tortoiseshell cat’s revelations. To be told that the alleyways were, in effect, no-go areas for me was disheartening; but, I reminded myself, it wasn’t an alley I wanted, it was a home, and an owner. More worrying was her dismissal of my chances of finding someone to take me in. If she was right, and people in Stourton cared only for dogs, I would have made a grave error in coming to this town at all.

  My wash complete, I pushed through a row of conifers that bordered the churchyard and found myself in a short parade of shops along a cobbled street. There was a café at the far end of the row, with a rusty metal table and chairs standing outside its door. I padded along the cobbles to get a better look at the café. Paint was peeling from the frames of its curved bay window, and the solitary string of fairy lights draped inside did not do much to improve the café’s shabby appearance. The sign above the door read ‘Church Café’ and I was relieved to see a sticker in the window saying ‘Sorry: no dogs’. My impression of a rather down-at-heel establishment was confirmed when I peered through the glass door and saw a few rickety tables in front of an ugly serving counter.

  I made my way round to the side of the café, and my heart sank to see that an alleyway ran behind it. The rear of the café and its adjoining shops presented a mismatched vista of windows, fire escapes and air vents. A large, square dustbin was pushed against the back wall of the café, only a few feet away from where I was standing. Its lid was damaged at one corner, revealing the polythene bags full of food waste underneath. I sniffed the air, detecting the unmistakeable aroma of tuna mayonnaise, and my stomach rumbled in response. Uncertain what to do, I twitched my tail. The dustbin was only a few paces away, but dare I risk a repeat of last night’s ambush by whichever cat ‘owned’ this alley? Still weakened from yesterday’s encounter, I would be in no state to defend myself.

  A gust of wind wafted the scent of tuna in my direction and my mind was made up. Nancy had helped me to perfect my scavenging technique, so I knew it wouldn’t take long to do what was needed. I ran over to the bin and dropped to my haunches, crouching low to the ground. I felt my leg spasm in pain as I sprang upwards, but I made a perfect landing on top of the lid, feeling the bin’s contents give slightly under my weight. I balanced on the edge of the dustbin and batted at one of the bags until my claws caught and I could rip it open. There was a satisfying splattering sound as a mound of sandwich filling dropped onto the ground. I hopped down and greedily set about eating the pile of tuna mayonnaise. After my recent diet of mice and shrews, it tasted delicious. Savouring the feeling of having a full belly, I turned to leave the alley, and almost jumped out of my skin at finding myself face-to-face with a black-and-white tomcat.

  12

  The tomcat stood at the alley’s entrance, frozen in mid-step with one paw hovering above the ground. His expression suggested surprise rather than hostility but, with last night’s trauma still fresh in my mind, I immediately braced myself for a fight. Arching my back and fluffing out my tail, I growled deeply and hissed, warning him to back off. The tomcat tilted his head to one side, observing my display of aggression with curiosity.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, his green eyes looking at me calmly. ‘Have you finished?’ He glanced over my shoulder at the dustbin. His unexpected politeness disarmed me and, unsure whether I could trust him, I maintained my defensive pose and let out another growl. A smile flickered across his eyes and he sat down on the path, casually lifting a paw to wash his face, as if to suggest that he was happy to wait. I sized him up while he groomed himself, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

  His sleek fur was black all over, but for a patch of white on his chest and the long white whiskers which framed his square face. He was long-legged and rangy, clearly in his physical prime. As he continued to ignore me, my feeling of alarm began to turn to embarrassment – my terrified response was beginning to seem like something of an overreaction. I self-consciously relaxed my back and lowered my hackles, but in spite of my efforts to control it, my tail remained in its voluminously fluffy state. I saw the tomcat glance at it as he washed, and I felt mortified, as if it somehow gave away my inexperience and vulnerability. He seemed to sense my awkwardness and averted his eyes, turning away to lick his back while I tried to regain my composure. It was only when he stopped washing and looked at me expectantly that I realized that he had asked me a question and was still waiting for a reply.

  ‘Yes, I’m finished,’ I stuttered. ‘I hope I didn’t eat your . . .’ I tailed off apologetically, painfully aware of the incriminating smell of tuna that was emanating from my whiskers.

  ‘’S’all right,’ the cat replied, ‘plenty more where that came from.’

  He stood up and walked towards me. I felt my fur bristle in alarm, but he maintained a respectful distance as he walked around me, on his way to the dustbin. While he began to root around in the bin’s contents, I retreated further down the alley to observe him from behind a pile of cardboard boxes. He was in good condition, not scarred and battle-torn like the ginger cat, and seemed too friendly to be an alley-cat. But if he was a pet with a home, what was he doing scavenging for food in a dustbin?

  When he had finished eating, he wiped his whiskers with his paw, before sloping off in the direction of the churchyard. As he passed my hiding place he looked towards me and nodded once, as if to let me know that he had known I was there all along. He didn’t break his stride, however, and continued to the end of the alley before disappearing into darkness beneath the conifers.

  For a few moments I stared down the empty alley, my heart sinking as I realized that, once again, I had misjudged the situation and made a fool of myself. The tomcat’s behaviour seemed to throw all of my newly acquired assumptions about alley-cats into disarray. My initial relief that our encounter had passed without confrontation soon gave way to frustration that, in my panic, I had forgone the opportunity to ask his advice. Part of me wanted to run after him – to tell him how I had ended up here, and to ask him what I should do next. But the events of the previous twenty-four hours had taught me to exercise caution. The tomcat might have allowed me to eat from a bin in his alley, but I didn’t want to push my luck by pestering him for help.

  Drowsiness was beginning to spread over me, as the soporific effect of my meal took hold. The cardboard boxes provided surprisingly effective insulation against the draughts that whipped down through the alley, and for the first time since arriving in Stourton I felt a sense of well-being. Listening to the magpies chattering in the nearby churchyard, I curled up and fell into a deep, restorative sleep.

  I was awoken by the sound of the church bells, and I lifted my head to listen as they chimed six times. Night had fallen and I could make out the muffled sound of the church orga
n drifting through the air. My fur prickled as I heard the rattling of a key in the back door of the café. I peered round the edge of my cardboard shelter and watched as a woman stepped outside, clutching a black polythene bag. From my hiding place I could not see her face, only that she had shoulder-length blonde hair and was wearing a light cotton jumper and jeans. She lifted the lid of the dustbin and tossed the bag inside, trying in vain to press the lid shut on top of its overflowing contents. She shivered in the cold, before rushing back inside and slamming the door shut behind her.

  The aroma of fresh food drifted towards me and my mouth began to water. Scanning the alley to make sure I was alone, I ran over to the bin and jumped onto the lid. I ripped the bag open and was delighted to see copious amounts of smoked-salmon and chicken mayonnaise drop onto the path below. Purring with pleasure, I jumped down and feasted quickly on the sandwich fillings, alert for the tomcat’s return. As soon as I had finished, I ran back over to the cardboard boxes, curious to know whether the tomcat would reappear for his evening meal.

  Sure enough, a little later I heard rustling in the conifers, and saw his silhouette slink silently in front of my hiding place. This time he seemed genuinely oblivious to my presence as he ate. Observing him through a gap between two cardboard boxes, I was struck by how at ease he looked in the alley. I was convinced now that he was the alley’s resident cat, but I was surprised that, rather than feeling afraid of him, I found his presence reassuring.

  I was woken during the night by ear-splitting yowling, the unmistakeable preamble to a cat-fight. For a horrible moment I wondered if my hiding place had been discovered by the ginger cat and I was under attack. I remained silent and motionless, relying on my ears to discern what was happening. There were two cats in the alley, mere inches from my shelter, growling and hissing in a noisy stand-off. My heart raced. One of them was surely the black-and-white tom, but who was his adversary?