Molly and the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  In Debbie, I had found everything I ever wanted, but my joy was tempered by the suspicion that, although I had undoubtedly gained much, I might have lost more than I realized.

  17

  It was Friday evening, one week exactly since I had moved into the café. Debbie was busy tidying the kitchen and I was in my box on the windowsill. I sat facing the street, but my eyes were closed as I reflected on the events of the past week, and how my life had been transformed by the simple act of crossing the café’s threshold.

  My meditations were interrupted by an insistent tapping above me. I jolted into alertness, quickly registering that a woman was standing in front of the window, rapping her knuckles on the glass. I looked up and immediately recognized the woman’s unruly shoulder-length curls as belonging to Jo from the hardware shop. She was clutching a brown paper bag from the local takeaway in one hand, waving with the other to catch Debbie’s attention. Debbie ran to the door and let her in.

  ‘Evening, Debs. You took your time. I thought I was going to have to eat on the street!’ She handed the bag to Debbie and unzipped her jacket.

  I jumped down from the windowsill and trotted towards her. I had often seen Jo in the alley, but we had not yet been introduced. She lived in the flat upstairs from her shop with her ageing golden retriever, which spent its days dozing by her feet in the shop. In spite of the fact that she was a dog-owner, I liked Jo. She had a no-nonsense, practical air about her, and a humorous twinkle to her eye.

  ‘So, this must be Molly from the alley,’ Jo said, catching sight of me as I padded across the lino. She crouched down to greet me, giving me a cheerful rub on the back as I pressed against her leg. It was the kind of rub better suited to a dog than a cat, a little on the rough side, leaving my fur ruffled and messy, but I knew her intention was friendly, so I made no protest. I sniffed at her jeans, which smelt of dog, while she continued to scrutinize my appearance. Debbie had taken the bag of food into the kitchen and was retrieving plates and cutlery from the cupboards. ‘You’re right, Debs,’ Jo called after her. ‘She is a pretty little thing. Friendly, too.’

  Debbie poked her head through the door, smiling at me indulgently, and I preened, basking in their attention.

  ‘And you knew a big-hearted softy when you saw one, didn’t you, Molly?’ Jo whispered conspiratorially to me. ‘A cute little face like yours – Debbie didn’t stand a chance, did she?’

  I purred, assuming the most innocent expression I could muster in defiance of Jo’s knowing smile.

  Jo stood up and walked over to the table where Debbie had begun to unpack their meal. Debbie placed the steaming foil trays side by side while Jo carefully removed their cardboard lids. The delicious smell of spicy meat began to fill the café, making my mouth water. Debbie returned to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses, and at last they were ready to eat. As they sat down at the table, I returned to my position on the windowsill, tummy rumbling, to watch them.

  ‘So how’s Sophie?’ Jo asked, while Debbie divided up the food onto their plates.

  Debbie sighed. ‘Not great. I know it’s not easy for her, what with a new school, new people, a new home . . .’ Her eyes started to well up.

  Jo made a sympathetic noise and filled Debbie’s wine glass. ‘Has she heard from her dad?’ Jo probed gently.

  Debbie’s face tightened. I had never heard her talk about Sophie’s father. ‘Not for a couple of weeks. He texted her to say he was going travelling with his girlfriend, and did she want anything from Duty Free?’

  Jo winced, but Debbie’s face remained a study of neutrality. She took a sip of wine, beginning to relax under Jo’s supportive gaze.

  ‘I know Sophie blames me for what happened,’ Debbie said sadly. ‘She thinks I decided to up sticks and move here just because I fancied it. But how can I explain it to her? He’s her father – I’ve got to let her have the best relationship she can with him.’

  ‘It’s a tough one,’ Jo agreed. ‘It seems unfair, but . . . I guess you just have to let her work things out in her own time.’ They ate in silence, Debbie’s unhappiness almost tangible in the air. As she ate, Jo glanced at Debbie, registering her melancholy expression. ‘So, do you want to hear about my latest romantic adventure?’ she grinned, tilting her head coquettishly.

  Debbie’s face broke into a smile. ‘Always!’ she answered, leaning forward attentively in her chair.

  ‘Well, I’m continuing to cut a swathe through Stourton’s population of single men,’ Jo began in mock-grandiosity, to Debbie’s delighted giggling. She went on to describe a recent dinner date with a member of the Stourton Amateur Dramatic Society – ‘SADS by name, sad by nature,’ she said with a wink. The evening had started well; her date seemed rather pleased with himself, but other than that he was perfectly pleasant. Jo paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip from her wine glass, as Debbie waited for the inevitable punchline. That was until pudding arrived, Jo went on, when her date had launched into an impromptu performance of a song from SADS’ latest production. ‘And let me tell you, Debbie,’ she wagged a finger decisively, ‘until you’ve been serenaded in a restaurant by a middle-aged man singing “A Modern Major General” – badly, I might add – you haven’t lived!’

  Debbie raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, while Jo helped herself to more wine. The alcohol in their drinks had begun to take effect; their facial expressions were becoming more exaggerated, their voices louder. ‘There must be some eligible men in Stourton? Surely there’s hope for us both?’ Debbie asked, in half-sincere desperation.

  ‘Oh, of course there are plenty,’ Jo replied gravely. ‘If it’s a recently-retired member of the Lawn Bowls Society you’re after, then you’ll be spoilt for choice!’

  Debbie snorted, then held up her glass in a toast. ‘To the Lawn Bowls Society! I’ll be signing up first thing tomorrow.’

  Jo raised her glass and they both took a gulp of wine, their eyes glassy.

  ‘In all seriousness, though, I doubt the Lawn Bowls Society would have me,’ Debbie said morosely, slumping back in her chair. ‘The good people of Stourton have made it very clear that I’m most definitely not one of them.’

  Jo smiled sympathetically.

  ‘We’ve been here six months, Jo, and apart from you I haven’t made a single friend,’ Debbie went on. ‘It’s like people don’t trust us. There’s one old crone who walks past here every day, and no matter how friendly I am, she doesn’t say a word. Won’t even smile.’

  ‘I know,’ Jo agreed, in a tone of resignation. ‘The Stourton old guard will only grace your business with their custom if you’ve lived here for at least forty years. I’ve run the hardware shop since 1998 and some of them still won’t step foot in it.’ She was doing her best to reassure her friend but, judging from the doleful look on Debbie’s face, it didn’t seem to be working.

  ‘But if I can’t win round the locals, then I really am doomed,’ Debbie despaired. ‘I can’t compete with all the foodie places round here, with their artisan this and locally sourced that. Don’t Stourton people ever want a nice simple sandwich or baked potato for their lunch?’

  By now she had consumed several glasses of wine and I could tell that her emotions were running high.

  ‘I mean, is it really too much to ask of people – to give a local business a chance? Okay, it might not be a sustainable, organic, locally sourced sandwich, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good sandwich.’ Debbie looked flushed, and she paused to pour herself a glass of water.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Jo replied. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t waste my money in any of those places. Give me a bacon roll any day.’

  There was silence as Debbie gulped water from her glass. They had finished eating and Debbie placed the foil food trays on the floor, calling me over to devour the remnants of their creamy chicken curry and garlic prawns. Delighted, I jumped down and ran over to them. Debbie and Jo both laughed at my ravenousness as I greedily attacked the discarded prawn sh
ells.

  ‘Maybe the café just needs a unique selling point, Debs.’ Jo’s voice sounded forcibly upbeat. ‘Something to make you stand out from the crowd.’

  Debbie shrugged disconsolately. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said flatly, looking unconvinced. ‘How about Debbie’s Divorcee Diner? The only thing more bitter than our coffee is our clientele.’

  ‘Now there’s an idea,’ Jo laughed. ‘I can see the full-page ad in the local paper already.’

  Debbie smiled tipsily, topping up their glasses with the last of the wine.

  ‘Chin up, Debs,’ Jo said, taking a sip. ‘Spring’s just around the corner, the tourists will start to arrive soon and things’ll pick up, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Thanks, Jo, perhaps you’re right. That’s if we haven’t gone bankrupt by spring,’ Debbie added ruefully.

  It was almost midnight by the time Jo left. They hugged and Debbie waved as Jo scuttled past the window back to her own flat. Debbie picked the foil food trays off the floor and cleared the table. Once she had finished in the kitchen, she made her way unsteadily round the café, flicking the lights off and struggling clumsily with the key as she locked the door. I followed a few paces behind as she climbed slowly up the stairs to the flat, swaying as she went. She leant her shoulder against the wall for a few seconds to regain her balance. ‘Shhh, Molly, you’ll wake Sophie!’ she whispered loudly, and my tail twitched in indignation.

  Debbie stumbled into the bathroom and I ran up the second flight of stairs to her bedroom to wait for her. I curled up on the end of her bed, mulling over the evening’s conversation. Had Debbie been serious when she said the café might be bankrupt by spring? And if she was right, what would that mean for us? I pictured the café being closed down, and Debbie tearfully telling me that she couldn’t look after me any more. I began to wash, trying to push thoughts of such an unhappy scenario from my mind.

  I was acutely aware that my ability to be of any practical help to Debbie was minimal. Just as I had been unable to prevent Margery’s illness from enveloping her mind, so I was equally powerless to turn around the fortunes of the café. All I could do for Debbie was what I had done for Margery: hope that my presence brought her some comfort, and pray that things were going to be okay.

  Debbie emerged from the bathroom smelling of toothpaste and soap. She wearily changed into her pyjamas, throwing her clothes across the bed onto a chair by the window. They missed, sliding to the floor in a heap. Debbie groaned and looked at the clothes guiltily for a moment. ‘Never mind, sort it out tomorrow,’ she slurred under her breath, before climbing into bed and switching off the bedside light. The room took on an ethereal quality as a shaft of moonlight illuminated the silvery tones of the quilt. I padded up the bed and nudged Debbie’s side with my nose. One arm was draped across her forehead, but she began to stroke me sleepily with her other hand.

  ‘Oh, Molly,’ she sighed. ‘So much for a fresh start. The café’s losing money hand over fist, and my daughter hates me.’

  Her hand dropped limply onto the cover in front of me, and I began to lick it gently. Her eyes were closed, but Debbie smiled weakly and moved her fingers to tickle me under the chin. ‘Still, I suppose it’s not all bad,’ she mumbled drowsily. ‘At least I found you, Molly.’ Debbie’s hand fell still, but I continued to lick her fingers, listening as her breathing became slower and deeper and she sank into sleep. Once I was certain she was asleep, I continued with my own wash, tasting the lingering scent of Debbie’s skin on my fur.

  As I washed, it occurred to me for the first time how much Debbie and I had in common. Not that she knew it, of course, but I was also an outsider in Stourton. I had come to the town in the hope of a fresh start too and, like Debbie, I knew what it was like to feel unwelcome here.

  Memories of my first night in Stourton came unbidden to mind. I vividly recalled the desperate loneliness I had felt as people rushed past me on the market square, preoccupied with their last-minute Christmas shopping. Being surrounded by people, yet feeling unnoticed and unloved, had been far harder than fending for myself in the countryside. In town, there was no escaping the fact that it was an owner that I longed for – someone to care for me and take me home. The trauma of being attacked by the alley-cat had compounded my feeling of desolation. I had felt completely alone: invisible to the humans of Stourton, and viewed as a rival by its felines.

  Watching Debbie as she slept, I wondered if she felt the same way about Stourton as I had: that at best it was indifferent to her, and at worst it resented her presence. I dearly wished I could tell Debbie that I knew how she felt, or reassure her that she would find a way through it, just as I had. I had survived in the alley after all, living on my wits until Debbie had taken me in. But, as I thought about my life in the alley, I felt a familiar stirring of guilt. It was true that I had been ownerless, but I had not been alone out there. The tomcat had made sure, in his unassuming way, that I knew there was somewhere I could find food and shelter, somewhere that was safe from the vicious alley-cats. I felt a swell of gratitude to him, followed by a pang of remorse that I had repaid his kindness by moving inside as soon as I had the chance.

  I had been back out to the alley to look for him again on several occasions since my first attempt. Each time I was optimistic, convinced I would catch sight of his tail disappearing through the conifers or his green eyes lurking in the shadows, but each time I was disappointed. The alley was silent and uninhabited. He had vanished without a trace.

  Debbie was deep in sleep now and her face was relaxed in a way I rarely saw when she was awake. I finished my wash and lowered my chin onto my paws, reflecting on everything she had done for me. She had given me a home, but she had also given me a purpose; she was struggling too, and I knew she needed me. I would always regret the way I had treated the tomcat, but from now on Debbie had to be my priority.

  18

  In addition to feeling like outsiders in Stourton, Debbie and I had something else in common: Sophie appeared to hate us both. Debbie always started the day with the best intentions, waking Sophie for school by singing ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ as she pulled open the bedroom curtains. ‘Leave me alone,’ Sophie would shout from under the covers, establishing a mood of determined sulkiness, which she would maintain for the rest of the day.

  Sophie was never far from her mobile phone; she even slept with it under her pillow. With headphones permanently in her ears, she was oblivious to everything around her, and Debbie seemed resigned to the fact that she had to repeat herself at least three times before her daughter heard anything she said. Other than her phone, however, Sophie showed a total disregard for her belongings. She left her clothes in piles on the bedroom floor and allowed her school books to get trodden underfoot, in spite of Debbie’s repeated pleas for her to take more care.

  Sophie’s rage seemed to be triggered by the slightest thing I did. She was revolted by the smell of my food, horrified by my moulting fur and mortally offended if she even caught me looking at her. ‘Why does that cat always stare at me?’ she complained at the table one evening, carrying her food upstairs to her bedroom and leaving Debbie, in stunned silence, to finish dinner alone.

  One of my early attempts to win Sophie round backfired miserably. Early one morning I found a mouse scurrying inside the fireplace in the living room. I dispatched it swiftly, before picking it up carefully between my jaws and carrying it upstairs to the attic. Sophie was still asleep in bed, so I crept silently into her room and placed the still-warm mouse on a dirty plate she had left on the floor. As I tiptoed out onto the landing I felt a glow of satisfaction. Surely, if Sophie wanted a sign that somebody cared for her, this ought to do the job?

  I joined Debbie in the little kitchen, where she was making herself a cup of tea. She had just poured the milk when we heard a blood-curdling shriek from above.

  ‘Sophie? What on earth’s the matter?’ Debbie called.

  Sophie appeared at the end of the hallway, pulling on her scho
ol uniform. ‘That. Cat. Is. Gross,’ she hissed as she pushed past us. ‘And I am not cleaning it up!’ she added, plugging in her headphones and running downstairs.

  We heard the café door slam and Debbie looked at me questioningly. Ashamed of what I had done, I could hardly bear to meet her gaze and slunk into the living room. I heard Debbie move around in Sophie’s room upstairs, trying to make some order in the mess. A short while later she reappeared in the living room, clutching a plastic bag with the remains of the dead mouse inside. I looked at the bag sheepishly, waiting for a telling-off. ‘Don’t worry, Molly, it was a lovely thought,’ Debbie said supportively. ‘But no more gifts for Sophie, please.’

  As I tried to find a space on the sofa amidst the dirty contents of her PE kit, I wondered whether Sophie’s problem was, in feline terms, a territory issue. Perhaps, like an alley-cat, she needed to feel in control of her surroundings, and saw me as a territorial rival. Certainly, much of her frustration was directed at the flat itself. She took issue with everything, from the size of her bedroom to the poor Wi-Fi signal. The balled-up dirty socks that she had left on the cushion seemed to me to serve the same purpose as a cat’s scent-marker: they let everyone know that she had been there, reminding us of her presence even when she wasn’t around.

  One weeknight, over dinner, Debbie politely enquired how Sophie’s day had been.