Molly and the Cat Cafe

by Melissa Daley

  ‘I’m meeting Jade, Mum. See you later,’ Sophie said, picking her way between their outstretched legs on her way to the door.

  ‘See you later, love,’ Debbie called, blowing her a kiss.

  Debbie and Jo were sipping tea in silence when John pushed the café door open. ‘Morning, ladies. Hard at it, I see.’

  They shot him withering looks, and soon John was set to work fixing the stove, while Debbie and Jo discussed how best to dismantle the serving counter. I suspected it was going to be a noisy and dusty afternoon, so I decided to leave them to it and head upstairs to sleep off my low mood in the flat.

  The smell of takeaway food drifting up the stairs woke me. Night had fallen and I could hear Debbie and Jo chatting as they dragged a table and chairs across the café. Sophie must have returned home during the afternoon, as I found her half-heartedly rooting around inside the fridge. When Debbie called up to ask her if she fancied joining them for a curry, Sophie shouted back, ‘Yeah, okay,’ without hesitation.

  Not wanting to be left out, I followed Sophie downstairs. The café looked completely different from when I had last seen it. The grey lino had gone, revealing handsome flagstones underneath, and the serving counter had also been removed, exposing a wide section of floor that had not seen the light of day for decades. John had gone, but the stove in the fireplace was working, a healthy yellow flame flickering inside the blackened glass door. In spite of its emptiness, the café felt imbued by the warm firelight with a cosy intimacy. Even Sophie seemed momentarily taken aback, pausing on the bottom step to take in the transformation.

  ‘Well, Soph? Looking better already, don’t you think?’ Debbie asked. Her overalls were covered in dust and thick strands of hair had slipped out of her ponytail.

  Sophie had headphones in her ears, but nodded in agreement. Debbie pulled a chair up to the table for Sophie, and Jo handed her a plate. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled under her breath, spooning out some rice and a little curry.

  ‘What do you think of the tiles, Sophie?’ Jo asked her, gesturing proudly to the flagstones.

  ‘Dunno, could do with a clean, I suppose,’ Sophie answered noncommittally.

  Jo pretended to take offence. ‘She’s a chip off the old block, isn’t she?’ she said to Debbie. ‘You work your fingers to the bone, and all she does is complain about the dirt! You’re as bad as your mother, Sophie!’

  Sophie looked chastened and regretful. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sophie,’ Debbie cut in. ‘She’s just pulling your leg, aren’t you, Jo?’

  Jo grinned, and Sophie surreptitiously slipped her headphones out of her ears, placing her phone on the table. ‘Fire’s nice,’ she said, chewing a mouthful of curry.

  The three of them looked towards the stove, where I had wasted no time in stretching out to bask in its warm glow. ‘It certainly looks like Molly approves,’ Debbie chuckled.

  Debbie and Jo ate ravenously after the day’s exertions and, with Sophie picking at the food as well, I began to despair of there being any leftovers for me. Although I had spent a quiet day indoors, I was unusually hungry. I waited patiently for them all to finish, and eventually Debbie put the foil trays on the floor for me to lick. She cleared away the plates, and when she returned from the kitchen she was clutching a paint chart.

  ‘Right, ladies, your assistance is required. I need to choose a colour for the walls, and can’t decide between Mouse’s Breath, Smoked Mackerel and Drizzle. What do you think?’

  Debbie held up the chart in front of them. Jo wrinkled her nose uncertainly and Sophie looked nonplussed.

  ‘Mum, they’re all horrible,’ she said. ‘Mousy-grey, fishy-grey or rainy-grey. Urgh!’

  Debbie looked downcast, and turned to Jo for backup. ‘I thought they were muted and tasteful. Very Stourton. Don’t you agree, Jo?’

  Jo avoided her gaze. ‘Pass it here,’ she said, sidestepping the question. She put her hand out to take the chart from Debbie. ‘They may be very Stourton, but I think Sophie’s right. There must be something here with a bit more colour.’

  Jo unfolded the chart, holding it up to the light every now and then. ‘Aha!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely this has to be the one!’ She turned the chart towards the others and pointed at a square of pale pink.

  ‘I suppose it’s nice,’ Debbie said half-heartedly, still smarting from the unanimous dismissal of her favoured shades.

  ‘You don’t sound too sure, Debs, but you know what’s going to clinch the deal for you? It’s called Molly’s Blushes.’

  At the sound of my name I looked up from the empty foil tray, which I had been licking across the floor.

  Debbie took the paint chart for a closer look. ‘I suppose pink might make the place look friendly,’ she said uncertainly. ‘What do you think, Soph?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s all right, I s’pose. Better than grey, at least.’

  Debbie frowned at the chart thoughtfully. ‘Yes, okay, why not? Everyone likes pink, right?’ she said decisively, her frown giving way to a smile.

  ‘That settles it!’ Jo announced, pouring out two glasses of wine. ‘To Molly’s Blushes! Here’s to a fun-packed day of painting tomorrow.’

  ‘Molly’s Blushes!’ Debbie repeated, clinking her glass against Jo’s. ‘Come on, Soph, join in – it’s a toast,’ she chided.

  Sophie rolled her eyes and reluctantly lifted her glass of water. ‘Molly’s Blushes,’ she mumbled self-consciously.

  They all looked at me as they sipped their drinks, and I was relieved that none of them could see my actual blushes through my fur.

  21

  Debbie was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She and Jo had shared a bottle of wine with their takeaway meal and judging by Debbie’s puffy eyes and pallid skin this morning, they had opened a second bottle. I was hungry but, seeing her fragile state, decided to wait until Debbie had a cup of tea in her hand before mewing for my breakfast. She pulled the fridge door open and peered inside, letting out a loud groan.

  ‘Soph! Did you finish the milk last night?’ she called huskily.

  ‘Might’ve,’ Sophie replied vaguely from inside the bathroom. ‘I had a bowl of cereal at bedtime.’

  Debbie closed the fridge and pressed her forehead against the door with a pained expression. ‘There’s no milk left and I have a half-made cup of tea in front of me. Could you please pop out and get a pint?’

  ‘What?’ Sophie yelled over the sound of running water.

  ‘I said’ – Debbie was shouting now – ‘since you finished the milk, could you please go and buy some more?’ She winced in pain at the sound of her own voice.

  The water pipes fell silent as Sophie turned off the taps. Debbie emptied her mug of half-made tea into the sink and rubbed her face, catching sight of me at last as I sat patiently in the doorway. ‘All right, Molly, I know. You want feeding, don’t you?’

  I stood next to my dish while she squeezed out a cat-food pouch, starting to gag when some of the meaty liquid dribbled over her fingers. ‘Urgh, I feel sick,’ she moaned, rinsing her hand under the kitchen tap, as I tucked happily into my breakfast.

  While I was eating, Sophie appeared in the doorway. She had pulled jeans and a hoodie over her pyjamas and was clumsily stuffing bare feet into a pair of trainers.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Debbie said, handing her some money.

  Sophie grunted and ran downstairs. I followed her out, slipping through the café door behind her.

  I rarely ventured further than the alleyway and churchyard on my excursions out of the café, but early on a Sunday morning was a good time to roam further afield. The air smelt sweet and clean, untainted by the fumes of passing traffic, and the narrow streets were peaceful, devoid of shoppers and tourists. Sophie turned left, heading for the market square, but I set off in the other direction. I meandered along the quiet cobbled streets, pausing to watch as a group of Lycra-clad cyclists sped past. In the brilliant sunshine o
f early spring it was difficult to imagine that vicious alley-cats lurked in hidden passageways, and yet I made sure to give a wide berth to every alley I passed.

  As I made my way back along the cobbles towards the cafe I saw a figure standing in front of the bay window. She had one hand pressed against the glass, shading her eyes from the bright reflection as she peered inside. Dropping to my haunches, I crept closer, my hackles rising as soon as I noticed the familiar shopping trolley by her side. When I was a couple of feet away, the old woman noticed my movement at the edge of her vision and spun round to face me. Sensing hostility and alert to possible danger, I stopped mid-step, one paw hovering off the ground, tail twitching as she glared at me across the cobbles.

  Without saying a word, the old woman grabbed her shopping trolley and thrust it forward with both hands. Its wheels scraped on the ground as it lunged towards me. I darted effortlessly out of its path and watched the trolley wobble, before falling sideways, landing on the street with a thud.

  ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’

  The woman and I both turned in the direction of the voice. Sophie was walking up the street, a pint of milk in one hand. Her hood was pulled up, but I could make out her angry expression underneath. In my confusion I assumed that her words were addressed to me, but to my surprise the old lady answered. ‘I’m . . . I’m not doing anything – it . . . it slipped,’ she stuttered defensively.

  Sophie strode towards her with a look of incipient fury and the old woman began to shuffle backwards. The alarming thought crossed my mind that I was about to witness a physical assault. When Sophie reached the upturned shopping trolley, however, she stopped. I instinctively stepped behind her ankles for protection. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time than try to hurt people’s pets?’ Sophie demanded.

  ‘It just fell over. I didn’t mean to . . . ’ the woman muttered, unconvincingly.

  Sophie lifted up the shopping trolley by its handle, standing it upright in front of its owner. ‘Well, it’s not fallen over any more, is it? So you can go now.’

  The woman mumbled something indistinct that might have been an apology. Without looking at Sophie, she grabbed her trolley by the handle and turned to leave.

  ‘Nosy old witch,’ Sophie muttered as we watched her scurry away down the street. To my surprise, she then bent down and stroked me. ‘Don’t worry about her, Molly. She can’t hurt you.’

  The whole incident left me baffled and unsettled. I had become accustomed to the way the old woman scowled at me through the window, but it had never crossed my mind that she might want to hurt me. Bad-tempered but harmless was what I had considered her, but Sophie’s reaction made me wonder if I had underestimated her. My disquiet about the old woman was offset, however, by the turnaround in Sophie’s attitude towards me. After so many weeks of antagonism, to feel protected by Sophie was a joyous relief. I purred as she stroked me, arching my back and rising onto my tiptoes at the touch of her hand.

  I stayed close to Sophie’s ankles as she pushed the café door open.

  ‘Got the milk, Mum,’ she shouted, and Debbie came downstairs, dressed in her decorating overalls with her hair tied back. Full of gratitude, she took the milk and disappeared into the café kitchen, while Sophie loped upstairs to the flat.

  I jumped up onto the café windowsill to wash and think. Why had Sophie not mentioned the incident outside to Debbie? And why had the old lady tried to mow me down with her trolley in the first place? I recalled the time I had seen her accost Sophie outside the shop, and the look of angry indignation on Sophie’s face afterwards. She hadn’t told Debbie about that, either. I began to wonder if there was more going on with the old woman than I had realized and if, unwittingly, it involved me.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the café door opening. It was Jo, carrying two large paint tins. ‘Four litres of Molly’s Blushes!’ she announced. ‘Just the thing for a hangover, eh, Debs?’

  Clutching her mug of tea at last, Debbie turned on the radio and soon she and Jo were happily rolling paint onto the walls, transforming them from dirty white to warm pink. I prowled around the café while they worked, playing with some crinkly cellophane wrapping that I found in the fireplace.

  After a while I began to feel light-headed. I had been fighting a nagging queasiness all morning, which I attributed to the paint fumes. I sat down at the bottom of the stairs, trying to master my discomfort, when two things happened at once: Sophie ran down the stairs behind me, and Jo dropped the lid from a tin of paint, sending it clattering to the floor. Panicked, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. I bolted towards the café door but, in my nauseous state, it was not until I reached the doorstep that I noticed that it was shut. I turned on my heels and made for the windowsill. It was as I leapt up onto it that I heard Debbie shout, ‘No, Molly – stop!’

  Only then did I become aware of the sensation of wetness underneath my paws. I sat down on the windowsill and lifted up my front pad. I could smell a strong chemical odour, and saw that my paw was dripping with pink paint. A quick check confirmed that my other paws were similarly affected. I looked across the café, noticing for the first time the plastic paint-tray that Debbie had placed on the floor near the stairs. In my panic I had run straight through it, leaving a trail of pink paw prints behind me on the flagstones.

  ‘Oh, Molly!’ Debbie sighed, her voice a mixture of irritation and concern.

  I looked at her sheepishly.

  Jo started laughing, a nasal snigger that she tried to stifle, but which soon turned into a throaty cackle. ‘So much for Molly’s Blushes.’ She said. ‘Molly’s Footprints would be more accurate.’ Sophie, who had watched the scene unfold from the bottom of the stairs, started to giggle too.

  Seeing the reaction of the other two, Debbie couldn’t help but smile. I lifted one my paws to start licking off the paint. ‘Oh, don’t let her lick them!’ Debbie cried.

  Sophie sprang across the café and sat down next to me in the window, trying to distract me from the urge to clean my dirty paws. Meanwhile Debbie ran into the kitchen, emerging with a damp cloth.

  ‘Hold her still, will you, Soph?’

  Sophie gripped me gently by the shoulders, while Debbie lifted each paw in turn to wipe the paint from them.

  ‘You know what, Deb – I reckon you should keep them,’ said Jo, looking at the trail of pink paw prints. ‘They actually look pretty cool. They can be a design feature.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Debbie laughed.

  ‘She’s right, Mum,’ Sophie agreed. ‘Keep them. They’re funny.’

  Debbie had finished wiping my feet and looked at the pink trail that criss-crossed the floor. ‘Seriously?’ she repeated, as if she suspected they were both in on the same joke.

  ‘Why not?’ Jo replied. ‘You wanted to stand out from the crowd, didn’t you? I bet there aren’t any other cafés in Stourton with their very own paw-print trail.’

  Debbie looked unconvinced, and stood up to take the cloth back to the kitchen.

  The smell of paint on my paws had intensified my queasiness. I jumped down from the window and picked a careful route across the café, avoiding the trail of damp prints. Desperate for some fresh air, I stood at the door hoping to catch somebody’s attention. ‘Would you like to go out, Molly?’ Sophie asked, her voice sounding uncannily like her mother’s. I chirruped gratefully as she pulled the café door open for me.

  I stepped out onto the doorstep and took a few deep breaths of spring air, allowing the sun’s rays to warm my face. I sat for a while on the pavement outside the café, waiting for the queasiness to pass, before heading to the alley behind the café. It was silent but for the cooing of pigeons in the eaves and the chattering crows building their nests in the churchyard treetops. Although it still held painful memories for me, I felt a feeling of peace and well-being as I contemplated the empty alley. It was impossible not to think about the tomcat as I stood in the place that had been our shared home; but, rath
er than the usual sadness and guilt, I felt the glimmering of something positive inside. Maybe it was an acceptance that he had gone, or perhaps it was just an acknowledgement that, finally, life seemed to be settling down, after months of upheaval.

  I crept over to my old hiding place under the fire escape, curious to see if it had changed since I had last used it, in the depths of winter. There were cobwebs draped across the paint tins and a few woodlice scurrying across the cardboard under my feet, but other than that it hadn’t changed at all. I lay down under the iron steps, immediately feeling the familiar way in which the cardboard underfoot snugly accommodated my body. Curled up in the shelter that had been my home, I felt comforted, as if somehow the tomcat was there with me. I wrapped my paws in front of my face and went to sleep.

  The café remained closed for several days for refurbishment. Once the walls were finished, Debbie attacked the woodwork, sanding and smoothing, before repainting the sills and window frames with white gloss paint. Midweek, a large van pulled up outside to deliver the new serving counter. The installation was a noisy process, which I was happy to avoid, staying in the flat for the duration of the drilling and banging. Only when everything had gone quiet in the café and the van had driven away did I pad downstairs to investigate.

  When Debbie saw me on the bottom step she smiled. ‘Aha, here she is!’

  I lifted my tail in greeting and walked over to her. She and Sophie were behind the new counter, stacking napkins and cutlery in drawers. It was much less cumbersome than the one it had replaced, with a solid wooden top and whitewashed panelling on the front. Every now and then Debbie stroked its knotted surface approvingly.

  I moved across the floor, taking in the other alterations to the café. The room that had once been a study in grey was now vibrant with colour. Debbie had placed gingham cushions on the seats and candy-striped oilcloths on the tabletops. Pictures framed in driftwood and heart-shaped wreaths of rosebuds were hanging on the pink walls. A jug of tulips stood on the mantelpiece over the stove, alongside a blackboard upon which Debbie had neatly chalked the menu. The café was inviting and homely, almost unrecognizable from its previous drab incarnation. I felt irrationally proud of the trail of pink paw prints that weaved across the floor as if they represented my own contribution to the makeover.