Christmas at the Cat Cafe

18

I was in a heavy sleep when Debbie and John returned to the café later that night, and the sound of the door being unlocked startled me. The substance of my dream vanished as soon as I opened my eyes, but I was left with a feeling of guilt and a vague sense that I had been responsible for some unidentified calamity. I shook my head briskly and allowed my eyes to settle on Debbie, who had lowered the window blinds and switched on a lamp behind the till, instantly imbuing the café with a soft yellow light. John returned from the kitchen with two tumblers and they clinked glasses, before sinking into the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

‘So?’ John began.

‘So – what?’ Debbie replied, a little tensely.

‘So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been on edge all evening?’ he enquired gently, in a voice that conveyed concern rather than criticism.

Debbie took a sip, staring morosely at the unlit stove. ‘Well, it’s this ridiculous legacy, of course,’ she sighed.

‘What’s ridiculous about it?’ asked John.

Debbie gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Everything about it is ridiculous, John. Margery disinherited her son and left her entire estate to Molly. And now it’s up to me to sort this whole sorry mess out.’

I couldn’t help but smart at Debbie’s blunt appraisal of the situation, and the realization that I had unwittingly become the cause of such distress for her.

I had to squint to make out Debbie’s expression in the shadow cast by the lamp behind her.

‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ Debbie said, looking anxiously for confirmation in John’s face. ‘I mean, it’s out of the question that I could accept the money on Molly’s behalf. Isn’t it?’ Her tone was urgent, desperate even. Curled up on my cushion, I willed John to say he agreed with her, to advise her to decline the legacy, so that the matter could be settled as quickly as possible and we could put the whole affair behind us.

John gave a helpless shrug. ‘I don’t know what’s right or wrong in this situation,’ he replied evenly. ‘I didn’t know Margery, and I have no idea why she chose to leave her money to Molly. It might have been something she felt strongly about, before the dementia took hold . . .’ He trailed off, sensing that his words were not helping. Debbie turned away, looking as tortured as ever. ‘I think you need to do whatever feels right to you,’ he said at last.

At this, Debbie’s head swung back towards him, and annoyance flashed across her face. ‘But don’t you see, John, what feels right to me has got nothing to do with it. It’s about doing the right thing by Margery, and by her family. This money has nothing to do with me, or Molly,’ she said curtly, gripping her tumbler tightly.

John raised the fingers of one hand in a placatory gesture. ‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ he replied mildly.

Looking relieved, Debbie slumped back into her chair and took a sip from her glass.

On my cushion, I realized I had been holding my breath during their exchange. I exhaled deeply, relieved that Debbie had reached a decision she was happy with.

‘So did you really have no idea Margery was going to do this?’ John asked, looking at his tumbler as he swirled its contents lazily.

At this, Debbie frowned. ‘Of course not! How could I have known?’ she shot back, looking at him sideways.

John shrugged placidly. ‘I s’pose. It’s just that . . . you’ve spent a lot of time with Margery over the last few months. I thought maybe she’d have mentioned it to you.’ His tone was light, almost offhand, but in the shadowy café Debbie’s face seemed to darken.

‘No, I didn’t know anything about it,’ she said, enunciating the words carefully. ‘I never talked to Margery about her money, or her will. We talked about Molly and the café. That’s all.’

Sensing Debbie’s defensiveness, John stretched out an arm across the space between the armchairs. ‘Okay, okay, don’t worry – I was just wondering, that’s all,’ he reassured her.

Debbie glanced at his hand, which was resting awkwardly on the arm of her chair, but made no move to reciprocate the gesture. Instead she said coldly, ‘Wondering about what?’

‘I just meant—’ John began.

But before he could finish, Debbie interrupted him. ‘You just meant that surely I must have known Margery was planning to leave her estate to Molly. I’d spent all that time with her, how could I not have known.’ She glowered at him.

At this, John pulled his arm back towards himself protectively. ‘No, that’s not what I meant at all,’ he said, staring at his drink glumly while Debbie knocked back the contents of her tumbler in silence. The mood in the café, which had felt cosy and intimate, began to feel tense and oppressive.

I stared at the two of them helplessly. I was baffled by what had just happened: how they had gone from being in agreement that Debbie would decline the legacy, to this state of conflict in which John looked hurt and Debbie furious. I wasn’t even sure who had been to blame for the turnaround; whether Debbie had been justified in taking offence, or whether she had read suspicion into John’s words where there had been none. But I had witnessed enough arguments between Debbie and Sophie to realize that a stalemate had been reached, and that both parties were now too aggrieved to initiate a reconciliation.

Debbie yawned, then leant over to place her glass on the low table between the armchairs. John glanced at his watch and mumbled something about having to be up early. He leant over and gave her a perfunctory kiss, but there was no warmth in their touch. I could do nothing but watch as he picked up his coat and, without saying another word, left the café.

The following evening I watched through the window as a man made his way along the dark street towards the café. He carried a briefcase in one hand and pulled his anorak close to his body with the other. His head was bowed against the cold, and as he passed under a lamp post, he was hit by a gust of wind whipping down the parade. In the street light’s orange glow, a few strands of hair on his balding head appeared to dance around his ears. He pushed open the café door roughly and stood on the doormat, smoothing his errant hair back into place. I felt my stomach lurch uncomfortably in recognition.

‘Hello, David,’ Debbie said warmly, coming out of the kitchen. ‘I’m just finishing off. Take a seat and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

David grunted in response. Even by his usual terse standards, he looked particularly sour as he stood on the flagstones, rubbing his hands against the cold.

Spotting the flickering flames in the stove, he walked towards the fireplace. Behind him, a burst of giggling issued from the kitchen, as Debbie and the kitchen staff shared a joke. The happy sound was in stark contrast to the chill that emanated from David.

‘Thanks, ladies, see you tomorrow,’ Debbie said, locking the back door shut behind them.

David hung his jacket on the back of a chair and sat down. He was dressed in his habitual palette of beige and grey and, without his bulky anorak, his thin, wiry frame was more apparent.

I had remained motionless, lying low on my cushion so as not to draw his attention, but as he looked around the café, he noticed me. I held his gaze, determined not to avert my eyes, and eventually he looked away, the merest sneer of contempt playing around his lips.

‘Here we go,’ Debbie smiled, carrying a tray of refreshments to the table. David swung his briefcase onto his lap, popped the locks and pulled out a slim cardboard folder, ignoring Debbie as she carefully set the teacups and plate of cookies on the stripy tablecloth.

David placed the folder on his place mat and waited with pursed lips while Debbie, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, sat down on the chair opposite him. Then he watched, with barely concealed impatience, while she set about pouring the tea.

‘Milk?’ she enquired. David gave a single nod. ‘Sugar?’

‘Two, please,’ he answered gruffly.

‘Help yourself to a cookie,’ she said, nudging the plate towards him.

David grunted, glaring angrily at the biscuits as if they, too, were wasting his time. Although Debbie was doing her best to hide it, I could tell that, underneath her friendly demeanour, she was being made nervous by David’s frostiness.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Margery,’ Debbie began, as she stirred her tea. ‘She was such a lovely lady.’

At this, David breathed in sharply. ‘Yes, well, it was probably for the best. She’d had a good innings,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Debbie’s eyebrows began to creep up her face, but she said nothing.

‘This shouldn’t take long,’ David said, placing the tips of his fingers on the cardboard folder on his place mat.

Debbie, still stirring her tea, glanced across. ‘Oh, right,’ she replied uncertainly.

‘This is for you,’ David said brusquely, attempting to push the folder across the candy-striped cloth towards Debbie. But the little table was so cluttered with crockery that the folder kept getting caught, dislodging sachets of sweetener from their bowl and almost knocking over the tiny vase of flowers. He tutted and picked the folder up, holding it above the tea cups.

With a look of polite courteousness, Debbie took the folder. David watched with a clenched jaw as she fished her reading glasses out of her apron pocket, removed them from their case and pushed them onto her nose. She opened the folder and began to read.

‘Um, sorry, David – what is this?’ she said lightly.

She looked up to find that David had hunched forward in his chair and was proffering a pen towards her. He had removed the lid and, as he twisted the pen, its brass nib glinted in the firelight. Debbie’s questioning gaze took in the pen and David’s posture of thinly veiled belligerence.

‘What is this, David?’ Debbie repeated in a small voice.

‘It’s a letter of renunciation, from you, saying that you renounce any claim to my mother’s estate.’ David’s voice was calm but uncompromising. ‘I would be grateful if you could sign it now,’ he added, as if Debbie might not have understood the implication of the pen thrust in her face.

Debbie opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘Er, but, I haven’t even read it yet,’ she protested feebly.

David sneered and sat back in his chair, making a show of giving her time to read. He twiddled the pen between his fingers, while Debbie, now visibly flustered, scanned the letter.

‘So, it’s a letter from me, but written by you?’ she clarified, concentrating hard on the sheet of paper in front of her. David nodded. Debbie cleared her throat slightly. ‘I, Deborah Walsh, hereby renounce any claim on the estate of Margery Hinckley,’ she read.

‘That’s right,’ David answered flatly, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth.

‘But I never made any claim on Margery’s estate, David,’ Debbie said, mild indignation beginning to creep into her voice. ‘And besides, I’m not the beneficiary – Molly is.’

At this, David let out a single bark-like laugh that was so sharp it made me jump. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I should ask Molly to sign the letter?’ His face split into a mean smile, revealing his yellow, uneven teeth. He turned to look at me, tilting his head sideways in a parody of courteousness. ‘Molly, could you come over here and sign this letter, please?’ he asked sarcastically.

I glared at him, unblinking, feeling a wave of fury course through me.

‘No? Thought not.’ He grinned maliciously, and his eyes flickered back to Debbie, who had begun to blush. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, too.

David waved his hand at the letter dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it – we just need something in writing, to get the ball rolling. The solicitors can take it from there and get a contract of renunciation drawn up.’ His tone was business like once more, and he leant forward again with his pen.

Debbie looked down at the page in front of her. ‘But, David, this isn’t a letter from me. These aren’t my words—’ she began.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ David cut in. ‘You just. Need. To sign. That’s all.’

I felt my hackles rise at his aggressive tone. My heart was pounding and I could feel the blood pumping around my body; I had not felt so under threat since I had encountered the yellow-eyed alley-cat during my search for Eddie.

Debbie removed her glasses and placed them on the table. ‘It matters to me, David,’ she said quietly. ‘As I told you on the phone, I plan to write to the solicitor and explain why I must decline your mother’s legacy to Molly, but I intend to do it in my own words.’ She glanced at the hovering pen nib. ‘And I intend to sign it with my own pen,’ she added as an afterthought. She flipped the cardboard folder shut and held it across the table. ‘I’m sorry, David, but I won’t be signing your letter,’ she said firmly.

David’s face had turned a vibrant puce colour. ‘I always knew you were up to something,’ he muttered darkly, clicking the lid back onto his pen and snatching the folder from Debbie’s hand.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Debbie said, looking scandalized.

‘Why else would you visit my mother so often? Make all that effort to go to the care home to visit a complete stranger. I knew there was something fishy about it.’

Debbie’s mouth had fallen open. ‘Margery wasn’t a complete stranger, David,’ she exclaimed. ‘She was a customer here, and she had been Molly’s owner. I was taking Molly to visit her!’

David snorted. ‘Oh, come off it. Do you really expect me to believe that? What kind of person would go to all that trouble, so that an old woman with dementia could see a cat!’ A vein on his temple had begun to bulge, and beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

Debbie’s breathing was fast and shallow, but she took time to compose herself before she answered. ‘The kind of person who understood what Molly meant to Margery, David. A person like me.’

‘Well, I would beg to differ,’ he hissed, opening his briefcase and shoving the folder roughly inside. ‘I think it’s the behaviour of someone who hopes that, if she puts in the hours and visits often enough, she might be remembered by an old woman in her will. That’s the kind of person I think you are.’

Debbie’s face had flushed a shade of pink almost as lurid as David’s, and her bottom lip started to tremble. She surveyed the table, watery-eyed, taking in the rapidly cooling cups of tea and untouched plate of biscuits. ‘I think maybe you should leave,’ she said in a dignified voice.

David pushed his chair back noisily across the flagstones and began to pull on his jacket. ‘You know – letter or no letter – don’t go getting any ideas about this legacy,’ he said darkly. ‘There’s not a court in the land that would give any credence to the deathbed scribblings of a senile old woman. And if necessary,’ he practically spat, ‘I’m prepared to go to court to prove it.’

With that, he grabbed his briefcase and marched out of the café, slamming the door so hard that the window frame behind me shook, and I thought the little brass bell above the door might break.

Still seated at the table, Debbie dropped her head and her shoulders started to heave. I jumped down from my cushion and walked quickly over to her. She was sobbing silently, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping onto her apron. When I brushed against her leg, she glanced at me with a look of stunned disbelief.

‘Oh, Molly,’ she cried. ‘What have I done?’