Christmas at the Cat Cafe

25

During our walk that evening, I recounted to Jasper the conversation I had overhead. The moon drifted in and out of sight behind the shifting clouds above us, as Jasper loped along the slush-covered pavement beside me, one ear cocked attentively.

‘So, did Debbie say anything specifically about rehoming you?’ he asked when I had finished.

‘No, not specifically,’ I admitted. ‘But she said there hasn’t been enough room for us all recently, and that it’s not what Margery would have wanted for me. What else could she have meant?’

We slowed to a halt underneath the elm tree in the square and paused to contemplate the town’s festive decorations. Lengths of coloured bulbs were strung between the lamp posts, and the handsome Christmas tree by the town hall glittered with lights. After a few moments’ silent deliberation, Jasper glanced at me sideways and said, ‘Well, if Debbie thinks there isn’t enough room for all the cats, maybe she’s planning to rehome Ming.’

‘No, it wouldn’t be that,’ I replied disconsolately. ‘If Debbie decided to rehome Ming, she wouldn’t need to tell David first. Ming has nothing to do with Margery’s legacy.’

‘Hmm,’ he mused, unconvinced.

A knot of frustration formed in my stomach, as the conviction grew that Jasper thought I was overreacting. Jasper’s equability was one of the things I loved about him – it anchored me, when my natural inclination was to worry – but at times his implacability infuriated me. He had never been a pet, and had never experienced the intense attachment to an owner that I had felt for Margery, and that I now felt for Debbie. As an alley-cat, how could Jasper possibly understand how it felt to lose your home and owner, or how terrifying it was to think it might happen again?

I stood up and wandered off dispiritedly, unable to bear his measured attempts to reason away my anxiety. A burst of raucous laughter issued from inside a pub to my left and I instinctively swerved away from the noise, skidding on an invisible patch of ice. As I rounded the corner of the square, I broke into a run, fleeing not only Jasper’s scepticism but also my own disappointment that, once again, I was alone in recognizing the threat our family faced. I ran back to the parade, paying scant regard to the cars that rushed past me.

Ming was fast asleep on the cat tree, but Abby and Bella raised their heads drowsily as I pushed through the cat flap into the dark café. Upstairs, Debbie and Sophie had gone to bed and the flat was silent and still. In the living room Eddie was fast asleep in the shoebox, with his tail draped over the cardboard rim. I jumped onto the sofa and settled my gaze on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, taking comfort in the fact that, although I did not know what our future held, at least all my kittens were safe. As I succumbed to the irresistible pull towards sleep, I was aware of a feeling of relief as my worries scattered and my mind drifted into darkness.

I was eating breakfast with the kittens the following morning when I heard Debbie on the phone. ‘Hi, Lind, it’s me. How are you?’

I swallowed my mouthful and stepped away from the food bowl, allowing Eddie and Maisie to devour greedily the last few biscuits in the bowl.

In the living room Debbie was standing at the window, the telephone pressed to her ear. ‘Look, Linda, I think we need to talk. If you’re free this evening, why don’t you come for dinner?’ She wrapped the spiral telephone cord nervously around her finger.

I could picture Linda’s face as she considered the invitation, lips pursed, jaw set, still smarting from the humiliation of their last encounter. After a short silence, however, a tinny chirp down the line indicated assent.

My stomach gave a strange jolt. I was certain Debbie was planning to tell Linda about her meeting with David, but I would have to wait until the evening to hear what she had decided to do.

With a whole day to fill before Linda’s arrival, I crept downstairs and headed out onto the parade. Christmas was now only a week away, and as I trotted along the cobbled streets I was jostled on all sides by harassed-looking shoppers laden with carrier bags. I hadn’t even reached the end of the parade when a sudden hailstorm struck, and my body was pelted with icy pellets that stung, even through my thick fur.

I ran back to the café and rushed through the cat flap. Inside, the kittens had picked up on the excited air of festivity and were more skittish and boisterous than usual, chasing each other up and down the zigzag walkway, and making the customers shriek with laughter. But in my fretful state I couldn’t face the ebullient atmosphere, so I kept my head down and slunk between the tables to the stairs. Finally finding some peace and quiet on the living-room sofa, I spent the day dozing and washing, watching the light levels change outside the window as the hours dragged by.

It had been dark for some time when Debbie finally came upstairs at the end of the day. She allowed herself a few minutes to recover, slumped on one of the dining chairs rubbing her knees, before busying herself in the kitchen. I paced the living-room floor agitatedly, both dreading and longing for Linda’s arrival.

About twenty minutes later, the tinkle of the bell and the opening and shutting of a door downstairs made my heart lurch.

‘Hi, Debs, it’s me,’ Linda called from below.

I smelt Linda before I saw her, my nose tingling at the cloying scent of her perfume, which preceded her up the stairs. My body tensed as Beau came bounding into view around the banisters, with his pink tongue hanging out. He darted past Linda’s legs with a slightly deranged look, skidded into the living room and gleefully began to smear his damp snout along the edge of the sofa cushions. Firing a withering look at him, I prowled out of the room, keen to keep within earshot of the sisters’ conversation.

Debbie emerged from the kitchen with a look of determined good cheer. ‘I’m just dishing up,’ she said brightly, taking Linda’s coat and hanging it on the rack.

‘Great,’ Linda replied, mirroring her sister’s rictus smile.

When they carried their meals through to the dining table, I followed at a discreet distance, glancing sideways at Beau, who was proprietorially ensconced on the sofa cushion. His beady eyes tracked my progress across the rug, and I read some sort of victory in his look, but did my best to ignore him as I climbed into the shoebox. My attention was focused on the other side of the room, where the sisters had sat down on either side of the dining table and started to eat.

They didn’t seem to know what to say to each other at first, and when they did at last speak, they made awkward small talk.

‘The café’s looking lovely. Very Christmassy,’ Linda began politely.

‘Thanks,’ Debbie replied.

A pause, then, ‘Where’s Sophie this evening?’

‘She went Christmas shopping with friends. They’ve probably gone for a burger.’

I was acutely aware of the clink of their cutlery, and the rattle of Linda’s bracelets every time she lifted her glass.

‘So, where’ve you been staying?’ Debbie asked, with the slightly tense air of someone who knew she was straying onto dangerous territory.

‘With friends,’ Linda replied airily.

‘Anyone I know?’ Debbie persisted.

Linda kept a closed face, but I saw her jaw tightening as she answered, ‘Just an old college friend.’ She took a sip of wine, hesitated, then said, ‘Although, with Christmas so close, I think I’m in danger of overstaying my welcome.’ She kept her eyes firmly on her wine glass as she returned it to the table. ‘I seem to be making a habit of that, at the moment,’ she added wryly.

This comment seemed to be the cue Debbie had been waiting for. She lowered her fork and looked attentively across the table. ‘Linda, I don’t mean to pry, but . . . what’s going on? Have you spoken to Ray?’

Linda pushed her food unenthusiastically around her plate. ‘I’ve heard from his solicitor,’ she replied, her voice brittle.

‘Has it got to that stage already?’

Linda reached for her glass. ‘Yup. Looks like I’ll be spending Christmas as a homeless divorcee,’ she said, taking a long gulp of wine.

Debbie hunched forward. ‘Look, Linda. I met David a few days ago, to talk about Margery’s legacy.’

Linda winced. ‘Debs, let’s not go over that again,’ she pleaded. ‘You were right – it’s none of my business what you do with that money. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

Debbie smiled patiently. ‘Linda, hear me out. I wanted to tell you that I’ve written to the solicitor to decline the legacy.’

If there was a flicker of disappointment in her sister’s face, it was so fleeting as to be almost imperceptible. Linda assumed a look of benign impartiality. ‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision, Debs. You don’t need to explain anything to me.’ She set her cutlery down on her plate and took a deep, fortifying breath. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said on Saturday night and . . . you’re right. I got carried away with my ideas for the café and the brand and . . . I went too far. I can see that now.’

Debbie had opened her mouth to speak, but Linda ignored her, fixing her gaze on the space above Debbie’s shoulder.

‘It really hurt when you said I was envious of your success, but perhaps you were right. I think I was a bit . . . surprised to see how you’ve managed to turn things around, and what a great job you’ve done with Molly’s. I guess I thought that if I got involved in the business some of what you’ve achieved might rub off on me.’ She met Debbie’s eyes at last and her lips peeled back into a rueful smile. ‘It sounds pathetic, really.’

‘Oh, Linda. It doesn’t sound pathetic at all,’ Debbie said vehemently, leaning closer in. ‘I didn’t realize how serious things were for you, at first. I assumed you and Ray had just had a falling-out, and that you’d sort it out in time.’

At this, Linda’s head dropped.

‘Look, Linda,’ Debbie said hastily. ‘I didn’t ask you here because I wanted an apology. I’ve got a proposition for you.’

Her sister raised her eyes in a questioning glance and, as I sat in the shoebox, my ears flickered attentively.

‘When I said I’ve declined Margery’s legacy, that was only part of the story,’ Debbie explained. ‘I agreed to do so on one condition: that I can use Margery’s cottage in Oxford, for a year.’

Linda’s face wore a look of blank incomprehension. ‘But . . . I don’t understand, Debs,’ she stammered. ‘Why would you want to move to Oxford? What about the café?’

I felt as though my heart had just dropped in my chest. The possibility that Debbie might move into Margery’s cottage, leaving Linda to take over the flat, was not something that had ever crossed my mind. The very thought horrified me. The prospect of cohabiting with Linda and Beau for a year was almost as bad as the idea of moving in with David.

Linda’s bewildered expression suggested that she shared my confusion, but Debbie reached across the table to place a hand on her sister’s wrist. ‘I’m not planning to live there myself, Linda.’ She laughed. ‘I was thinking of you!’

Linda’s mouth fell open.

‘It’s only for a year, and the cottage will still belong to David,’ Debbie explained quickly, ‘but he’s agreed to let me – us – be his tenants, for a peppercorn rent. It’s been empty for a while now, and I think he’s quite keen to have someone living there, to keep an eye on the place.’ Linda’s stunned expression had faded but, as she listened to Debbie, her shoulders began to droop. ‘I thought it could give you a base of your own, while you’re sorting out your situation with Ray,’ Debbie went on, sensing that Linda needed reassuring. ‘That is, if you want to, of course?’

‘Debs, that’s really kind, but . . . it doesn’t feel right,’ Linda said heavily. ‘As you’ve pointed out to me before, Margery’s intention was for Molly and the kittens to be taken care of. My using her cottage as a bolthole while I sort out my divorce isn’t what she would have wanted.’

Debbie tilted her head and, with the patient look of someone explaining something to a small child, said, ‘Linda, did you really think I was going to let you sleep on a friend’s sofa over Christmas? Of course you’ve got to come back here. But we both know that you moving back into the flat isn’t a long-term solution, either. We’d drive each other crazy, for one thing.’

Although her head was still bowed, Linda smiled.

‘But it wouldn’t be good for the cats, either,’ Debbie continued. ‘They’re territorial animals and, living in a café, they need somewhere quiet they can escape to, somewhere calm and . . .’ her eyes darted to Beau on the sofa, ‘dog-free. So, the way I see it, finding you and Beau somewhere else to live for the next few months is as much in the cats’ interest as it is in ours.’

Linda rubbed her forehead in consternation.

‘It’s all in the letter I sent the solicitor,’ Debbie said, with an encouraging smile. ‘I explained that I felt it would be in the spirit of what Margery wanted, and we would make sure that David isn’t out of pocket. David’s seen the letter and approved it.’

All of a sudden, Linda burst into tears, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs. Debbie stood up and bent awkwardly over the table to hug her.

‘Thank you,’ Linda snivelled into her sister’s shoulder.

‘You’re very welcome,’ Debbie replied, rubbing her back. ‘Oh, and if you don’t mind the commute, I’d love you to carry on working in the café. Paid, of course – no more slave labour. You’re a natural with the customers, and they’ve all been asking after you.’

Linda pulled away to look at Debbie. There were trickles of black on her cheeks where her mascara had run. ‘I’d love to, thank you,’ she replied, fresh tears springing into her eyes.

By the time Sophie returned home, Linda and Debbie had almost drained their second bottle of wine. They were on the sofa, giggling at some shared memory of their schooldays, with a sullen-looking Beau relegated to the floor by their feet.

‘Hi, Linda,’ said Sophie, coming warily into the living room.

‘C’m’ere, Soph,’ cried Linda, seizing her niece around the neck in a one-armed hug.

Sophie raised her eyebrows at Debbie over Linda’s shoulder, but her mother’s eyes wore the same glassy, unfocused look as Linda’s.

‘Auntie Linda and I have come to a desh . . . a desish . . .’ Debbie slurred. ‘We’ve sorted a few things out. She’ll be staying with us for Christmas, but—’

‘Your mum,’ Linda cut in, gripping Sophie’s upper arms and looking up into her face earnestly, if a little blearily, ‘is an angel!’

Sophie’s eyes widened and her lip curled up into a sardonic smile. ‘Okay, Auntie Linda,’ she murmured politely, ‘if you say so.’