Molly And The Cat Cafe

19

‘Mum, why is there no hot water?’

It was the morning after the argument. Sophie was running the shower in the bathroom as she got ready for school. I stepped out of the living room to find Debbie standing in the hall touching a radiator, an anxious look on her face. ‘Mum!’ Sophie shouted impatiently.

‘I don’t know, Sophie. It must be the boiler. The radiators aren’t working, either.’ Debbie sounded worried, and I could feel the chill in the flat as the residual warmth in the radiators drained away.

Sophie was even more bad-tempered than usual that morning. Having been unable to shower, she acted as though Debbie was responsible for her unwashed hair and freezing bedroom. When Debbie ran downstairs to look at the boiler in the café kitchen I followed her, keen not to become the next object of Sophie’s annoyance.

Debbie was standing in the kitchen talking on the phone. ‘I haven’t got a clue, Jo. The pilot light’s gone out and there’s a fault code on the display, but I can’t find the manual.’ She was rifling through drawers, desperately pulling out yellowing instruction booklets and old takeaway menus. While Jo talked at the other end of the line, Debbie grabbed a pen and scribbled something on the back of a pizza menu. ‘That’s great, thanks, Jo. I’ll give him a call.’

Sophie thundered down the stairs and through the kitchen, running late for her bus.

‘Bye, love, have a good—’ Debbie called after her, but Sophie had slammed the door shut before she could finish. ‘Calm – stay calm,’ Debbie muttered to herself, picking up the phone to dial the number Jo had given her.

About half an hour later I watched from the windowsill as a van pulled up on the cobbles outside the café. A tall, sandy-haired man got out and pulled a bag onto his shoulder before knocking on the door.

‘Thank God you’re here!’ Debbie exclaimed as she unlocked the café and ushered him in.

‘I wish all my clients greeted me like that,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m John. So your boiler’s playing up?’

‘That’s right: the light’s gone out – there’s no water . . .’ Debbie stammered as she led him into the kitchen.

Through the doorway I could see her perched on a stool, drumming her fingers nervously on the worktop while John began to take the boiler apart. His manner remained calm, in spite of Debbie’s evident alarm.

‘Boilers always pick the worst time to pack up, don’t they?’ John said, sensing her anxiety. Debbie smiled tensely. ‘It’s a bit of an antique, this model – must be at least thirty years old,’ he added.

Debbie was unable to contain her impatience any longer. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

‘It’s not great news, I’m afraid,’ John replied, looking genuinely sorry. ‘You’ve had a leak inside. Water’s been dripping onto the casing. It’s completely corroded in here.’

Debbie stood next to him and peered into the boiler to see the damage for herself.

‘I can patch it up for now, but it’s only a short-term solution. You’re going to need a new boiler, I’m afraid.’

Debbie groaned and sat back down on her stool, her head sinking. I couldn’t see her face clearly from the window, but I could picture her look of reluctant acceptance. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘Right. Okay. If you could do what you can for now, that would be great. I’m going to have to speak to the bank.’

John nodded respectfully and went to fetch his tools from the van. As he walked back into the café he noticed me for the first time. ‘Hello, puss,’ he smiled, making a detour across the café to give me a stroke.

My interest was piqued and I stood up to greet him. As he approached me I noticed that his sandy hair bore a few streaks of grey and the bridge of his nose was dusted with freckles. As he held out a hand to stroke me, the corners of his eyes crinkled into a smile. I leant forwards to sniff his fingers, and he tousled my ears teasingly. I responded to his playfulness by wrapping my front paws around his wrist, gripping his skin with my claws and biting the side of his thumb.

‘You don’t want to let me go, do you?’ he laughed, wincing in pain as he tried to twist his arm free. ‘And it’s not often I get to say that!’

I noticed Debbie watching us from the kitchen doorway and, expecting to be told off, I loosened my grip. As she walked towards us, however, I was surprised to see that her look of concern had been replaced by an indulgent smile. ‘That’s Molly,’ she said, and she explained how she had found me in the alley and taken me in.

‘And now she thinks she owns the place, by the look of it,’ John joked, and Debbie tilted her head in agreement.

John gave me a final rub behind the ears before setting to work on the boiler. I lay down in my shoebox, listening as he and Debbie chatted. He had grown up in Stourton, he told her. It had changed a lot since his childhood, what with all the second-home owners and the rise in property prices. A lot of the shops in Stourton were still family businesses, though, and had stayed in the same family for generations.

‘This place was empty for a while, if I remember rightly,’ he said. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Coming up to six months,’ Debbie replied. ‘We were in Oxford before. I’ve never run a café before and it’s been a . . . learning curve.’

John smiled. ‘I remember coming here when I was a kid. It was a greasy spoon back then. Although’ – he peered through the kitchen doorway to the café – ‘it hasn’t changed all that much since then. I’m sure that’s been here for at least thirty years!’ He was looking at the ugly serving counter.

‘Oh, has it really?’ Debbie replied, looking aghast at the metal-and-plastic construction. She scanned the café’s interior unhappily. ‘I suppose the whole place could do with a bit of an update, now that you mention it.’

I had been absorbed in observing the two of them, but a movement on the street caught my eye. Sophie was striding along the cobbles, heading home for lunch. As she crossed the street in front of the café she stopped, distracted by something. The old lady with the shopping trolley and curiously coloured hair was on the other side of the street and had said something to her. Sophie pulled a headphone out of one ear, a frown forming as she listened. It was all over in a matter of seconds and then the old lady was on her way again, the wheels of her shopping trolley rattling over the cobbles.

When she pushed open the café door, Sophie’s face was furious.

‘Oh, hi, Soph. We’ve got hot water again if you want a . . . shower . . .’ Debbie had stepped out of the kitchen to greet her, but Sophie barged past, heading straight for the stairs. ‘What’s wrong, love?’ Debbie called, but the only answer was the sound of a door slamming upstairs. Debbie looked at the floor, embarrassed.

‘Teenagers, eh?’ John said sympathetically when she returned to the kitchen, and Debbie managed a weak smile.

He had done what he could and began to pack his tools away. I wandered across the café to sniff at his bag, while Debbie made out a cheque for the work. She was full of gratitude and promised to be in touch soon about replacing the boiler.

John opened his mouth as if to say something, but then paused, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air. He caught sight of me on the floor next to his bag. ‘Bye, Molly, look after the place, won’t you?’ he said, giving me a quick stroke as he lifted the bag to his shoulder.

As he was leaving he popped his head back through the door.

‘You know, I’m sure I could get that stove working for you, if you ever decide to do the place up.’

‘Thanks,’ Debbie replied thoughtfully. ‘I might take you up on that.’

John left, and for a moment Debbie’s eyes lingered on the door after it had closed behind him.

‘You know what, Molly, I think he’s right. This place needs a facelift. And that monstrosity has got to go,’ she said, eyeing the serving counter with disgust.

Part of me wanted to say that I could have told her that weeks ago, but I thought it was enough to purr encouragingly. After her stressful morning it was good to see a sparkle back in Debbie’s eyes, although whether that was down to the thought of doing up the café or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.