Molly And The Cat Cafe

22

Molly’s Café opened for business the following day. I could sense Debbie’s nerves as she turned the door sign to ‘Open’, then stood behind the counter, watching anxiously as people walked passed the window. It was a Thursday, which was market day in Stourton, and the streets were busy, yet the café remained empty, overlooked by the passers-by intent on visiting the market. I sat on my cushion in the window, willing for it to rain so that people would be driven indoors, but the sky stayed stubbornly blue.

At lunchtime the bell over the door tinkled at last, and a couple with a small child walked in. The little girl immediately set off to follow the pink paw prints on the floor, tottering excitedly to the end of the trail, where she found me sitting majestically on my cushion. ‘Cat!’ she exclaimed, pointing at me and clapping her hands, to her parents’ indulgent laughter.

Debbie brought a high chair out of the kitchen, and the family ate lunch at the table in the window while I washed on my cushion next to them. Debbie cast nervous glances in our direction when the little girl staggered towards me and grabbed a handful of my fur, but I merely twitched my tail while her mother gently loosened her grip.

‘Can I tempt any of you with a pudding?’ Debbie offered as she cleared away their plates, gesturing to the selection of cakes and pastries on the serving counter. She beamed as the family ordered two chocolate brownies and an ice cream.

The sight of customers at the front table seemed to have an encouraging effect on passers-by, drawing them to the window to read the menu and peer inside. By mid-afternoon the market had started to wind down and there was a steady trickle through the door of weary shoppers, longing for a restorative slice of cake after the exertion of market-shopping. They spoke in hushed voices, but I could detect appreciative murmurings as they admired the café’s decor and perused the new menu. Relieved of their heavy bags, they soon began to relax in the calm surroundings of the café, soothed by my purring presence as I weaved between the tables. By late afternoon I was feeling sleepy and soon dozed off in the window, to the pleasant background hum of small talk and laughter.

Jo came around after work the following day, bringing the usual Friday night takeaway. ‘I love what you’ve done with the place, Debs!’ she said sincerely. ‘And I particularly love the colour on the walls. So much nicer than those drab greys you were considering.’

‘Yes, you were right, Jo – you can stop going on about it now,’ Debbie replied, emptying the dishwasher for the second time that evening.

Jo dished the food onto plates while Debbie finished up in the kitchen.

‘So, how’s it going? Has the redesign paid off?’ Jo asked, as soon as they had tucked into their meal.

‘So far, so good. We had twelve covers at lunch today, and then eight more for tea,’ Debbie announced proudly.

‘This is a turning point for you, Debs – I can feel it,’ Jo replied.

‘I really hope you’re right, Jo. I can’t afford for it to fail. I’m in debt up to here,’ Debbie held her hand up to her chin, ‘and I’ve yet to replace the boiler.’

Jo nodded slowly, glancing sidelong at Debbie as she took a sip of wine. ‘So, has John been in to see the new look?’ she asked casually.

Debbie bristled. ‘No, why would he?’

‘I just thought he might have popped in to, you know, sample the wares.’ Debbie shot her a look. ‘I mean the food, obviously!’ Jo laughed.

‘Well, he did text me earlier in the week,’ Debbie admitted.

Jo looked at her shrewdly. ‘Go on.’

‘He said something about going for a drink, but I was too busy to reply and then it kind of slipped my mind.’ Debbie’s tone was offhand.

Jo stared at her. ‘It slipped your mind?’ she repeated incredulously.

‘Oh, Jo, don’t be like that. He probably just wanted to nag me about the boiler.’

‘Of course,’ Jo agreed sarcastically. ‘I’m sure he asks all his customers for a drink, just to remind them to replace their boilers.’

Debbie rolled her eyes. ‘Please, Jo, just leave it, would you?’

There was an awkward pause between them while Jo sipped her wine and Debbie played with the food on her plate. Jo finally broke the silence. ‘Well, all I’m saying is that he’s a nice bloke, and there’s a lot to be said for that. Plus, he’s not a member of the Lawn Bowls Society, and there’s a lot to be said for that too.’ Jo drew her finger and thumb across her lips to indicate that she would say no more on the matter, then went to the kitchen to find another bottle of wine.

When she returned to the table, Debbie sighed and put her fork down on her plate. ‘You’re right, Jo, he does seem like a very nice bloke. But I’ve been there before, haven’t I? My ex seemed like a nice bloke, and look how that ended up.’

Jo conceded that Debbie had a point. ‘But how can you know, unless you give him a chance?’ she asked softly.

‘I can’t risk any more disruption for Sophie,’ Debbie answered firmly, her eyes starting to well up. ‘For the first time in – I don’t know how long – she’s actually talking to me rather than shouting at me. She needs some stability in her life right now, and if that means me putting my love life on hold, then so be it.’

I pondered Debbie’s words later that evening as I settled down on her bed for the night. Her discomfort, when asked about John, had been obvious, and she could not change the subject fast enough. Like Jo, I was baffled by Debbie’s dismissal of his interest, and by her apparent unwillingness to give him a chance.

Perhaps Debbie was right that introducing John into the family dynamic might upset Sophie. I had also noticed the change in Sophie’s attitude of late, and it wasn’t just in the way she treated me. She seemed calmer, more settled and less angry. She was making more of an effort to confine her mess to her bedroom; I no longer had to pick my way through the debris of her school books and discarded shoes to find space on the sofa for a nap. I also couldn’t remember the last time I had been woken by a door slamming, or been called a ‘mangy fleabag’, and she and Debbie hadn’t argued for weeks. Whatever accounted for the change in Sophie’s attitude, I shared Debbie’s relief and, like her, I hoped it would last. If Debbie thought that going out for a drink with John might jeopardize the new equilibrium, then I felt duty-bound to believe her.

With the arrival of spring, Stourton started to come to life. Tourists and day-trippers milled around the streets, looking for ways to spend their money in the picturesque country town. Market day was always busy in the café, but even on non-market days a continuous stream of customers came through the door from about eleven in the morning. After a week of begging Sophie to help out after school and at weekends, Debbie finally admitted that she was going to have to take on some help, and a young waitress was hired.

The increased custom left Debbie exhausted, and had a tiring effect on me as well. I found I was napping for increasingly long periods, either on my cushion in the window or, on particularly warm days when the windowsill overheated, inside my shoebox in the fireplace. When I needed to stretch my legs I would prowl around the café, slipping between chair legs on the lookout for stray tuna flakes or cake crumbs.

Customers often asked Debbie about me, and she relished telling the story of how she had found me in the alley and decided to name the café after me. ‘Don’t let her fool you into thinking she’s hungry, though,’ Debbie warned them, wagging a finger at me as I eyed their sandwiches or clotted-cream-covered scones. ‘She’s getting a bit greedy, this one. It’ll be time for a diet soon!’ The diners laughed as I flicked my tail, before padding haughtily back to my cushion.

One Saturday night Sophie and Debbie were chatting in the café after closing time. I had been lying in the shoebox trying to sleep, but my back felt stiff and I could not settle. Thinking that stretching my legs might help, I jumped down and set off on a circuit around the café, idly looking for crumbs under the tables. Sophie had sat down at the serving counter, chatting through the kitchen doorway to Debbie. I noticed Sophie watching me as I made my way awkwardly between the tables.

‘Mum, the cat’s walking a bit funny,’ she said, a note of concern in her voice.

‘What do you mean, she’s walking funny?’ Debbie called back. She poked her head through the door and glanced at me, with soapy rubber gloves on her hands. ‘She looks fine to me, Soph,’ she said, before returning to the sink. The stiffness in my back was becoming more pronounced, compounded by a dull ache that, no matter how I stretched, I couldn’t shift.

I made my way over to the window and, with more effort than normal, jumped up onto the cushion. I started to wash, beginning with a gentle wipe of my face and paws, but when I turned my head to lick my shoulder blades I was seized by a sudden sharp pain in my abdomen. I let out an involuntarily yelp, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Sophie lift her head to look at me. The sudden pain was followed by a pressure in my belly, and no matter how I twisted on the cushion, I could not find a position that relieved it. I flopped onto my side and slowed my breathing to try and ease my discomfort.

Sophie stood up from her stool and began to walk towards me. ‘Molly, are you okay?’ she asked nervously.

There was a tightening sensation in my belly and, though I was touched by Sophie’s concern, I couldn’t summon the faculties to respond to her. The pressure in my abdomen was intensifying, and I felt like I was about to burst. Just as Sophie reached the windowsill, the pressure became so overwhelming that I had no choice but to give in to my urge to push.

I heard Sophie scream. ‘Mum!’ she shouted. ‘Come here, quick! Molly’s just . . . exploded!’

Debbie rushed into the café from the kitchen, still wearing her yellow rubber gloves. She ran to the windowsill and looked down at me. ‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed, her face aghast. ‘She hasn’t exploded, Sophie, she’s giving birth!’