Molly And The Cat Cafe

34

Jo and Debbie were in the café kitchen a couple of nights later, preparing for their Friday night takeaway. Jo was reading the letter with a look of growing horror, while Debbie separated the slices of their pizza with a knife.

‘The evil witch!’ Jo tossed the letter onto the worktop in disgust. ‘Please tell me John wasn’t taken in by it?’

Debbie shook her head. ‘I thought it was touch-and-go for a while, but no, he wasn’t taken in. Turns out she used to own this place, and has had it in for anyone who’s run it since.’

‘It makes my blood boil, Debs – it really does,’ Jo replied, prising the lids off two bottles of beer. ‘How dare she make accusations like that about you? And in such an underhand way, too. She should at least have the nerve to say it to your face.’

They moved across the café to a table, where Debbie placed the pizza box between them. ‘I know and, believe me, I was livid when I first read it. But then I realized that she’s just a sad, lonely woman who has nothing better to do with her time than try and ruin other people’s lives. She’s tried everything else to get at me, and this was her last-ditch attempt.’ Debbie took a sip of beer, but Jo’s brow remained knitted.

‘I think you’re being very understanding, Debs. I bet her fingerprints are all over that letter. If it was me, I’d get the police onto her. It’s libel!’

Debbie sighed. ‘She’s not worth it, Jo. She’s just a bitter old woman and, despite her best attempts, she’s failed. The café’s doing better than ever, and John and I are okay. I don’t want to waste any more time thinking about her.’

Jo frowned as she took a bite of pizza, seemingly reluctant to let the subject drop. The smell of their meal had drifted up to the flat and the kittens soon appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They sniffed the air hopefully, before running towards the table in search of scraps.

‘You know what?’ Debbie said, placing a pizza crust on her plate. ‘The irony is that if anyone should understand what I’ve been through, it’s her. She went through pretty much the same thing with her husband as I did with Andrew. It’s sad, really, when you think about it. She obviously never got over it.’

‘Maybe it is sad, Debs, but that doesn’t give her the right to try and ruin your life. And I don’t share your confidence that this was her last-ditch attempt. Who knows what she might try next, if she isn’t stopped.’

Debbie shook her head firmly. ‘I appreciate your concern, Jo, but really, I wouldn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’d rattled me. It’s over – she’s lost.’

To make her point, Debbie walked over to the serving counter and picked up the letter, tearing it in half, before dropping it into the bin. When she got back to the table she found that Purdy had jumped into her seat and was sniffing the edge of her plate. Debbie scooped her up and placed her gently but firmly back on the floor.

‘Fair enough – it’s your call, but I’d keep my wits about me, if I were you.’ Jo’s eyes were on Purdy, who, having conceded defeat over the pizza, was scampering up the wooden walkway to the hammock. ‘And maybe you should keep the kittens indoors for the time being. You wouldn’t want them to end up in a stew in the old bat’s kitchen.’

Debbie shot a horrified look across the table. ‘Jo, how could you even suggest such a thing! She’s a bitter old woman, not a psychopath.’

Jo shrugged. ‘I hope you’re right, Debs. But who knows what she’s capable of?’

Debbie chose not to respond, and they carried on eating in silence. When they had finished, Jo placed the cardboard pizza box on the floor and the kittens rushed over, jostling with each other to be the first to get to its contents. I watched as they devoured the drops of melted cheese and clusters of ground beef, oblivious to the conversation going on around them.

I was unable to get Jo’s words out of my mind, however. Much as I wanted to believe Debbie, my instincts were telling me that Jo was right – that there was no way of knowing what the old woman might do next. I closed my eyes and pictured the look on her face as she thrust her shopping trolley towards me on the street. She had wanted to hurt me, of that I was certain. She had tried, and failed, to sabotage the café and Debbie’s relationship with John. Surely her next step would be to hurt the kittens?

My anxiety did not go away, and in the days that followed I was unable to think about anything else. The kittens would soon be old enough to go outside, and I was terrified to think of what might happen if they encountered the old woman in the street. They had led a blessed life and I was convinced that their trusting, friendly natures would make them an easy target for the battleaxe’s ire. It made my blood run cold, just thinking about it.

The summer tourist season in Stourton was under way, the town’s population swollen with visitors. Coachloads of tourists were dispatched in the market square on a daily basis, to meander slowly around the town, admiring its picturesque streets and quaint stone cottages. They wandered in and out of shops in pairs or small clusters, filling their shopping bags with souvenirs and edible treats. As they passed along the cobbled parade they would often pause outside the café window, pointing at me through the glass. When they pushed the door open, their faces lit up with delight as the kittens rushed over to greet them.

The customers were happy, the kittens relished all the attention, and Debbie was thrilled with the café’s popularity, but still I could not relax. I felt like I was standing guard over my kittens, convinced that – if I dropped my guard – the old lady would pounce. Adrenaline surged through my body every time I heard the rattle of her trolley outside the window. I stared defiantly at her through the glass, but she never once looked at me, keeping her lips pursed and her eyes on the street ahead.

About a week after Jo and Debbie’s conversation, I heard Debbie talking on the phone, booking an appointment with the vet to have the kittens microchipped. I knew that meant they would soon be free to roam outside, and that I would be unable to protect them from the old woman any longer. I had no choice but to act; if I did nothing, I felt sure I would never have peace of mind again.

When the café opened that morning, I jumped onto the window cushion and waited. As soon as the old woman appeared on the other side of the street, I slipped out of the café and followed her.

She walked briskly to the end of the parade, where she turned right and headed towards the market square. I trotted behind her at a discreet distance, dodging a friendly tourist who tried to stroke me. When she reached the square, the old woman went into the fishmonger’s and I darted under a parked car to catch my breath. I hadn’t visited the square since I had first arrived in Stourton as a homeless stray, and I was overwhelmed by the noise and activity that assaulted me from all sides.

It was difficult to reconcile the hectic scene around me with the lonely square I had encountered at Christmas. It was market day, and packs of tourists surged along the pavements, spilling off the kerbs into the path of passing traffic. Shoppers moved slowly between the market stalls, gimlet-eyed as they searched for bargains, tugging dogs or bored children after them. The lively, bustling atmosphere could not be more different from the ambience I had experienced on my first night, but, in my agitated state, it felt no less daunting.

The old woman stepped out of the fishmonger’s and made her way across to the far side of the square. I dashed out from under the car and ran over the road, glimpsing the wheels of her trolley as they disappeared into a crowd of shoppers. I pushed into the melee, weaving between legs and pushchairs, and reached the pavement just in time to see her turn down an alley between two shops. I padded closer, peering gingerly around the alley’s entrance. Up ahead, the woman was rapidly disappearing down the passageway and I knew I had to follow. I took a deep breath and entered the alley, automatically dropping to a defensive prowl.

The sounds of the market dropped away, and the rattle of the trolley’s wheels filled the enclosed path, magnified by the stone walls on both sides. I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the primitive instinct that warned me that I was being watched. Panicked, I glanced up to see a pair of cat’s eyes staring intently from the top of the wall beside me. My hackles rose in expectation of an attack, but the cat remained motionless, its eyes fixed with an expression that seemed curious rather than hostile.

A succession of confused images flashed through my mind, memories that had lain dormant for many months. I knew that I recognized the cat, but it took a few seconds to realize that it was the tortoiseshell I had found sleeping on a shed roof, soon after my arrival in Stourton. This was her alley; the same one I had wandered into the morning after my attack by the ginger tomcat. I felt a rush of gratitude when I saw her; it was thanks to her advice that I had sought out the churchyard for shelter, and consequently discovered the alleyway behind the café. I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition in her eye and I blinked at her, wishing I had time to thank her, belatedly, for what she had done for me. But I knew that, if I lingered, I would lose sight of the old woman, so I ran on, feeling the tortoiseshell’s inquisitive gaze still on my back.

At the end of the alley, the woman turned into a terrace of neat brick houses. She crossed the road and walked towards the last house in the row, standing her trolley on the pavement while she opened the garden gate. I darted under the hedge that bordered the front of the garden, and raced towards her front door. While she was fastening the gate shut behind her, I lay down on the path in front of her doorstep and closed my eyes.

I felt the path beneath me vibrate as her trolley rolled towards me. Inches from my prostrate body, the trolley stopped, and I half-opened one eye. The old woman surveyed me with a look of disgust. ‘Scram, cat. Clear off!’ she said, nudging my leg with the tip of her shoe. I remained motionless and let out a pained yowl. Shocked, she leaned forwards, using her shopping trolley for support as she bent down to examine me more closely. She prodded me lightly on the flank with her finger and I let out another cry of pain, at which she straightened up, tutting in consternation.

I saw her cast a furtive look over her shoulder, as if checking to see that she was alone. She took her trolley tightly by the handle, and my heart began to thump in my chest. When I had set off in pursuit of her I had a hazy notion that, by confronting her, I would call her bluff. Now it had started to dawn on me that, in fact, she was about to call mine. Rather than putting an end to her campaign of harassment against Debbie, I had presented her with the perfect opportunity to finish what she had started: to run me over with her trolley and dispose of me in the privacy of her own home.

She yanked the trolley forward, but suddenly veered onto the grass, skirting around me as if I were roadkill. I felt a surge of relief that I was unharmed, which quickly turned to disappointment. Was she simply going to ignore me, leaving me – dying, for all she knew – in her front garden? I lay on the path, holding my breath, willing her not to go inside. I sensed she was looking at me, and I imagined her face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as she considered her options. I was sure she was convinced I was gravely injured. Would it occur to her that, if I was found dead outside her house, she would be the prime suspect?

I heard slow footsteps on the path behind me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Her voice was irritable and impatient. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I began to whimper pitifully. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she tutted.

My ears twitched at the sound of the shopping trolley being unzipped behind me, followed by rustling noises as she moved its contents around. I felt one hand slide underneath my hind legs and another under my shoulders, but I lay still, fighting the natural urge to jump out of her hands and run away. She lifted my limp body off the path and I could hear her shallow breathing as she lowered me carefully into the trolley.

I opened my eyes in time to see her face disappear as she slid the zip shut above me.