Christmas at the Cat Cafe

8

The following morning I crept downstairs early. The cardboard box had been moved to the floor between the serving counter and the fireplace. It looked empty and, as I moved silently across the floor, I indulged myself in the fantasy that Ming had escaped through the cat flap overnight and was at this very moment roaming the streets of Stourton, frightened and alone. But as I picked a path between the tables and chairs, I noticed Eddie sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, gazing in rapt concentration at one of the armchairs.

‘Have you . . . seen?’ he asked.

I stepped closer and followed his eye-line. Curled up in a perfect crescent on the armchair, Ming lay sound asleep. Everything about her cream-and-chestnut-toned body oozed elegance, from her chiselled cheekbones to her dainty feet, which looked as if they had been dipped in liquid chocolate from ankle to toe.

‘Who is she?’ Eddie whispered.

‘Her name’s Ming. Linda brought her last night,’ I replied curtly.

At that moment Ming’s body twitched and her huge eyes opened dramatically, to reveal two orbs of the most intense blue I had ever seen. Beside me, Eddie gasped in surprise, or possibly admiration. Still prostrate on the cushion, Ming blinked, then unfurled her slender legs into a sideways stretch, throwing her head back against the cushion. As her mouth opened into a yawn, I saw the curve of her pink tongue behind pristine white teeth. Fully awake now, she looked around, and her azure eyes focused on me and Eddie on the flagstones before her.

She tilted her head quizzically to one side but said nothing, and I felt Eddie shifting uncomfortably next to me.

‘I’m Molly, and this is Eddie,’ I said, aware that my words didn’t quite convey the authoritative tone I had hoped for. If anything, they seemed to confirm our status as supplicants eager for Ming’s attention.

Her eyes narrowed slightly and flicked from Eddie’s face to mine, but still she said nothing. I began to feel an impotent rage fizz in the pit of my stomach. How dare she! Who does she think she is? My cheeks burnt under my fur as I tried to preserve some semblance of dignity in the face of such insolence.

Within a couple of minutes, the patter of paws in the stairwell heralded the arrival of the other kittens. Maisie appeared first, raising her tail and heading across the room to greet me and Eddie. She jumped in alarm, on noticing Ming on the chair above us, instinctively diving behind me for protection. Purdy, Abby and Bella were not far behind, and soon they too were prowling around the hearth, throwing curious glances up at the feline stranger. Ming, meanwhile, lay resplendent on the armchair, looking down superciliously at us all.

I surveyed Ming with mounting dislike. I’ve had enough of this, I thought. Aloof, superior, rude . . . Ming seemed to possess every attribute that I had tried hard not to encourage in the kittens.

‘Breakfast!’ I instructed, herding them into a group and back upstairs to the flat, ignoring their protests that they had already eaten. Sensing my mood, they complied and made a show of taking a few mouthfuls from their bowls, before hurriedly dispersing. Feeling that I had not yet vented my annoyance sufficiently, I sought out Beau, who was fast asleep on the rug in the living room, and hissed at him so viciously that he woke with a startled yelp and scrambled under the sofa in panic.

I climbed into the shoebox in the corner of the living room and passed the day dozing fitfully, finding myself jerking awake in alarm at regular intervals before falling back into a light, restless sleep. It was dark when my rumbling stomach forced me out of the box. I padded into the kitchen and ate a few mouthfuls of cat biscuits. Sleeping and eating had done nothing to improve my mood, and I knew I needed some fresh air.

In the café, Ming was sitting on the highest platform of the cat tree, washing contentedly. I kept my eyes firmly on the door as I strode across the flagstones, determined not to pay her the compliment of looking at her as I passed. I headed out into the dark, quiet street and made my way purposefully along the alleyway. As I slipped through the conifers into the churchyard beyond there was movement in some nearby shrubbery, and Jasper emerged onto the grass in front of me.

‘Evening,’ he said, stepping forward to greet me.

‘Hmmph,’ I replied, turning my head away petulantly. I strode away from him towards the gravestones, aware that he was baffled by my uncharacteristic froideur.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, trotting after me.

‘Ming’s up,’ I replied sharply, taking a perverse delight in his confusion.

‘What’s Ming?’ he said.

‘Ming’ – I practically spat her name – ‘is the café’s new cat. If you spent less time in the alley and more time indoors, you might have found that out for yourself.’ I stalked off, feeling better for having vented my anger, but also guilty for taking it out on Jasper, who was no more to blame for Ming’s arrival than I was.

I completed a solitary, troubled circuit of the churchyard before heading home, reaching the café at the same time as Debbie’s friend Jo. Jo owned the hardware shop next door and was Debbie’s closest friend in Stourton. She had a practical, no-nonsense air and unruly shoulder-length curls, which shook whenever she laughed, which was frequently.

‘Oh, hi, Molly,’ Jo said cheerfully, as I trotted up to her ankles. She bent down to stroke me, rubbing my back a little more roughly than was strictly necessary; but Jo owned a dog, and tended to misjudge the degree of physical force required when petting felines.

While she was stroking me, I sniffed at the brown paper bag in her arms, from which the combined aroma of garlic prawns, creamy chicken curry and spicy lamb emanated. Jo and Debbie’s takeaways in the café had been a regular weekend occurrence for as long as I could remember, and I knew their menu selections by heart.

Jo stood up and waved at Debbie through the window. ‘Come on then, Molly,’ she said with a little whistle.

She opened the door and I darted in front of her feet and ran inside.

Jo deposited the bag of food on the serving counter. ‘So, this must be the new cat?’ she asked, pushing a brown curl out of her eye and making her way over to the cat tree, where Ming was curled up sound asleep on the platform.

‘Her name’s Ming,’ Debbie replied, placing two wine glasses and a handful of cutlery on the counter next to the bag of food.

‘She really is a beauty, isn’t she?’ Jo whispered admiringly. Debbie stepped up behind her, beaming proudly.

While they both gazed at Ming in awestruck silence, I jumped onto the counter, clumsily knocking the knives and forks to the floor, where they clattered noisily on the flagstones. Oops, I thought, smiling inwardly. Startled, Debbie and Jo both swung round and, sensing their eyes on me, I stepped precariously between the wine glasses to sniff the bag full of food.

‘Oh, Molly, that’s not for you,’ Debbie said, leaping across the room to pull the bag sharply out from under my nose. I jumped down from the counter, satisfied that I had, for the moment at least, diverted their attention away from Ming.

Debbie set out their meal on one of the café tables, and I took up my usual position on the windowsill to watch them.

‘No Sophie and Linda this evening?’ Jo asked, heaping a spoonful of rice onto her plate.

Debbie shook her head. ‘Sophie’s gone to a party with her boyfriend, and Linda’s gone . . . somewhere – I didn’t actually ask where.’ Jo chewed her mouthful, waiting for Debbie to elaborate. ‘It’s a bit of a relief to have an evening off, to be honest,’ Debbie added guiltily, reaching for her glass of wine.

‘How long’s she been here, now?’ Jo asked.

‘Ten days,’ Debbie answered instantly. ‘Not that I’m counting, or anything.’

Jo grinned conspiratorially over the rim of her glass. ‘Any idea how long she’ll be staying?’ she probed.

Debbie shrugged. ‘It’s complicated, apparently. She’s adamant she won’t go back to the house while Ray’s there; and he’s refusing to move out, since he pays the mortgage. I think solicitors are involved now, so of course the whole thing could drag on for ages . . .’ She sipped her wine glumly.

‘She’ll be here for Christmas, at this rate,’ Jo teased.

Debbie looked pained, and quickly took another gulp from her glass.

‘Here’s a radical thought. You could ask Linda what her plans are. Maybe give her a deadline to find somewhere else?’ Jo’s tone was supportive, but challenging. ‘It’s a fair question, isn’t it? She can’t expect you to keep putting her up indefinitely.’

Debbie winced. ‘I know, Jo, but I feel bad for her.’ She sagged slightly in her chair, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

‘Of course you feel bad for her – her marriage has broken up. But that doesn’t mean it’s your responsibility to give her somewhere to live, does it? She could afford to stay in a hotel, by the sounds of it.’

‘She probably could, but what kind of sister would I be if I asked her to do that?’ Debbie’s eyes were starting to shine. ‘I’m just letting her stay until she sorts herself out, that’s all. Besides, Linda is helping me out in the café.’

Debbie’s cheeks were glowing, and Jo raised her hands in a placatory gesture.

‘It’s not just Linda you’re putting up, though, is it, Debs?’ she pointed out softly. ‘It’s Beau, and now Ming as well. Quite the menagerie she’s brought to your door, when you think about it.’

My ears pricked up at the mention of Ming’s name.

‘She knows I’m cross about that,’ Debbie said, rolling her eyes. ‘I mean Beau is one thing – he’s Linda’s pet. But to dump a new cat on us,’ she shook her head disbelievingly, ‘and make out that she’s doing it for the business. I mean, really, she just has no idea!’ Debbie had drained her first glass of wine and seemed to be warming to her theme.

I was warming to her theme too, and found myself feeling better than I had all day, as she began to open up about Ming.

‘I mean, really – a bloody Siamese!’ Debbie pulled an incredulous face. ‘What was she thinking?’ She laughed, and I preened with delight on the cushion. ‘You’d be proud of me, though, Jo. I made it quite clear this is a trial period, just to see how Ming settles in.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Jo muttered sarcastically.

Debbie set her wine glass down on the table and fixed Jo with a stare. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked flatly.

Jo grinned. ‘Debbie, you and I both know that, when it comes to cats, you are the absolute definition of a pushover.’ Debbie blinked at her in astonishment. ‘You’re more likely to give Sophie up for adoption than you are to hand Ming over to a rescue shelter,’ Jo elaborated through a mouthful of naan bread. ‘Debbie Walsh turn her back on a homeless cat? I don’t think so. Not in a million years.’ She gave a derisory snort.

Debbie took a moment to compose herself. ‘First of all,’ she began in a reasonable voice, ‘I am not a pushover when it comes to cats. Or when it comes to anything else, for that matter. And secondly,’ Debbie’s voice was getting louder as she struggled to be heard over Jo’s escalating laughter, ‘this isn’t just about me and what I want. I’ve got the welfare of the cats to consider and THEY COME FIRST!’ Debbie was practically shouting, and her face was a picture of hurt indignation. She sat back in her chair and took a slug of wine.

Jo, sensing she had hurt her friend’s feelings, backed down. ‘Of course they do, Debs,’ she said in a conciliatory voice. ‘I know that. I was only teasing.’

My eyes flicked between the two of them, unsure whether I should feel reassured or alarmed by their exchange. Debbie’s reaction had suggested that, like me, she saw Ming’s arrival as an unwelcome imposition; but Jo was right about Debbie’s proclivity towards taking in homeless cats. It was, after all, this very instinct that had led to her taking me in. And later, of course, she had done the same for my kittens. And for Jasper. I exhaled slowly through my nose. Perhaps Jo had a point: history showed that, when it came to cats in need of a home, Debbie found it difficult to say no. It had never occurred to me previously to consider this a shortcoming in her, but then I had never before found myself facing the prospect of living with an aloof Siamese.

Debbie and Jo continued to eat in silence for a few minutes, in unspoken agreement that they should let the subject of Ming drop.

Eventually Debbie put down her fork and said warmly, ‘Speaking of pets, how’s Bernard?’ Bernard was Jo’s dog, an ageing, arthritic black Labrador who spent his days snoozing by her feet in the shop.

Jo looked wistful and her eyes began to redden. ‘Oh, he’s hanging on in there,’ she replied, trying to muster a smile. ‘We’ve been back to the vet again this week. His hips are really playing up, and he’s got a couple of worrying growths. They’re going to do tests.’

Jo’s eyes had turned glassy, and Debbie leant closer. ‘Oh, Jo,’ she said, giving her friend’s arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘He’ll be okay.’

‘I hope so,’ Jo answered shakily.

Some time later, when Jo had gone home and Debbie had trudged upstairs to bed, the swoosh of the cat flap jerked me out of a doze. I looked drowsily across to see Jasper on the doormat, silhouetted in the semi-darkness. Still smarting from our encounter in the churchyard, I watched through half-open eyes as he moved stealthily across the room and jumped noiselessly up onto a table next to the cat tree. For several moments he stared at Ming’s motionless, sleeping form on the platform. Then, perhaps sensing my gaze, he turned and glanced towards the window. I closed my eyes to feign sleep and, when I looked again, Jasper was grooming himself on the flagstones in front of the stove. I continued to watch him until he had completed his wash and I was quite certain he had gone to sleep.