Molly And The Cat Cafe

9

The sky had darkened ominously and heavy droplets of rain pounded my back, but I knew I had to keep walking. My first priority was to eat, and then to find shelter for the night. I lowered my head and followed the sound of the church bells, hoping they would lead me to the centre of town. As I plodded along the pavement a man ran out of a shop in front of me, shaking his umbrella open and spraying me with rainwater. Startled, I darted into a doorway and shook the loose water from my fur. When I peered out, I saw shoppers rushing along the street, their faces hidden by hoods and umbrellas.

I ducked back into the doorway, allowing myself a brief respite from the rain. Rivulets of water gushed along the kerbside gutter a few feet away from me, the drains overflowing in the downpour. The rain bounced relentlessly off the rooftops and dripped from shop awnings onto the pavement. It sounded hard and unforgiving, not like the soft pattering noise of rain falling on fields or hedgerows. My fur was soaked through and my paws were numb with cold, although I knew I had no choice but to carry on, in spite of my discomfort.

I slipped out of the doorway and, avoiding the rain-splashed kerb, ran as fast as I could to the end of the street. My head remained bowed as I followed the pavement round a bend, at which point I stopped, my ears twitching as they detected a change in my surroundings. The intense, echoing quality of the rain in the narrow street had gone and I sensed that the town had opened up in front of me. I could hear human voices on all sides, car engines and the clanking of metal in the distance. Feeling an urge to seek cover and get my bearings, I dashed between the wheels of a parked car and twisted my body rapidly from side to side, flicking the loose water from my fur. A shiver was starting to spread through my bones and my instincts were telling me to wash and sleep, but I knew it was too risky to settle down here. Exhausted though I was, my mind vividly recalled the look on Nancy’s face as she instructed me, ‘Never. Ever. Sleep underneath a parked car. Got it?’

Night was falling fast and I could not afford to linger. I peered out from under the car bonnet. Up ahead, buildings of honey-coloured stone faced onto a handsome market square, their mismatched rooftops silhouetted against the steel-grey sky. In the square, traders were packing away their market stalls, dismantling poles and loading unsold stock into their vans. The shops were closing for the night, but there were still a few people on the streets, grim-faced and laden with bags. After so long away from human habitation, I struggled to take in the scene before me. But it was not the noisiness of the square, or the bustling activity of the market traders, that made me catch my breath – it was the lights. Everywhere I looked there were bulbs strung between lamp posts, cables of fairy lights snaking through window displays, and illuminated stars twinkling in doorways. On the far side of the square, white bulbs were wreathed around a large fir tree. There was no mistaking the signs all around me: Christmas was coming.

As the shock of this realization sank in, I was reminded afresh of the life I had lost. When I had lived with Margery, Christmas had been my favourite time of year. The first sign of it was the appearance of Margery’s small artificial tree by the front-room window. I would sit on the windowsill next to its sparse, bare branches, waiting patiently while Margery rummaged in the understairs cupboard for the box of decorations. As soon as she placed it on the living-room floor I would jump down and dip my paw into the mound of baubles inside, delighting in the rattling sound they made as I tried to catch them with my claws.

Margery would remove ornaments from the box one by one and hang them carefully on the tree, while I lurked behind, waiting to bat them off the branches with my paw. Margery would chide me, ‘Tsk, Molly!’, but she smiled as she spoke and never made any attempt to stop me. Once the baubles were in place, she would pull a long string of tinsel from the box and I would pounce on it, wrestling with its rustling fronds until Margery tugged it out from underneath me, laughing. She would weave a string of coloured lights around the tree and place a sparkly star at the top, then would stand back to appraise her work. ‘There, Molly, what do you think?’ she would ask, and I would purr in approval.

I slid out from under the car now, feeling vulnerable and exposed as I began to skirt around the edge of the square. The market traders were oblivious to my presence as I slunk behind their vans. I glanced up at each shop I passed: their windows were full of antiques, cookware or walking boots and waxed jackets. A chalkboard on the pavement alerted me to the presence of a pub up ahead. Its door was open onto the street, inviting passers-by to take refuge from the chill and damp outside. I tiptoed into its wooden porch, glimpsing a cosy wooden-beamed bar and a roaring log fire inside. It was almost temptation beyond endurance, to see people warming their feet by the flames and not slip across the room to join them. But the aroma of damp dog hung in the air, and the ‘Dogs welcome’ sign on the door left me in no doubt that this was an establishment that favoured dogs over cats.

As I continued my circuit of the square, I passed a bookshop and an interior-design store with swathes of fabric draped across a chaise longue in the window. My stomach rumbled insistently, reminding me that I needed to find something to eat as a matter of urgency. I came across a bakery that proclaimed its ‘organic artisan breads’, but its shelves were empty and it was dark inside. By the time I reached the Olde Sweet Shoppe on the corner of the square I was downcast. The window displayed rows of glass jars, each full of sugary concoctions that held no appeal whatsoever for a cat in desperate need of a good meal.

By now the market traders had packed their vans and left, and the dark streets had begun to empty of pedestrians. I felt a growing sense of panic, wondering where I could go to find food. I ran across the square towards an entrance gate, through which I could see an imposing brick building set back amidst a well-kept garden. A smartly dressed couple hurried past me and made their way through the grounds towards the building’s floodlit entrance. I followed them, mindful to keep a discreet distance, and as they pushed open the heavy wooden door, the delicious aroma of cooked food drifted down the path towards me. I climbed a grassy bank and nestled under the branches of a yew tree, from where I could see into the restaurant inside.

I was transfixed by the luxurious scene on the other side of the glass. Diners sat at linen-covered tables, their faces lit by the glow from flickering candles. Some of them wore coloured paper crowns, the kind I remembered Margery wearing as she ate Christmas lunch. They looked pink-cheeked and in high spirits, refilling their glasses with growing frequency as their crowns slipped forward over their eyes. The sound of their laughter pierced the stillness outside, and I watched in fascination as waiters glided between the tables, placing plates of food in front of them with great ceremony. Women in heavy jewellery pushed food demurely around their plates, flicking glossy hair over their shoulders with an air of nonchalance.

Could there be a potential owner for me among this restaurant’s clientele? Surely some of them must be cat-lovers, I thought, but how was I to know which? I recalled the reaction of the woman I had followed at the farm shop: her face had shown undisguised revulsion when she had discovered me loitering near her car. Studying the perfectly groomed women in the restaurant, I felt sure they too would not welcome any overture of friendliness from a cat that looked the way I did.

The screech of an owl in the treetops above me brought an end to my musings. I did not have time to allow myself to dwell on my hardships. I needed to find something to eat.