Molly And The Cat Cafe

11

Unable to sleep, I shivered next to the skip in a feverish state, convinced I could see the amber eyes of the alley – cat glaring at me through the pallets, or hear his menacing yowl somewhere in the square. It was impossible to find a comfortable position and I experienced a searing hot pain whenever I moved my leg. Time passed agonizingly slowly as I hovered on the edge of consciousness until my mind eventually succumbed to exhaustion and I dropped into a blissful blackness.

I was woken with a start by a chorus of human voices singing nearby. I lifted my head and listened, my ears twitching at the familiar-sounding music. Margery had loved to listen to music like this on her radio at Christmas, singing along happily while she prepared our Christmas dinner.

The throbbing in my leg snapped me out of my reverie. I winced as I stretched my leg out to examine it, but was glad to see that the swelling had gone down and the puncture marks had begun to scab over. I washed the wound, then slowly stood up, using my front legs to support my weight while I cautiously straightened my hind legs underneath me. I was wobbly, but apart from some soreness around the bite mark and a residual ache in the leg, I felt okay. I arched my back in a stretch, relieved to feel that my mind was at one with my body once more.

Crawling out of the pile of crates, I squinted in the winter sun. The town square was almost unrecognizable from the rain-soaked scene of the previous night. The shops were open and busy with customers. The yellow stone walls of the buildings on all sides glowed warmly against the blue sky, and their windows sparkled as they reflected the bright morning sunlight. The Christmas carollers who had woken me were standing in a semicircle in the middle of the square, wearing heavy coats zipped up to their chins. They all smiled as they sang, and one of them rattled a bucket full of loose change at passers-by.

Careful not to put any weight on my injured leg, I made my way gingerly around the square. The alley-cat’s parting words – This alley’s taken – were playing on my mind. Hobbling slowly along the pavement, I noticed for the first time that there were alleyways all around the square, their entrances so narrow and inconspicuous that I hadn’t seen them the night before. Spotting the telltale gap between a sweet shop and the bakery, I tiptoed over and stood at the alley’s entrance. I sniffed the stone, but could not detect any traces of feline scent. In the morning sunshine, with the occasional shopper passing through, the alley did not look terrifying. If it wasn’t already taken by another cat, perhaps this was my chance to mark out a territory for myself.

I took a few steps along the alleyway and made use of a litter bin to jump up onto the top of the wall that ran alongside the path. My hackles rose instinctively when I saw the unmistakeable shape of a cat up ahead, basking in the sunshine on the flat roof of a shed. My tail flicked from side to side as I considered what to do next. I tiptoed closer. The cat was fast asleep, a neat crescent of tortoiseshell fur, with her tail tucked snugly around her body. Her eyes were shut tight and she had tilted her face up towards the sun, with her mouth curled into a smile. I stood on the wall, watching her fur rise and fall with her breath, envying her ability to feel relaxed enough to sleep out in the open.

The sound of dogs barking in the square brought her nap to an abrupt end. She jerked her head upright, ears flicking in response to the noise. Her eyes had opened, but the inner eyelids were still visible as she made the sudden shift from sleep to consciousness. She looked around and, noticing me on the wall, jumped to her feet and began to growl.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she hissed.

‘I’m Molly. Sorry – I didn’t mean to scare you.’ I replied in the calmest voice I could muster, though I was beginning to shake with fear.

The cat glared at me. She looked young, but there was no mistaking her threatening demeanour.

‘I’m new to the town,’ I continued, my tone placatory. ‘I’m just looking around. Getting to know the place.’

She eyed me suspiciously and I blinked slowly, then averted my gaze, the universal feline indicator of non-aggression.

‘You’re new round here?’ she repeated.

I nodded. ‘I’ve been walking for weeks, got here last night. I’m looking for somewhere to live, but I was attacked in an alley last night.’

I saw her eyes flash – I wasn’t sure whether with anger or concern.

‘You can’t just come and go as you please, you know. There are rules.’ She frowned as she looked me up and down. I sensed her confusion, and that she was unsure whether to regard me as a threat or take pity on me.

‘So is this . . . your alley?’ I enquired, glancing at her face, in the hope that she might say more to enlighten me.

‘Yes.’ Her eyes held mine for a moment, then she went on, ‘They’re all taken. The alley-cats have them marked out. Where did you say you were attacked?’

I described the alley behind the restaurant, and the ginger tom with amber eyes. She winced.

‘Hmm. I know the one you mean. Bad move. Really bad.’ She registered my look of dismay. ‘It’s probably best if you avoid the alleys, at least until you’ve settled in a bit,’ she explained in a conciliatory tone.

My head was spinning. It was starting to dawn on me that the town’s alleyways were a network of feline territories and that, in my naivety, I had stumbled into the domain of a notorious fighter. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for my bad luck or to berate my ignorance for not acting with more caution.

‘I’m hoping to find an owner, really. Someone who loves cats. A home.’ I could feel moisture welling up in my eyes.

The tortoiseshell cat looked at me pityingly. ‘You’ll have a job round here. The people in this town are all about their dogs, in case you haven’t noticed. Cats don’t get a look-in,’ she said ruefully.

As if on cue, a woman walking a dog entered the alley. The dog growled and lunged forwards, straining against his collar to reach us. The tortoiseshell cat jumped to her feet, hackles raised, and hissed at the dog as he passed in front of us.

‘Look, I’m sorry. Why don’t you try the churchyard? You should at least find shelter there. But you’ve got to leave now – I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’

She leapt from the shed roof up into the branches of a tree while I stayed on the shed roof, eyeballing the dog as he was dragged away down the alley. When he had gone I looked up into the tree, but the tortoiseshell cat had disappeared.

Feeling disconsolate, I made my way across the square in the direction of the church spire. I entered the churchyard through a wooden gate, savouring the peaceful atmosphere, which was in stark contrast to the bustle of the square. A pigeon cooed from the church roof as I settled down behind a row of headstones for a wash. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the tortoiseshell cat’s revelations. To be told that the alleyways were, in effect, no-go areas for me was disheartening; but, I reminded myself, it wasn’t an alley I wanted, it was a home, and an owner. More worrying was her dismissal of my chances of finding someone to take me in. If she was right, and people in Stourton cared only for dogs, I would have made a grave error in coming to this town at all.

My wash complete, I pushed through a row of conifers that bordered the churchyard and found myself in a short parade of shops along a cobbled street. There was a café at the far end of the row, with a rusty metal table and chairs standing outside its door. I padded along the cobbles to get a better look at the café. Paint was peeling from the frames of its curved bay window, and the solitary string of fairy lights draped inside did not do much to improve the café’s shabby appearance. The sign above the door read ‘Church Café’ and I was relieved to see a sticker in the window saying ‘Sorry: no dogs’. My impression of a rather down-at-heel establishment was confirmed when I peered through the glass door and saw a few rickety tables in front of an ugly serving counter.

I made my way round to the side of the café, and my heart sank to see that an alleyway ran behind it. The rear of the café and its adjoining shops presented a mismatched vista of windows, fire escapes and air vents. A large, square dustbin was pushed against the back wall of the café, only a few feet away from where I was standing. Its lid was damaged at one corner, revealing the polythene bags full of food waste underneath. I sniffed the air, detecting the unmistakeable aroma of tuna mayonnaise, and my stomach rumbled in response. Uncertain what to do, I twitched my tail. The dustbin was only a few paces away, but dare I risk a repeat of last night’s ambush by whichever cat ‘owned’ this alley? Still weakened from yesterday’s encounter, I would be in no state to defend myself.

A gust of wind wafted the scent of tuna in my direction and my mind was made up. Nancy had helped me to perfect my scavenging technique, so I knew it wouldn’t take long to do what was needed. I ran over to the bin and dropped to my haunches, crouching low to the ground. I felt my leg spasm in pain as I sprang upwards, but I made a perfect landing on top of the lid, feeling the bin’s contents give slightly under my weight. I balanced on the edge of the dustbin and batted at one of the bags until my claws caught and I could rip it open. There was a satisfying splattering sound as a mound of sandwich filling dropped onto the ground. I hopped down and greedily set about eating the pile of tuna mayonnaise. After my recent diet of mice and shrews, it tasted delicious. Savouring the feeling of having a full belly, I turned to leave the alley, and almost jumped out of my skin at finding myself face-to-face with a black-and-white tomcat.