Molly And The Cat Cafe

21

Debbie was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She and Jo had shared a bottle of wine with their takeaway meal and judging by Debbie’s puffy eyes and pallid skin this morning, they had opened a second bottle. I was hungry but, seeing her fragile state, decided to wait until Debbie had a cup of tea in her hand before mewing for my breakfast. She pulled the fridge door open and peered inside, letting out a loud groan.

‘Soph! Did you finish the milk last night?’ she called huskily.

‘Might’ve,’ Sophie replied vaguely from inside the bathroom. ‘I had a bowl of cereal at bedtime.’

Debbie closed the fridge and pressed her forehead against the door with a pained expression. ‘There’s no milk left and I have a half-made cup of tea in front of me. Could you please pop out and get a pint?’

‘What?’ Sophie yelled over the sound of running water.

‘I said’ – Debbie was shouting now – ‘since you finished the milk, could you please go and buy some more?’ She winced in pain at the sound of her own voice.

The water pipes fell silent as Sophie turned off the taps. Debbie emptied her mug of half-made tea into the sink and rubbed her face, catching sight of me at last as I sat patiently in the doorway. ‘All right, Molly, I know. You want feeding, don’t you?’

I stood next to my dish while she squeezed out a cat-food pouch, starting to gag when some of the meaty liquid dribbled over her fingers. ‘Urgh, I feel sick,’ she moaned, rinsing her hand under the kitchen tap, as I tucked happily into my breakfast.

While I was eating, Sophie appeared in the doorway. She had pulled jeans and a hoodie over her pyjamas and was clumsily stuffing bare feet into a pair of trainers.

‘Thanks, love,’ Debbie said, handing her some money.

Sophie grunted and ran downstairs. I followed her out, slipping through the café door behind her.

I rarely ventured further than the alleyway and churchyard on my excursions out of the café, but early on a Sunday morning was a good time to roam further afield. The air smelt sweet and clean, untainted by the fumes of passing traffic, and the narrow streets were peaceful, devoid of shoppers and tourists. Sophie turned left, heading for the market square, but I set off in the other direction. I meandered along the quiet cobbled streets, pausing to watch as a group of Lycra-clad cyclists sped past. In the brilliant sunshine of early spring it was difficult to imagine that vicious alley-cats lurked in hidden passageways, and yet I made sure to give a wide berth to every alley I passed.

As I made my way back along the cobbles towards the cafe I saw a figure standing in front of the bay window. She had one hand pressed against the glass, shading her eyes from the bright reflection as she peered inside. Dropping to my haunches, I crept closer, my hackles rising as soon as I noticed the familiar shopping trolley by her side. When I was a couple of feet away, the old woman noticed my movement at the edge of her vision and spun round to face me. Sensing hostility and alert to possible danger, I stopped mid-step, one paw hovering off the ground, tail twitching as she glared at me across the cobbles.

Without saying a word, the old woman grabbed her shopping trolley and thrust it forward with both hands. Its wheels scraped on the ground as it lunged towards me. I darted effortlessly out of its path and watched the trolley wobble, before falling sideways, landing on the street with a thud.

‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’

The woman and I both turned in the direction of the voice. Sophie was walking up the street, a pint of milk in one hand. Her hood was pulled up, but I could make out her angry expression underneath. In my confusion I assumed that her words were addressed to me, but to my surprise the old lady answered. ‘I’m . . . I’m not doing anything – it . . . it slipped,’ she stuttered defensively.

Sophie strode towards her with a look of incipient fury and the old woman began to shuffle backwards. The alarming thought crossed my mind that I was about to witness a physical assault. When Sophie reached the upturned shopping trolley, however, she stopped. I instinctively stepped behind her ankles for protection. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time than try to hurt people’s pets?’ Sophie demanded.

‘It just fell over. I didn’t mean to . . . ’ the woman muttered, unconvincingly.

Sophie lifted up the shopping trolley by its handle, standing it upright in front of its owner. ‘Well, it’s not fallen over any more, is it? So you can go now.’

The woman mumbled something indistinct that might have been an apology. Without looking at Sophie, she grabbed her trolley by the handle and turned to leave.

‘Nosy old witch,’ Sophie muttered as we watched her scurry away down the street. To my surprise, she then bent down and stroked me. ‘Don’t worry about her, Molly. She can’t hurt you.’

The whole incident left me baffled and unsettled. I had become accustomed to the way the old woman scowled at me through the window, but it had never crossed my mind that she might want to hurt me. Bad-tempered but harmless was what I had considered her, but Sophie’s reaction made me wonder if I had underestimated her. My disquiet about the old woman was offset, however, by the turnaround in Sophie’s attitude towards me. After so many weeks of antagonism, to feel protected by Sophie was a joyous relief. I purred as she stroked me, arching my back and rising onto my tiptoes at the touch of her hand.

I stayed close to Sophie’s ankles as she pushed the café door open.

‘Got the milk, Mum,’ she shouted, and Debbie came downstairs, dressed in her decorating overalls with her hair tied back. Full of gratitude, she took the milk and disappeared into the café kitchen, while Sophie loped upstairs to the flat.

I jumped up onto the café windowsill to wash and think. Why had Sophie not mentioned the incident outside to Debbie? And why had the old lady tried to mow me down with her trolley in the first place? I recalled the time I had seen her accost Sophie outside the shop, and the look of angry indignation on Sophie’s face afterwards. She hadn’t told Debbie about that, either. I began to wonder if there was more going on with the old woman than I had realized and if, unwittingly, it involved me.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the café door opening. It was Jo, carrying two large paint tins. ‘Four litres of Molly’s Blushes!’ she announced. ‘Just the thing for a hangover, eh, Debs?’

Clutching her mug of tea at last, Debbie turned on the radio and soon she and Jo were happily rolling paint onto the walls, transforming them from dirty white to warm pink. I prowled around the café while they worked, playing with some crinkly cellophane wrapping that I found in the fireplace.

After a while I began to feel light-headed. I had been fighting a nagging queasiness all morning, which I attributed to the paint fumes. I sat down at the bottom of the stairs, trying to master my discomfort, when two things happened at once: Sophie ran down the stairs behind me, and Jo dropped the lid from a tin of paint, sending it clattering to the floor. Panicked, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. I bolted towards the café door but, in my nauseous state, it was not until I reached the doorstep that I noticed that it was shut. I turned on my heels and made for the windowsill. It was as I leapt up onto it that I heard Debbie shout, ‘No, Molly – stop!’

Only then did I become aware of the sensation of wetness underneath my paws. I sat down on the windowsill and lifted up my front pad. I could smell a strong chemical odour, and saw that my paw was dripping with pink paint. A quick check confirmed that my other paws were similarly affected. I looked across the café, noticing for the first time the plastic paint-tray that Debbie had placed on the floor near the stairs. In my panic I had run straight through it, leaving a trail of pink paw prints behind me on the flagstones.

‘Oh, Molly!’ Debbie sighed, her voice a mixture of irritation and concern.

I looked at her sheepishly.

Jo started laughing, a nasal snigger that she tried to stifle, but which soon turned into a throaty cackle. ‘So much for Molly’s Blushes.’ She said. ‘Molly’s Footprints would be more accurate.’ Sophie, who had watched the scene unfold from the bottom of the stairs, started to giggle too.

Seeing the reaction of the other two, Debbie couldn’t help but smile. I lifted one my paws to start licking off the paint. ‘Oh, don’t let her lick them!’ Debbie cried.

Sophie sprang across the café and sat down next to me in the window, trying to distract me from the urge to clean my dirty paws. Meanwhile Debbie ran into the kitchen, emerging with a damp cloth.

‘Hold her still, will you, Soph?’

Sophie gripped me gently by the shoulders, while Debbie lifted each paw in turn to wipe the paint from them.

‘You know what, Deb – I reckon you should keep them,’ said Jo, looking at the trail of pink paw prints. ‘They actually look pretty cool. They can be a design feature.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Debbie laughed.

‘She’s right, Mum,’ Sophie agreed. ‘Keep them. They’re funny.’

Debbie had finished wiping my feet and looked at the pink trail that criss-crossed the floor. ‘Seriously?’ she repeated, as if she suspected they were both in on the same joke.

‘Why not?’ Jo replied. ‘You wanted to stand out from the crowd, didn’t you? I bet there aren’t any other cafés in Stourton with their very own paw-print trail.’

Debbie looked unconvinced, and stood up to take the cloth back to the kitchen.

The smell of paint on my paws had intensified my queasiness. I jumped down from the window and picked a careful route across the café, avoiding the trail of damp prints. Desperate for some fresh air, I stood at the door hoping to catch somebody’s attention. ‘Would you like to go out, Molly?’ Sophie asked, her voice sounding uncannily like her mother’s. I chirruped gratefully as she pulled the café door open for me.

I stepped out onto the doorstep and took a few deep breaths of spring air, allowing the sun’s rays to warm my face. I sat for a while on the pavement outside the café, waiting for the queasiness to pass, before heading to the alley behind the café. It was silent but for the cooing of pigeons in the eaves and the chattering crows building their nests in the churchyard treetops. Although it still held painful memories for me, I felt a feeling of peace and well-being as I contemplated the empty alley. It was impossible not to think about the tomcat as I stood in the place that had been our shared home; but, rather than the usual sadness and guilt, I felt the glimmering of something positive inside. Maybe it was an acceptance that he had gone, or perhaps it was just an acknowledgement that, finally, life seemed to be settling down, after months of upheaval.

I crept over to my old hiding place under the fire escape, curious to see if it had changed since I had last used it, in the depths of winter. There were cobwebs draped across the paint tins and a few woodlice scurrying across the cardboard under my feet, but other than that it hadn’t changed at all. I lay down under the iron steps, immediately feeling the familiar way in which the cardboard underfoot snugly accommodated my body. Curled up in the shelter that had been my home, I felt comforted, as if somehow the tomcat was there with me. I wrapped my paws in front of my face and went to sleep.

The café remained closed for several days for refurbishment. Once the walls were finished, Debbie attacked the woodwork, sanding and smoothing, before repainting the sills and window frames with white gloss paint. Midweek, a large van pulled up outside to deliver the new serving counter. The installation was a noisy process, which I was happy to avoid, staying in the flat for the duration of the drilling and banging. Only when everything had gone quiet in the café and the van had driven away did I pad downstairs to investigate.

When Debbie saw me on the bottom step she smiled. ‘Aha, here she is!’

I lifted my tail in greeting and walked over to her. She and Sophie were behind the new counter, stacking napkins and cutlery in drawers. It was much less cumbersome than the one it had replaced, with a solid wooden top and whitewashed panelling on the front. Every now and then Debbie stroked its knotted surface approvingly.

I moved across the floor, taking in the other alterations to the café. The room that had once been a study in grey was now vibrant with colour. Debbie had placed gingham cushions on the seats and candy-striped oilcloths on the tabletops. Pictures framed in driftwood and heart-shaped wreaths of rosebuds were hanging on the pink walls. A jug of tulips stood on the mantelpiece over the stove, alongside a blackboard upon which Debbie had neatly chalked the menu. The café was inviting and homely, almost unrecognizable from its previous drab incarnation. I felt irrationally proud of the trail of pink paw prints that weaved across the floor as if they represented my own contribution to the makeover.

Padding from the counter towards the window, I was momentarily alarmed when I noticed that my shoebox had gone from the sill. As if reading my mind, Debbie said, ‘Don’t worry, Molly, I haven’t thrown it away – it’s here, look.’ She pointed to a nook inside the fireplace, a low stone shelf in the side-wall next to the stove, where my shoebox had been tucked. ‘I thought it might look better somewhere less prominent,’ Debbie explained, apologetically. ‘I’ve put a cushion for you on the windowsill instead.’

I jumped up and stepped onto the pink gingham cushion, turning in circles to feel its texture and firmness. Debbie smiled as she watched me from behind the counter, with Sophie on a stool beside her, folding menu cards. The cushion felt good, and I started to knead it appreciatively with my front paws.

‘Glad you like the cushion, Molls. Now check this out . . .’ Debbie took one of the menus from Sophie’s neat pile. ‘We’ve got a new name too. Molly’s Café. It was Sophie’s idea, wasn’t it, Soph?’

I looked up. Debbie was walking towards me, beaming as she held the menu in front of me.

‘Well, it makes sense. She acts like she’s the boss already,’ Sophie said drily from behind the counter.

I felt quite overcome by emotion. I didn’t know whether I was more touched by the fact that Debbie had named the café after me or that it was Sophie who had suggested it. I did know, however, that I loved the name as much as I loved the new café, and that it was now, without a doubt, my home.