Molly And The Cat Cafe

35

It was stiflingly close inside the trolley, and pitch black, but for a chink of daylight through a gap in the zip. The sharp corner of a piece of packaging dug into my flesh, and I twisted onto all fours to absorb the impact as the trolley’s wheels bounced along the ground beneath me. There was a strong stench of mackerel emanating from the plastic bag under my paws which, combined with the airlessness and rocking motion of the trolley, made me feel nauseous. I slowed my breathing in an effort to fight the growing queasiness in my belly: I didn’t know what the old lady had planned for me, but I suspected that vomiting over her shopping would not help my cause.

Desperate for fresh air, I began to tug at the zip above me until it snagged on my claw and I was able to work it slowly back along its track. As soon as the gap was large enough, I poked my head through and saw the lady’s knuckles gripping the trolley handle just a few inches from my nose. My relief at breathing fresh air was short-lived, however, as I scanned my surroundings, wondering where she was taking me. There were walls on both sides, and the woman’s back blocked my view ahead.

I stood up on my hind legs and extended my neck as far as I could, trying to see around her body. Something moved at the edge of my vision and I twisted my head, to see the tortoiseshell cat staring back at me. The quizzical semi-recognition I had seen in her eyes on my first journey through the alley had been replaced by a look of bafflement. I blinked at her for the second time that morning, well aware of how bizarre I must look, with my disembodied head protruding from an old woman’s trolley. The tortoiseshell’s tail twitched and she watched in amused silence as I was wheeled past.

As we neared the end of the alley I dropped back down beneath the zip, not wanting to draw attention to myself from passers-by. I could hear the noise of the market square around me, the slam of car doors and the shuffle of feet on the pavement, and before long I felt the uneven bump of cobbles underneath the trolley’s wheels. We stopped, then I heard a bell tinkle as a door opened, followed by a lurching sensation as the trolley was pulled inside.

Relief washed over me as I recognized the familiar sounds of the café around me: the hum of conversation and clink of teacups, and scratching sounds as one of the kittens went to work on a nearby scratching post.

‘Excuse me,’ I heard the old woman say.

A moment’s silence, then Debbie’s voice, sounding surprised, ‘Oh. Can I help you?’

I could imagine Debbie’s shocked expression upon finding herself face-to-face with the woman who had done so much to hurt her.

‘I’ve got your cat,’ the woman mumbled.

‘I’m sorry?’ Debbie answered, and there was no mistaking the fear in her voice. I knew she would be thinking of her conversation with Jo, regretting that she hadn’t paid more heed to her friend’s warnings that the battle axe couldn’t be trusted.

‘She was on my doorstep, I think she might be injured,’ the old lady stammered.

When Debbie answered, she sounded angry and suspicious, ‘Molly? Are you sure? Well, where is she?’

Before she could answer, I popped my head through the gap in the zip. Debbie gasped and watched, speechless, as I wriggled out of the trolley and jumped onto the floor.

‘Molly!’ exclaimed Debbie, rushing towards me. I stood up to greet her, aware of the dumbfounded expression on the old woman’s face.

‘I – er . . . she was yowling. I thought she was hurt,’ she explained, bewildered by the sight of me in evident good health. I felt a glimmer of pity for the old lady. Although she was telling the truth, her faltering delivery made her sound guilty and unconvincing.

Debbie ignored her, however, as she knelt on the floor to check me all over. Reassured that I was unharmed, she turned to face the old woman. ‘Well, she seems to be all right now.’

‘I – er . . . I thought . . .’ The old woman was beginning to blush, aware that Debbie was scrutinizing her distrustfully. ‘Well, if she’s okay, I suppose I’ll be getting on.’ She began to fiddle with the zip on her trolley, unable to bear Debbie’s gaze any longer.

Debbie watched as the old lady busied herself with her trolley, her face turning a shade of red that almost matched the colour of her hair. I sensed that Debbie was beginning to feel sorry for the woman, whose mortification and discomfort were plain to see. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she offered, politely. The old lady looked startled and, although she opened her mouth to reply, no sound came out. ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’ Debbie suggested.

The woman closed her mouth and glanced down at her feet. ‘I don’t think . . . I’m not . . . ’

Debbie smiled, aware that her friendliness had caught the old woman off-guard, and allowing her time to reply.

‘Well, I suppose, since I’m here, a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt,’ the old woman said at last, casting a nervous look at Debbie, who smiled and grabbed a menu, before leading the woman across the café to a table near the fireplace.

As soon as she had sat down, the old lady was surrounded by the kittens, who were drawn across the café by the smell of mackerel drifting from her shopping trolley. They crawled underneath it and sniffed her shoes and skirt, while I loitered nearby, watching her reactions closely. At first she seemed alarmed by the kittens’ inquisitiveness, nervously trying to move her bag and trolley away from them as they scampered around her, but after a few moments she seemed to relax, accepting that their curiosity was playful rather than menacing.

Debbie brought a pot of tea across the café, and placed a Feline Fancy next to it on the table. The woman stared at the cake, which was decorated with a pink nose and whiskers, then looked up at Debbie in confusion. ‘It’s on the house,’ Debbie explained. ‘Thank you for bringing Molly home.’

The old lady’s face softened. ‘That’s very kind,’ she replied quietly, smiling at the cake. I padded towards her and, as she took her first sip of tea, pressed my body gently into the side of her leg. Instinctively, and without saying a word, she lowered her hand to stroke my back.

‘I can’t believe you gave her a Feline Fancy, Mum.’ Sophie sounded affronted by her mother’s willingness to forgive the old woman’s transgressions. John had come over and the three of them were eating dinner at the dining table. Sophie dropped her cutlery, to emphasize her indignation. ‘After everything she’s done to us! Did she even say sorry for any of it?’

Debbie sighed. ‘Well, she didn’t apologize as such, but we had a chat before she left, and she was very complimentary about the café. I got the feeling she really is sorry.’ She smiled hopefully at Sophie, whose face remained defiantly sceptical. ‘And besides,’ Debbie went on, ‘I think the old dear must have a screw loose somewhere – why else would she zip a perfectly healthy cat inside her shopping trolley and invent some story about her being half-dead?’

I was having a wash on the sofa, but I smiled inwardly, congratulating myself on my acting skills.

John had remained silent throughout Debbie’s account of the day’s drama but, at this, he started to chuckle softly.

‘What’s so funny?’ Debbie asked, sensing mockery in the air.

‘Nothing,’ he replied with a placatory smile. Now it was Debbie’s turn to put her cutlery down as she looked at John to explain. He took the hint. ‘It’s just that . . . has it occurred to you that she might have been telling the truth? That she really did find Molly lying in her garden, playing dead?’

‘Playing dead?’ Debbie snorted derisively. ‘I hardly think so, John. Why would Molly do that? You can see for yourself that she’s as fit as a fiddle.’

All three of them looked at me, but I carried on with my wash, feigning ignorance.

‘Well,’ John said, spreading his palms upwards in a ‘who knows’ gesture, ‘maybe it is just a coincidence. The old woman happened to find Molly in her garden, thought she was injured when in fact she wasn’t, and decided to bring her back to the café. It could be that simple. But I think you’re underestimating that cat, Debbie. I think she knows more than she’s letting on.’

I flicked a glance towards the table, and caught sight of John smiling at me. Blushing, I turned away and busied myself with grooming the base of my spine. John was right of course; I knew much more than I was letting on, and not just about what had happened that day with the battleaxe.

I knew how many challenges Debbie had faced since taking me in, both personally and professionally. I knew how she had been pushed to breaking point by the demands of a failing business and a struggling teenager, and yet still found room, in her home and her heart, for a stray cat and a litter of kittens. I knew there was a time when it had seemed that we might cost her her livelihood, yet she never once sought to blame us. She had held onto us when our very existence must have been a burden, and I had repaid her the only way I could: by comforting her when she was in despair, and by using every power at my disposal to make sure she found the happiness she deserved. Whether she underestimated what I had done for her was irrelevant. She was my owner, after all, and taking care of her was my job.