Molly And The Cat Cafe

Epilogue

It is Christmas morning. A full year has passed since my arrival in Stourton, and I am on the dining table watching Sophie and Debbie unwrap their presents on the living-room floor. There is a small stocking of cat treats under the tree, a gift to us all from Margery, but the kittens are more interested in shredding the discarded wrapping paper strewn across the floor. They are lithe young cats now; their limbs are long and muscular and their fluffy fur has been replaced by sleek pelts. But the excitement of Christmas has brought out their playful exuberance, reminding me fondly of their younger selves.

Debbie gets up to go into the kitchen, and Sophie leans against the sofa, engrossed in her new mobile phone, a gift from her mother. Sophie isn’t looking at me, but I blink at her anyway. I am fond of Sophie, and I know she is of me. She no longer exudes pent-up anger whenever I am around, and I can’t remember the last time she called me a fleabag, or complained about my hair on her clothes. Sometimes I even sleep on her bed.

Downstairs, the bell above the café door tinkles.

‘That you, John?’ Debbie calls, over the noise of the kitchen radio.

‘No, it’s Father Christmas,’ John replies.

‘Even better!’ Debbie laughs. ‘Come on up. I hope you’ve remembered the orange juice – I could murder a Buck’s Fizz right now!’

There is a pause. ‘You might just want to come down here first,’ John says.

Debbie steps into the hallway, perplexed. ‘Why – what is it? Please don’t tell me it’s the boiler again . . .’

‘No, it’s not the boiler. It’s just that there’s someone here who seems to want to come in.’

Alarm flickers across Debbie’s face. She takes off her apron and heads downstairs to the café. Intrigued, I jump off the dining table and follow her.

John is standing by the door in the empty café, loosening the scarf around his neck. I register the bag of wrapped gifts on the floor by his feet, and I am aware that he steps towards Debbie and kisses her. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I hear him say.

But I am not looking at them. I am looking at the window.

Perched precariously on the windowsill outside is a cat. He is looking over his shoulder at the street behind, his ears flicking in the wind. He looks nervous, twitchy, as if he is fighting the urge to run.

Sophie has come downstairs too, followed by the kittens, who want to know where everyone has gone. Now we are all standing in the café, looking at the cat on the windowsill. The cat turns back to face the café and his eye catches mine through the glass.

‘That cat looks just like Eddie!’ Sophie exclaims.

‘Indeed he does,’ Debbie agrees. I am not looking at her, but I know she is watching me, and I can hear the smile in her voice. I feel like I am frozen to the spot, dumbfounded.

‘Someone must have told him Molly’s Cat Café is the place to be,’ John jokes. ‘He’s a handsome chap, too. You’ve got room for another one, haven’t you, Debs?’

Debbie pauses, and I can feel her eyes on me. ‘What do you think, Molly, shall I let him in?’

Hearing her say my name rouses me from my daze. I turn and look at her, but my mind is blank. She laughs at me, but her laugh is not unkind. It’s a laugh that suggests she knows what’s going on, and that she understands. I watch as she opens the café door and leans out.

‘Come on, puss, in you come,’ she calls.

The tomcat looks at her and I see his tail twitch. I remember his words to me in the alley: I’m not really a ‘nice lady’ kind of cat. Surely this café full of strangers will be too daunting for his solitary nature? His tail twitches again and his green eyes turn back to me. It occurs to me that he is waiting for me to invite him in. I blink at him slowly, and immediately he jumps down onto the pavement. A moment later he is standing inside the doorway, his head held high in a show of confidence that must have taken more courage than he is letting on. The kittens rush over to him, fascinated and slightly in awe of this mysterious stranger.

‘Well, I guess that’s settled,’ Debbie laughs. ‘I suppose I’d better set another place at the table!’

I creep forward. My mind is buzzing with questions, but the kittens are crowding around the tomcat, all eager to be first in line for his attention. He patiently allows them to sniff him, but then his eyes look up to find mine and I can see they are smiling.

It is mid-afternoon, and the tomcat and I have left everyone eating turkey in the café, to head out into the empty streets of Stourton. We pad along the alleyway behind the café, down through the churchyard, and start to wander towards the square, our only witnesses the cawing crows on the chimney stacks. There is a chill in the air and, as the tomcat and I walk, we stick close to each other’s side, our footsteps naturally falling into a shared rhythm.

‘So, where have you been all this time?’ I ask, shyly. Glancing at the side of his face, I notice he’s gained a few scars since I last saw him.

‘Oh, just wandering,’ the tomcat replies, wrinkling his nose. ‘Life on the road isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ he says sagely.

‘I could have told you that,’ I joke.

‘And besides,’ he adds, ‘I missed the tuna mayonnaise.’

I stop walking, momentarily affronted, but then he catches my eye and I realize he is teasing me.

We turn the corner into the market square. The winter daylight is beginning to fade, low clouds scud across the sky and, above them, the pale crescent moon is already visible. All around us the square is decked out for Christmas. Colourful lights blink prettily in every window, and the tree in the middle of the square points vigorously upward, wreathed in white bulbs. Devoid of people and traffic, the square feels like it belongs to us, and us alone.

I wonder how it is possible for Stourton to look just as it did a year ago, as if nothing has changed. So much has changed for me in the last twelve months that I sometimes feel like a different cat from the one who arrived, rain-soaked and half-starved, after weeks in the open country. I feel sorry for the cat I was then, so desperate for someone to take pity on me and give me a home. And yet I am also proud of that cat. Pitiful she may have been, but were it not for her determination, I would not be here now.

The tomcat and I have made our way back to the cobbled street outside the café. The blinds are drawn, but I can see slivers of light around the edges of the window, and hear Debbie singing along to Christmas music inside. The tomcat is standing to one side on the doorstep, allowing me, chivalrously, to enter the café first. I nudge the door open and the warm atmosphere inside the café envelops us.

At a glance, I take in the crackling fire in the stove, our kittens dozing around the room, and the smiling faces of Debbie, Sophie and John as they read aloud jokes from their Christmas crackers. The tomcat stands beside me, gazing benignly at the scene before us, and I swell with pride to think of how much the café has changed since it became my home. But I also feel humble, because I know that the journey I have been on over the past year was not just about finding a home; it was about finding myself. I have been many different cats since losing Margery: a desperate stray, a self-sufficient alley-cat, a cherished pet, and a loving mother. I have been all of those cats, and they will always remain a part of me, because they have made me who I am.