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‘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 caf? door behind her.

I rarely ventured further than the alleyway and churchyard on my excursions out of the caf?, 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 caf? 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 caf? kitchen, while Sophie loped upstairs to the flat.

I jumped up onto the caf? 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 caf? door opening. It was Jo, carrying two large paint tins. ‘Four litres ofMolly’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 caf? 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 caf? 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 caf?, 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 forMolly’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 caf? 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 adesign 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 caf?s 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 caf?, 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 caf? 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 caf?, waiting for the queasiness to pass, before heading to the alley behind the caf?. 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 wellbeing 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 caf? 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 installationwas 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 caf? 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 caf?. 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 caf? 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 Caf?. 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 caf? 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 caf?, and that it was now, without a doubt, my home.

22 [Êàðòèíêà: i_003.jpg]

Molly’s Caf? opened for business the following day. I could sense Debbie’s nerves as she turned the door sign to ‘Open’, then stood behind the counter, watching anxiously as people walked passed the window. It was a Thursday, which was market day in Stourton, and the streets were busy, yet the caf? remained empty, overlooked by the passers-by intent on visiting the market. I sat on my cushion in the window, willing for it to rain so that people would be driven indoors, but the sky stayed stubbornly blue.

At lunchtime the bell over the door tinkled at last, and a couple with a small child walked in. The little girl immediately set off to follow the pink paw prints on the floor, tottering excitedly to the end of the trail, where she found me sitting majestically on my cushion.‘Cat!’ she exclaimed, pointing at me and clapping her hands, to her parents’ indulgent laughter.

Debbie brought a high chair out of the kitchen, and the family ate lunch at the table in the window while I washed on my cushion next to them. Debbie cast nervous glances in our direction when the little girl staggered towards me and grabbed a handful of my fur, but I merely twitched my tail while her mother gently loosened her grip.

‘Can I tempt any of you with a pudding?’ Debbie offered as she cleared away their plates, gesturing to the selection of cakes and pastries on the serving counter. She beamed as the family ordered two chocolate brownies and an ice cream.

The sight of customers at the front table seemed to have an encouraging effect on passers-by, drawing them to the window to read the menu and peer inside. By mid-afternoon the market had started to wind down and there was a steady trickle through the door of weary shoppers, longing for a restorative slice of cake after the exertion of market-shopping. They spoke in hushed voices, but I could detect appreciative murmurings as they admired the caf?’s decor and perused the new menu. Relieved of their heavy bags, they soon began to relax in the calm surroundings of the caf?, soothed by my purring presence as I weaved between the tables. By late afternoon I was feeling sleepy and soon dozed off in the window, to the pleasant background humof small talk and laughter.

Jo came around after work the following day, bringing the usual Friday night takeaway.‘Ilove what you’ve done with the place, Debs!’ she said sincerely. ‘And I particularly love the colour on the walls.So much nicer than those drab greys you were considering.’

‘Yes, you were right, Jo – you can stop going on about it now,’ Debbie replied, emptying the dishwasher for the second time that evening.

Jo dished the food onto plates while Debbie finished up in the kitchen.

‘So, how’s it going? Has the redesign paid off?’ Jo asked, as soon as they had tucked into their meal.

‘So far, so good. We had twelve covers at lunch today, and then eight more for tea,’ Debbie announced proudly.

‘This is a turning point for you, Debs – I can feel it,’ Jo replied.

‘I really hope you’re right, Jo. I can’t afford for it to fail. I’m in debt up to here,’ Debbie held her hand up to her chin, ‘and I’ve yet to replace the boiler.’

Jo nodded slowly, glancing sidelong at Debbie as she took a sip of wine.‘So, has John been in to see the new look?’ she asked casually.

Debbie bristled.‘No, why would he?’

‘I just thought he might have popped in to, you know, sample the wares.’ Debbie shot her a look. ‘I mean the food, obviously!’ Jo laughed.

‘Well, he did text me earlier in the week,’ Debbie admitted.

Jo looked at her shrewdly.‘Go on.’

‘He said something about going for a drink, but I was too busy to reply and then it kind of slipped my mind.’ Debbie’s tone was offhand.

Jo stared at her.‘It slipped your mind?’ she repeated incredulously.

‘Oh, Jo, don’t be like that. He probably just wanted to nag me about the boiler.’

‘Of course,’ Jo agreed sarcastically. ‘I’m sure he asks all his customers for a drink, just to remind them to replace their boilers.’

Debbie rolled her eyes.‘Please, Jo, just leave it, would you?’

There was an awkward pause between them while Jo sipped her wine and Debbie played with the food on her plate. Jo finally broke the silence.‘Well, all I’m saying is that he’s a nice bloke, and there’s a lot to be said for that. Plus, he’s not a member of the Lawn Bowls Society, and there’s a lot to be said for that too.’ Jo drew her finger and thumb across her lips to indicate that she would say no more on the matter, then went to the kitchen to find another bottle of wine.

When she returned to the table, Debbie sighed and put her fork down on her plate.‘You’re right, Jo, he does seem like a very nice bloke. But I’ve been there before, haven’t I? My ex seemed like a nice bloke, and look how that ended up.’

Jo conceded that Debbie had a point.‘But how can you know, unless you give him a chance?’ she asked softly.

‘I can’t risk any more disruption for Sophie,’ Debbie answered firmly, her eyes starting to well up. ‘For the first time in – I don’t know how long – she’s actually talking to me rather than shouting at me. She needs some stability in her life right now, and if that means me puttingmy love life on hold, then so be it.’

I pondered Debbie’s words later that evening as I settled down on her bed for the night. Her discomfort, when asked about John, had been obvious, and she could not change the subject fast enough. Like Jo, I was baffled by Debbie’s dismissal of his interest, and by her apparent unwillingness to give him a chance.

Perhaps Debbie was right that introducing John into the family dynamic might upset Sophie. I had also noticed the change in Sophie’s attitude of late, and it wasn’t just in the way she treated me. She seemed calmer, more settled and less angry. She was making more of an effort to confine her mess to her bedroom; I no longer had to pick my way through the debris of her school books and discarded shoes to find space on the sofa for a nap. I also couldn’t remember the last time I had been woken by a door slamming, or been called a ‘mangy fleabag’, and she and Debbie hadn’t argued for weeks. Whatever accounted for the change in Sophie’s attitude, I shared Debbie’s relief and, like her, I hoped it would last.If Debbie thought that going out for a drink with John might jeopardize the new equilibrium, then I felt duty-bound to believe her.

With the arrival of spring, Stourton started to come to life. Tourists and day-trippers milled around the streets, looking for ways to spend their money in the picturesque country town. Market day was always busy in the caf?, but even on non-market days a continuous stream of customers came through the door from about eleven in the morning. After a week of begging Sophie to help out after school and at weekends, Debbie finally admitted that she was going to have to take on some help, and a young waitress was hired.

The increased custom left Debbie exhausted, and had a tiring effect on me as well. I found I was napping for increasingly long periods, either on my cushion in the window or, on particularly warm days when the windowsill overheated, inside my shoebox in the fireplace. When I needed to stretch my legs I would prowl around the caf?, slipping between chair legs on the lookout for stray tuna flakes or cake crumbs.

Customers often asked Debbie about me, and she relished telling the story of how she had found me in the alley and decided to name the caf? after me. ‘Don’t let her fool you into thinking she’s hungry, though,’ Debbie warned them, wagging a finger at me as I eyed their sandwiches or clotted-cream-covered scones. ‘She’s getting a bit greedy, this one. It’ll be time for a diet soon!’ The diners laughed as I flicked my tail, before padding haughtily back to my cushion.

One Saturday night Sophie and Debbie were chatting in the caf? after closing time. I had been lying in the shoebox trying to sleep, but my back felt stiff and I could not settle. Thinking that stretching my legs might help, I jumped down and set off on a circuit around the caf?, idly looking for crumbs under the tables. Sophie had sat down at the serving counter, chatting through the kitchen doorway to Debbie. I noticed Sophie watching me as I made my way awkwardly between the tables.

‘Mum, the cat’s walking a bit funny,’ she said, a note of concern in her voice.

‘What do you mean, she’s walking funny?’ Debbie called back. She poked her head through the door and glanced at me, with soapy rubber gloves on her hands. ‘She looks fine to me, Soph,’ she said, before returning to the sink. The stiffness in my back was becoming more pronounced, compounded by a dull ache that, no matter how I stretched, I couldn’t shift.

I made my way over to the window and, with more effort than normal, jumped up onto the cushion. I started to wash, beginning with a gentle wipe of my face and paws, but when I turned my head to lick my shoulder blades I was seized by a sudden sharp pain in my abdomen. I let out an involuntarily yelp, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Sophie lift her head to look at me. The sudden pain was followed by a pressure in my belly, and no matter how I twisted on the cushion, I could not find a position that relieved it. I flopped onto my side and slowed my breathing to try and ease my discomfort.

Sophie stood up from her stool and began to walk towards me.‘Molly, are you okay?’ she asked nervously.

There was a tightening sensation in my belly and, though I was touched by Sophie’s concern, I couldn’t summon the faculties to respond to her. The pressure in my abdomen was intensifying, and I felt like I was about to burst. Just as Sophie reached the windowsill, the pressure became so overwhelming that I had no choice but to give in to my urge to push.

I heard Sophie scream.‘Mum!’ she shouted. ‘Come here,quick! Molly’s just … exploded!’

Debbie rushed into the caf? from the kitchen, still wearing her yellow rubber gloves. She ran to the windowsill and looked down at me. ‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed, her face aghast. ‘She hasn’t exploded, Sophie, she’s giving birth!’

23 [Êàðòèíêà: i_004.jpg]

I lay on my side with my eyes closed, my head spinning. I could feel a dampness spreading across the cushion underneath me, but all I cared about was that the intense pressure in my abdomen had eased. I half-opened my eyes and saw Debbie and Sophie staring at me with identical shocked expressions on their faces.

Sophie clapped her hand over her mouth.‘Urgh, I think I’m going to be sick. That’s disgusting,’ she said.

Debbie turned to her sharply.‘It’s not disgusting, Sophie – it’s childbirth, and it’s the most beautiful thing that can happen to a woman.’

Sophie stared back at her, open-mouthed.‘Mum, Molly’s not a woman, she’s a cat!’

Debbie frowned as she started to peel the rubber gloves off her hands.‘Of course she’s a cat, Soph. Now stop gawping and get a towel, please.’

Sophie ran into the kitchen and I could hear her rummaging inside a cupboard.

Meanwhile Debbie knelt down on the floor next to the windowsill and stroked me on the head.‘You saucy minx, Molly. How did you find time for that, eh?’ she chided me softly.

I started to purr. The initial shock of what had happened was passing and, for now at least, I wasn’t in pain. I lifted my head from the cushion and turned to look at the tiny ball of damp fur – my kitten – that was nestling between my hind legs. It was squirming helplessly, so I propped myself up on my forelegs and began to give it a thorough, invigorating wash.

Sophie ran across the caf? and handed a towel to Debbie. They both watched in silence as I cleaned the kitten from head to tail. Sophie made a gagging sound as I chewed through the cord that still connected the kitten to my body, but Debbie elbowed her firmly in the ribs and told her to ‘Shh!’

When I felt the pressure start to build in my abdomen again, I flopped back onto the cushion, knowing there was nothing I could do to fight the pain that would soon follow. While I waited for the urge to push to seize me, Debbie carefully took the first kitten and wrapped it in the towel, giving it a gentle rub all over and checking inside its mouth, before placing it close to my body.

‘A tabby, Molls, just like you,’ she whispered. Debbie and Sophie were kneeling on the floor next to the windowsill, their faces an equal mix of worry and excitement. I purred at them and Debbie reached out a hand and stroked my head. ‘Keep it up, Molly, you’re doing brilliantly,’ she encouraged. I started to mew as the tightening sensation in my belly started to spread. I felt as if I was being gripped from the inside, and my limbs became rigid. ‘Push the pain away, Molly – that’s what the midwife told me,’ Debbie said. And so I did.

As with the first kitten, the pain stopped the moment the second one arrived. I allowed myself a few breaths before tending to it, cleaning it quickly and efficiently. Although I knew there were more to come, my body seemed to be allowing me a temporary reprieve, and I was able to lie down and recover while my two kittens burrowed deep into my fur to feed.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Sophie asked, looking suddenly drained.

Debbie agreed that tea was an excellent idea. While Sophie was in the kitchen, Debbie pulled two chairs up to the windowsill and lowered the blind in the window. The dusk had turned to darkness outside and the caf? interior was visible from the street. ‘There you go, Molly,’ she said softly. ‘A little privacy might help.’

Sophie returned with two mugs of tea and they sat down on their chairs to wait.

‘It brings it all back, you know,’ Debbie said wistfully.

Sophie grimaced in a way that implied she’d heard it all before. ‘At least you only had to push one out, Mum. Who knows how many Molly’s got in there!’

Debbie laughed.‘That’s true, Soph. Although you were so slow to come out – I probably could have delivered a whole litter in the time you took.’

Sophie winced.‘Urgh, Mum, please can we stop talking about this?’

‘Okay,’ Debbie said, taking a sip of her tea. ‘Nineteen hours, that’s all I’m saying. Nineteen hours. Of pain.’ She smiled into her tea as Sophie rolled her eyes.

‘Oh, all right, Mum. I didn’t do it on purpose, you know.’ Sophie was beginning to look riled. ‘And besides, didn’t you just say childbirth was the greatest thing that could happen to a woman?’

‘I know, love, I’m only teasing,’ Debbie laughed, placing a hand on her daughter’s knee. ‘And yes, it was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.You were the greatest thing that ever happened to me. You still are.’

Without taking her eyes off me, Debbie took Sophie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Sophie pulled a face, but they stayed that way, hand-in-hand, watching as I lay listlessly on the cushion. Before long I began to twist and squirm in pain once more.

‘Oh, here we go,’ Debbie said excitedly, putting her mug on the table and leaning forward in her chair. The third kitten emerged swiftly. I washed it and then Debbie rubbed it briskly with a towel and checked it over. ‘We’re like a well-oiled machine now, aren’t we, girls?’ Debbie joked, as she placed number three next to its siblings. There was no time to linger, however, as I was seized almost immediately by the urge to push again, and soon kitten number four had arrived. ‘Look at that,’ Debbie said, when all four were lying in a row, suckling happily. ‘Four matching tabbies. How are we going to tell them apart, Molls?’

I wanted to purr, but could not muster the energy. Delivering the last two in such quick succession had left me exhausted, as if all the strength had been sucked from me. I could feel tiredness like I had never known creeping over me, so I lowered my head onto the cushion and closed my eyes.

‘I think she’s gone to sleep, Mum. Do you think that’s all of them?’ Sophie whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ Debbie replied. I felt her hand lightly press my abdomen. ‘Oh, hang on,’ and she pressed more firmly. ‘Sorry, girls, it’s not time for sleep yet. There’s another one in there!’

I knew that Debbie was right, but the tiredness was so overwhelming that I was powerless to fight it. When I felt the familiar tightening in my belly I had no strength to respond.

‘Come on, girl – you know the drill. Push the pain away,’ Debbie urged, but I was too weak to lift my head, let alone push another kitten out.

I let out a long yowl of pain as a searing sensation pierced me from the inside. My body convulsed with an agony that seemed to fill my entire being, from my nose to the tip of my tail. I felt like I was being consumed from within and could do nothing except succumb helplessly. I collapsed, breathless, my head lolling over the cushion’s edge.

‘Mum, what’s wrong, why is she just lying there?’ I heard Sophie ask nervously.

‘Come on, girl, you’re nearly there.’ Debbie was rubbing my cheek in an effort to wake me up.

‘She’s gone to sleep, look!’ Sophie lifted one of my eyelids, but my eye had rolled up into my head as I began to drift out of consciousness. ‘How will we get the kitten out, if she won’t push?’

I didn’t hear Debbie’s response. Everything fell silent as I gratefully sank into a blissful blackness. I don’t know how long I remained that way, but the next thing I knew I was jolted awake by a searing pain. Debbie was on the floor by the windowsill, her face close to mine.

‘Come on, Molly, you can do it!’ Her voice was loud and commanding.

Pain pulled and tugged at every fibre of my being, and I wanted nothing more than to fall back into the delicious darkness of sleep. But Debbie seemed determined not to let me, rubbing me between the ears every time I closed my eyes. Buoyed up by her dedication, I summoned the energy for one final push. In my exhausted state it took longer than before, and I was aware of Debbie and Sophie holding their breath as I bore down one last time.

They both gasped as my fifth kitten emerged. I collapsed back onto the cushion and panted for a few moments, ecstatic relief mixed with exhaustion flooding through me. I was too weak to prop myself up, so Debbie tended to the kitten, then held it in front of my face for me to see.‘A bit of a bruiser, this one. Must have smarted a bit. Good on you, girl!’ she said in admiration. I looked at the kitten. He was twice the size of the others and, unlike his siblings, jet-black with a white blob on his chest. Just like his dad, I thought with a smile.

Before long all five kittens were feeding contentedly. Debbie ran upstairs to find a bottle of champagne, surprising Sophie by giving her a small serving of her own. They clinked glasses but, before taking a sip, Debbie shouted,‘Hang on a minute, we mustn’t forget the proud mummy!’

A couple of minutes later she placed a saucer of cream on the windowsill next to me. I purred my appreciation but, before I could even take a lick, I fell fast asleep.

24 [Êàðòèíêà: i_005.jpg]

The following morning Debbie carried me, and my five sleeping kittens, upstairs to the flat. She placed our cushion carefully inside a wide cardboard box next to the living-room fireplace.‘There you go, Molls,’ she said when I lifted my head drowsily to look around. ‘I thought you might want a bit of peace and quiet.’

The next few days passed in a haze of contented exhaustion. Debbie and Sophie came and went, eating at the table, watching TV, chatting on the sofa, but their lives receded into a background blur to which I was largely oblivious. I was perpetually tending to the kittens, seemingly feeding or cleaning one of them at all times. Day and night had little meaning for me; I slept whenever the kittens slept, regardless of whether the room was lit by sunshine or moonlight. I occasionally clambered out of the box to eat from the dish that Debbie had placed nearby, but other than that I remained inside our cardboard fortress, interested only in the immediate concerns of my offspring.

Debbie periodically came upstairs to check on us. She tiptoed over and peered inside the box, beaming when she found all five kittens blissfully kneading me while they fed.‘Aw, look at them, Molly. Aren’t they gorgeous?’ she clucked, and I basked sleepily in her admiration.

‘What are you going to call them?’ I heard Jo’s voice say one evening. She had come up to the flat, to see the kittens for the first time.

‘Goodness, I haven’t even thought about names yet,’ Debbie replied. ‘I’m going to have to learn to tell them apart first!’

The kittens were about ten days old. Their blue eyes were beginning to open and they emitted helpless high-pitched squeaks whenever they were picked up.

‘This one’s my favourite,’ said Jo indulgently, lifting one of the tiny tabbies in the palm of her hand. ‘Look at that adorable splodge of white on her pink nose. I could just eat you up!’ she said tenderly to the mewling kitten.

I lay in my box, vicariously enjoying the praise being lavished on my brood.

‘Yes, she is a cutie, isn’t she?’ Debbie agreed. ‘Well, I think she’s a she. Of course we can’t be sure just yet.’

‘She looks like a Purdy to me,’ Jo said, grinning sideways at Debbie.

‘Purdy,’ Debbie repeated thoughtfully, taking the kitten from Jo’s hands and examining it closely. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ she agreed, and Jo clapped her hands like an excited child. ‘Purdy pink-nose,’ Debbie said.

‘With a white splodge,’ Jo added.

‘Yes, that might help me to recognize her,’ Debbie said seriously.

Having decided on a name for one kitten, Debbie felt obliged to do the same for the rest of the litter, and she and Sophie spent an evening on the living-room floor studying them closely, looking for inspiration in their markings and nascent personalities.

‘I think this little one’s a Maisie,’ Debbie said about the smallest tabby, who was already showing signs of being the shyest of the five. ‘And this big brute of a thing,’ she said, picking up the squirming jet-black boy, ‘needs a proper boy’s name.’

Unable to come to any agreement, Sophie moved to the sofa to consult cat-naming websites on her phone. As the evening wore on, they dismissed countless names with increasing alacrity.

‘Jeffrey? You can’t call a cat Jeffrey!’ Sophie jeered, as Debbie held the black kitten aloft.

‘I think it sounds very distinguished,’ Debbie said defensively.

‘Mum, it’s a middle-aged accountant’s name. You can’t do that to him!’

It was a long evening, but Debbie would not go to bed until they had agreed on names for the whole litter. Eventually, with the help of Sophie’s phone, they had reached a consensus on names for all five. Debbie knelt down next to the cardboard box and pointed to each kitten in turn.

‘Tabby-with-white-splodge: Purdy. Tabby-without-white-splodge: Bella. Tabby-with-white-tail-tip: Abby. Shy-tabby: Maisie. Black-and-white-boy: Eddie. Agreed?’

Sophie nodded wearily.

‘Phew, thanks goodness for that,’ Debbie said, holding her hand up to high-five Sophie. ‘We can go to bed now.’

By the time they entered their fourth week the kittens were becoming more sociable, beginning to clamber out of the cardboard box and explore the room beyond. I revelled in their proud exhibitionism, loving the way they egged each other on into acts of increasingly acrobatic dexterity. They played energetically for hours, before falling suddenly asleep mid-game, huddled together on the rug or sofa cushion.

I had begun to leave them alone for short periods, allowing myself brief trips downstairs to the caf? and the street outside. Spring was in full swing: the air smelt heady with pollen, and songbirds were busy tending to their young in the trees. I never stayed out for long, knowing that the kittens became distressed if they noticed my absence. Nevertheless I savoured the brief moments I had to myself, appreciating every second of my rediscovered independence.

Some of the caf?’s regular customers, noticing that I no longer slept in the window, had asked after me. Debbie explained that I was on ‘maternity leave’ from the caf? and had moved upstairs to the flat for the time being. Whenever I appeared at the bottom of the stairs, customers would turn and look, keen to give me a stroke and congratulate me on motherhood. I lapped up their attention, grateful that for once I was being fussed over, rather than the kittens.

One Saturday morning I was lying in the cardboard box feeding the kittens while Debbie and Sophie ate breakfast. Debbie tore open a letter as she sipped her tea.‘Oh, my God.’ She placed her hand over her mouth in shock.

‘What is it?’ Sophie asked, alarmed. Debbie’s hand was shaking as she reread the contents of the letter. ‘Mum, tell me!’ Sophie insisted.

‘It’s from the Environmental Health,’ Debbie replied. ‘Someone has reported the caf? for a breach of health-and-safety – for having a cat on the premises.’ Her face had gone pale and her lip was starting to tremble. ‘“The caf? licence clearly states that no animals are to be allowed on the premises,”’ she read. ‘“Breach of this regulation will result in the immediate closure of the business on hygiene grounds.”’

She and Sophie stared at each other across the table in silence.

‘Oh, my God, Soph, what are we going to do?’ Debbie asked, her voice wavering. She looked over at the kittens, who had finished their feed and were scrambling out of the cardboard box, ready to play. ‘If they could close us down for having one cat, what will they do when they find out there are six!’ she said, pressing the palm of her hand against her cheek.

Sophie took the letter from her mum to read it herself.‘Look, don’t panic, Mum. It’s just talking about the caf?. It doesn’t say anything about the flat. As long as we keep them up here, we’re not in breach of anything.’

‘Keep them up here?’ Debbie laughed mirthlessly. ‘That’s fine for a few more weeks, but look at them, Soph – they’re on the move already. This flat’s hardly big enough for you, me and Molly, as it is. Let alone with six of them! And Molly needs to go outside – it’s cruel to keep her cooped up in here.’ Debbie looked like she was about to burst into tears.

Sophie stood up and put an arm around her mother’s shoulder in a show of support. ‘Oh, Mum, it’ll be all right. We’ll find a way round it,’ she soothed.

‘It’s just so typical, Soph. Just as things were starting to go right, for a change.’ Debbie started to sob, impervious to Sophie’s attempts to reassure her.

I climbed out of the box and walked over to Debbie, partly because I felt she needed me, but also because I needed reassurance myself. Debbie’s reaction to the letter was ominous, and I was frightened to think what it might mean for me and my kittens.

Debbie lifted me carefully onto her lap and held my face between her hands.‘Oh, Molly,’ she said sadly.

I looked into her tear-filled eyes, waiting for her to tell me that things weren’t as bad as she feared and that everything would be okay, but she didn’t say a word. As I watched the fat tears roll down her cheeks, I felt the first pangs of alarm that my happy life in the caf? might be about to come to an end.

25 [Êàðòèíêà: i_006.jpg]

‘But who would have reported us? All the customers love Molly.’ Debbie’s toast lay uneaten on her plate as the letter’s meaning began to sink in.

She stood up and began to pace across the room, clutching the letter in her hand. Eddie crouched on the rug, wiggling his bottom from side to side as he prepared to pounce on her feet. Oblivious to his presence Debbie dropped onto the sofa, her face a picture of consternation. Within seconds, Eddie had scampered across the rug and started to climb up her trouser leg.

‘I think I can guess who did it,’ Sophie said glumly.

Debbie looked up, confused.

‘There’s an old lady who walks past the caf? every day,’ Sophie continued, sitting down on the sofa next to Debbie. ‘Dyed hair, face like she’s sucking a lemon.’

‘With the shopping trolley?’ Debbie interjected. Sophie nodded. ‘I know the one.’ A puzzled frown was beginning to form on Debbie’s brow. ‘But she’s never said a word to me. What’s the caf? to her?’

‘Well, she has spoken to me. Lots of times,’ Sophie replied, lowering her eyes.

Debbie stared at Sophie, confused.‘When? What’s she said?’

‘She’s usually at the bus stop when I get back from school,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘At first she just gave me dirty looks, then she started muttering about how people like us are ruining the town – that we’re not welcome here and never will be.’

‘People like us?’ Debbie repeated, the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sophie shrugged. Debbie’s face was flushed with anger and indignation. She looked like she was about to speak, but she bit her lip and told Sophie to carry on.

‘It just kind of grew from there. Every time she passed she would make some comment, usually about you. Stupid stuff, like “She’ll run that business into the ground” or “No one in their right mind would eat food that she’s prepared.” I just ignored her, I thought she was crazy.’

Debbie’s mouth fell open. ‘What the … ? How dare she, the miserable old—’ She stopped in mid-sentence as a thought struck her. ‘But, Sophie, why haven’t you told me any of this before?’

Sophie looked down, avoiding her mother’s gaze. Purdy had crawled onto her lap and was washing herself proudly, showing off the grooming techniques that I had taught her.

‘I figured she was just a mad old woman. And I didn’t want to worry you, Mum. You were so down about the business already. I thought it would be the last straw.’

‘So you kept it to yourself? Oh, Soph, you shouldn’t have done that.’ Debbie’s eyes were brimming with tears, and when I looked across at Sophie, I noticed that hers were the same.

‘I was really scared, Mum. You kept saying how the caf? was your new start, and I knew you were worried about the locals not accepting you. I thought if you knew what she was saying, you’d decide to have another fresh start somewhere else.’

‘Oh, Soph, I would never do that,’ Debbie protested.

‘But you’d already done it once, Mum. You made the decision to come here, didn’t you? You took me out of school, made me leave all my friends. I never asked to come here, did I? How was I to know you wouldn’t do the same thing again?’

Debbie’s head dropped and I saw tears falling onto Eddie, who was rolling in her lap, batting the tassels on the hem of her jumper. Debbie wiped her eyes and turned to face Sophie. ‘I promise you, Soph, I will never make a decision like that again without talking to you first. And I’m so sorry you’ve been dealing with all of this on your own. I should have known something was going on.’ She put her hand on Sophie’s leg, where it was immediately pounced on by Purdy.

Sophie nodded and smiled tearfully, gently trying to prise Purdy off her mother’s hand. Purdy immediately twisted round to attack Sophie’s fingers, biting her thumb as ferociously as she could with her tiny teeth. ‘I don’t know why, Mum, but for some reason that woman’s had it in for you from the start. I guess seeing Molly in the window just gave her the excuse sheneeded.’

By now, all five kittens had joined Debbie and Sophie on the sofa. Bella and Abby were walking along the cushions behind them, their tails veering from side to side as they tried to maintain their balance; Purdy and Eddie were playing on Sophie and Debbie’s laps, and Maisie was washing on the sofa arm by Debbie’s elbow.

‘And now look at us!’ Debbie said, wiping her eyes and gesturing towards the kittens surrounding them. ‘The old battleaxe would have a field day. She thought one cat was bad. What would she do if she knew there were six?’

Sophie laughed and stroked Purdy, who, worn out by playing, had curled up in a tight ball next to her leg.‘But seriously, Mum, what are we going to do with them? Can we really keep them all in the flat?’

Hidden inside the cardboard box, I pricked up my ears.

‘For now we don’t have any other choice,’ Debbie answered. ‘The kittens aren’t even a month old yet – they’re too young to be separated from Molly. But beyond that … I’m not sure, Soph. It’s a small flat, and Molly’s not used to being solely an indoor cat. We’ll have to think of what’s best for her.’

Debbie’s response worried me. She had sidestepped the question and there was something in her tone that suggested resignation. The only certainty I could take from her words was that, as long as the kittens were dependent on me, we would remain in the flat. It wasn’t much comfort, but it was all I had.

The next time I stepped into the hall, I discovered that a large piece of plyboard had been placed across the top of the stairs, blocking my access to the caf?. Although I understood that Debbie had no alternative, I felt my throat constrict every time I looked at it. It was a stark reminder that I was now confined upstairs and, in effect, a prisoner in the flat.

Gazing at the skyline from the living-room window was a poor substitute for being able to come and go as I pleased. My loss of liberty was largely symbolic– since the kittens were born I had chosen to spend most of my waking hours with them in the flat – but I bitterly missed my short forays into the caf? and the outside world. They had been fleeting moments of independence for me, when I was – however briefly – free from the responsibilities of motherhood. Meeting customers in the caf?, or being out in the fresh air, reminded me that life outside the flat continued, and that I still had an identity beyond being a mother to my kittens.

Knowing there was nothing I could do about my confinement, I devoted all my energy and attention to the kittens. They were becoming more adventurous and sociable by the day, and I was constantly surprised by their physical and emotional development. Although Eddie had remained significantly larger than the others, he had a gentle, diffident nature and was easily cowed into submission by his sisters. Maisie was the most nervous of the five, springing into the air with her tail fluffed at any sudden noise or movement. Bella and Abby were a tight duo, always play-fighting together, and Purdy was by far the most mischievous and extroverted of the litter. She was always the first to explore new parts of the flat, prising open doors with her paw while the others watched intently from the sidelines.

Watching my kittens grow was a bittersweet experience. I found them endlessly fascinating and longed to see what changes their development would bring next. But with those changes came the certainty that, eventually, they would no longer be dependent on me. When that time came, I knew Debbie would have to decide what was going to happen to us. I tried to put thoughts of the future out of my mind but, when the kittens were asleep, I couldn’t help but wonder where they would end up and what my future would hold when they had gone.

While I had the kittens to look after, Debbie had other demands on her time. The caf?’s growing popularity presented her with a fresh set of concerns, about staffing levels, suppliers and wage bills. Having borrowed money to pay for the refurbishment and take on new staff, the stakes were higher than ever, if the caf? didn’t continue to thrive. Even when she was in the flat,Debbie was often preoccupied, attending to business matters on her laptop or making work calls on the phone.

It happened gradually and imperceptibly but, as time went on, I began to sense that Debbie and I were no longer as close we used to be. By the time she had finished dinner and dealt with the evening’s administrative jobs, she was exhausted and ready for bed. She had stopped confiding in me, the way she used to, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something from me, and that it was tied up with the future of the caf?. I could not be sure, but I suspected that the time might come when Debbie would have to choose between the caf? and me. Knowing that Sophie’s wellbeing and security depended on the caf? being a success, I was in no doubt that, if Debbie was forced to make a decision, she would choose the caf?.

At night, when everyone was asleep, I would jump onto the living-room windowsill. The amber glow of the street light illuminated the alleyway below and, if I pressed my head against the glass, I could just make out the dustbin beneath the window. To see the alley and not be able to step out into it, however, increased my feeling of isolation. Staring at the dark alley, I resolved that– if the worst were to happen – I would be prepared. If and when the time came, I would return to the alleyway rather than allow myself to be rehomed by a stranger. Sometimes the thought would rise, unbidden, that I wished the tomcat would come back, that being homeless would be less frightening if I had him by my side. But I knew that indulging in such daydreams would lead only to disappointment and I dismissed them from my mind. I had survived as an alley-cat before; if necessary, I could do so again.

26 [Êàðòèíêà: i_007.jpg]

In the weeks that followed the bombshell of the council’s letter, uncertainty about my future became a constant backdrop to my life. I was intensely conscious that every developmental leap in the kittens took them closer to independence, and me closer to possible homelessness. I lived in a limbo-like state. Sometimes I found the uncertainty unbearable, and I fantasized about running away. At least that would spare Debbie the pain of having to make the decision herself.

Debbie, meanwhile, was increasingly stressed about the caf?, which had started to lose customers. When she wasn’t in the caf? she was at the dining table, going through the accounts or typing emails on her laptop. I couldn’t help but notice that her relationship with Sophie was also deteriorating. Sensing that her mother was preoccupied, Sophie became sarcastic and stroppy. I was reminded, unhappily, of how she had behaved when I first moved in.

It seemed like things were beginning to unravel for all of us, and the worst part was that I felt responsible. I could see that the presence of the kittens was adding to the pressures on Debbie. They were six weeks old now and were hungry, boisterous and playful. Their adventurousness was no longer confined to the living room: they got into the kitchen cupboards, underneath the beds, and on one occasion Purdy climbed up inside the chimney breast and had to be rescued by Debbie from the soot-filled flue. Much as I adored their liveliness, I bitterly regretted that it was always Debbie who had to step in when one of them needed rescuing, or to clean up their trail of mess and destruction. I could do nothing but stand back and watch and I worried that, much as Debbie loved the kittens, her patience was being stretched to breaking point.

One evening she had finally sat down with the laptop, having just finished washing up in the kitchen, when Sophie walked in, frowning.‘Mum, have you seen my geography project?’ she asked sharply.

Debbie was squinting at the screen through her glasses.‘Mmm?’ she replied, distractedly.

‘Mum?’ Sophie snapped. ‘I left it on the kitchen worktop this morning. It’s gone. Have you seen it?’

Debbie took off her glasses and turned to look at Sophie.‘Sorry, love, what did you say?’

‘My geography project, Mum. It’s due tomorrow. I left it on the worktop.’ I could see that Sophie’s frustration was about to turn to anger.

‘Sorry, love, I don’t remember seeing it,’ Debbie replied. She put on her glasses and turned back to the laptop. ‘I put the recycling out this afternoon,’ she added vaguely.

‘The recycling?’

‘Yes, there was a stack of old newspapers in the kitchen … ’

Sophie stared at her mother.‘A stack of old newspapers? And did you happen to notice whether my geography project was on the top of that stack?’

Debbie frowned and rubbed her forehead.‘Sorry, love, I don’t recall seeing any project, but I’m not sure—’

Sophie had gone, slamming the living-room door behind her. I heard her run downstairs, and a few seconds later the caf? door slammed too.

Debbie dropped her head into her hands. She sighed deeply, then closed the laptop and stood up, walking across the room to the sofa. Her cheeks were pink and I knew that tears would soon follow. I had tried to keep some distance from the situation, not wanting to inflame matters between mother and daughter by getting involved, but I could not sit and watch Debbie cry. I climbed out of the cardboard box and went to sit by her ankles, looking up at her face.

Debbie noticed me and smiled tearfully.‘Oh, Molly,’ she sighed, putting her hand down to stroke my ears.

That was all the invitation I needed. I jumped up onto her lap and rubbed my head against her damp cheek. I let her cry into my fur until the combination of her tears and my loose hairs sticking to her face meant that she had to reach for a tissue. When she had blown her nose, she held my face between her hands and looked me in the eye.

‘Oh, Molly, what a mess I’ve made of things. What am I going to do, eh?’ I blinked at her slowly, wanting to encourage Debbie to keep talking. There may have been nothing I could do to help, but I could listen. ‘I don’t know what to worry about more: that Sophie’s starting to hate me again, or that the caf?’s going under. So far I’m making a complete mess on both fronts.’ She stroked my ears, and I rubbed my cheek along the side of her hand. ‘You know the really crazy thing, Molly? It turns out that you were what the customers wanted all along, but I didn’t realize until it was too late.’

I looked at her inquisitively, not following what she was saying.‘It’s “Molly’s Caf?”, isn’t it?’ she said by way of explanation. ‘Everyone used to see you in the window, and that’s why they came in. They expected you to be inside. They all loved hearing about the kittens – couldn’t wait to meet them – but now I’ve had to tell people that you won’t be coming downstairs any more. And, well, they’re just not coming through the door like they used to.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘If I let you downstairs, that witch will have me shut down by Environmental Health, but if I keep you up here we’ll lose all our customersand the caf? will probably go under. So I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t, aren’t I?’

My head was spinning. I had had no idea my presence meant so much to the customers, and I felt a momentary glow of pride that I had been the reason many of them had come at all. But, on the other hand, this discovery merely reinforced my conviction that I was to blame for Debbie’s predicament.

While she had been talking, Eddie had woken up and had jumped onto the sofa, his tail happily aloft. He climbed onto Debbie’s lap alongside me and rolled onto his back. I pressed his exposed tummy with my paw and he squirmed from side to side, pretending that my foot was a foe he must fight off. Debbie watched Eddie and her tear-stained face melted into a smile.

‘See, Molly – we’re the same, you and I. We’re just trying to do what’s best for our children, aren’t we?’

I purred in agreement. Even though we were no closer to a solution, I was grateful for Debbie’s words. If nothing else, they made me feel that we were on the same side once more.

A little while later Sophie returned home. Debbie and I listened as she let herself into the caf? kitchen and climbed the stairs.

‘Hi, Soph,’ Debbie called quietly.

Sophie pushed open the living-room door.‘Sorry about earlier, Mum,’ she said, her voice conciliatory.

‘I’m sorry too,’ Debbie answered, relief spreading across her face. ‘I’m sure we can find your project – it should still be in the box.’

‘Don’t worry Mum, I already found it. It’s fine, just a bit smelly from the bin.’

Debbie smiled.‘Phew. Hopefully they won’t mark it down for smelliness.’

‘I don’t think they will,’ Sophie agreed.

‘I tell you what: shall I make us both a hot chocolate?’ Debbie suggested, and Sophie nodded.

Debbie reappeared a few minutes later with mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and mini-marshmallows. Sophie’s face lit up, and for a moment she looked like a little girl rather than a teenager. They sat on the sofa sipping their drinks, whilst trying to bat a persistent Eddie away from the whipped cream. Sophie eventually gave up and allowed him to lick a blob of cream from the tip of her finger, his rumbling purr filling the whole room.

‘So here’s the deal, Sophie,’ Debbie said, suddenly serious. ‘The way things stand, we’re not taking enough to make the monthly repayments for the loan. If we default on the loan, we stand to lose everything – the caf?, the flat, the whole lot will be repossessed.’ Debbie paused, andSophie inhaled deeply. ‘So, the way I see it,’ Debbie continued, ‘we have two choices. We either soldier on as we are, hoping that people get used to the idea of Molly’s Caf? with no Molly, but possibly defaulting on the loan if they don’t.’ Sophie nodded slowly. ‘Or,’ Debbie went on, ‘we sell up now, before we fall behind on the repayments. We could probably get enough from the sale to break even; maybe even have enough left to use as a deposit on a little flat somewhere.’ She paused, watching anxiously as Sophie mulled over the dilemma. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

Sophie’s face was intently serious, and I was struck by how quickly she had switched from little-girl mode to grown-up. ‘I think … it’s too soon to give up. You’ve put so much into this place, Mum, and I know you can make it work.’ She put her hand on her mother’s knee encouragingly and Debbie eyes instantly welled up.

‘I don’t know, Soph. I wish I had your faith in me,’ she replied, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

‘But what’s the alternative, Mum? If you sell up and take the money – hopefully buy another little flat somewhere else – then what? We’ll just be back to square one.’

Debbie nodded.‘I know – you’re right, but it just feels like a massive risk, and I don’t know if it’s fair to do that to you. You’ve got your GCSEs coming up. I should be helping you, not accidentally throwing away your coursework because I’m too busy poring over these bloody accounts!’

Sophie laughed.‘Don’t worry about my coursework, Mum. I can handle that. You just need to put everything into making the caf? work. I know you can do it.’

Debbie nodded tearfully, and Sophie leant over to give her a hug, squashing the still-purring Eddie between them.

After they had finished their hot chocolates they both stood up, ready for bed. As Debbie turned out the light, Sophie said,‘If we do stay here, Mum, what are you going to do about Molly and the kittens?’

Debbie paused.‘I don’t know, Soph, I just don’t know.’

27 [Êàðòèíêà: i_008.jpg]

‘We need to build our profile on social media, apparently,’ Debbie announced one Sunday afternoon from behind the laptop. She and Sophie were sitting at the dining-room table, both hard at work.

‘Right,’ Sophie replied vaguely, not lifting her eyes from her schoolwork.

‘I should be tweeting and updating our Instagram feed at least twenty times a day, according to this new-business forum I’ve joined.’

Sophie looked at Debbie, and raised an eyebrow sceptically.‘Mum, do you even know what Instagram is?’

‘Well, no, but I’m prepared to learn! You can show me, can’t you? You’re an expert at all that stuff.’

‘I s’pose. I can show you if you like, but I’ve got to finish my revision.’

Sophie returned to her work, flicking studiously through the pages of her textbook. Debbie started to chuckle, and Sophie’s eyes flicked towards her, puzzled and slightly annoyed.

‘What now, Mum?’

‘Sorry, love, I was just thinking: who would have believed, six months ago, that I would be pestering you to use Instagram, and you would be telling me that you can’t because you’ve got work to do? Who’d have thought it, eh? Or, as a tweeter-er might say:hashtag-never-saw-that-coming.’ Debbie snorted at her own joke.

Sophie rolled her eyes.‘Oh, Mum. Please don’t ever use the wordtweeter-er again.’

‘Hashtag-OK,’ Debbie replied with a giggle.

Sophie dropped the textbook onto the table and glared at her mother.‘Or the wordhashtag. Seriously, Mum, stop distracting me. I’ve got work to do.’

Although the caf?’s future still hung in the balance, Debbie and Sophie’s conversation helped to clear the air between them. Debbie seemed to have drawn strength from Sophie’s conviction that she mustn’t give up on the caf? without a fight. She became ruthlessly focused on trying to make the business a success, and her research on the laptop led her to try all sorts of initiatives. She introduced a customer loyalty card; tried various promotional offers, such as free cup of tea with every slice of cake; and even touted the notion of building a website for the caf?. That project had faltered, however, when Debbie had innocently enquired, ‘What’s HTML, Soph?’

‘Mum, sorry, but no. Just, no,’ Sophie had replied firmly, and Debbie had muttered that maybe the website could go on the back burner for now.

In spite of Sophie’s evident frustration with some of her mother’s schemes, their bickering remained good-natured. There was an atmosphere of female solidarity in the flat, which extended to me, too. It seemed that Debbie, Sophie and I had all reached the same conclusion: there was no certainty about what the future held for any of us, so we just had to make the best of what we had in the present. It was a strange time, knowing that we could all be about to lose what little security we had, but I took comfort in the camaraderie that had developed between us. Whatever fate had in store, it felt as though wewould face it together.

I did my bit for morale in the flat by raising my kittens to the best of my ability. I made sure they were spotlessly clean at all times and scrupulously attentive to their own personal hygiene. If they were too boisterous or their play became aggressive, I could be a firm disciplinarian, putting them in their place with a swipe of my paw. But I also encouraged their independence and adventurousness, knowing that in later life they might need resilience and courage to fall back on. I took some comfort in knowing that I had provided them with the skills they needed to give them the best possible chance in life.

When the kittens were about eight weeks old, Debbie was going through the accounts books on Sunday evening when Sophie rushed in, her face flushed with excitement.

‘Mum, look at this.’ The kittens sensed her heightened mood and emerged from their various hiding points around the room, keen as always to be at the heart of the action. Sophie held out her phone to Debbie, who was putting her glasses on to view the tiny screen. She looked confused.

‘I don’t understand, Soph – is it a funny cat video?’

Sophie tutted impatiently.‘No, it’s not a cat video, Mum. It’s a cat caf?.’

Debbie’s face was blank. ‘A cat caf??’

‘Yes, like a normal caf?, except that it’s got cats. Customers come specifically to see the cats; and to eat, of course.’

Debbie took the phone from Sophie’s hand. ‘But I don’t understand: how is that possible? How do they get around health-and-safety?’

‘I don’t know, but it must be possible – someone else has done it!’

Debbie stared intently at the screen.

‘We should do the same, Mum. It’s obvious! We can keep Molly and the kittens, and the customers will love it.’

Debbie started to smile uncertainly.‘But that isn’t … We couldn’t … Surely it can’t be that straightforward?’

‘It could be, Mum,’ Sophie laughed. ‘There’s not just one of these places – they’re popping up all over the world. Cat caf?s are the in-thing right now, and in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Sophie gestured to the kittens, who had jumped onto the dining chairs and were now scaling the tabletop, ‘we’ve got the cats and we’ve got the caf?, so we’re practically there already!’

Debbie’s face wore a look of half-excitement, half-consternation, but Sophie was not done yet.

‘And I’ve been thinking, Mum. You can tweak the menu, you know? Cat-shaped cookies, cupcakes with whiskers – that sort of thing. The tourists will go crazy for it.’

Debbie laughed nervously.‘I don’t know, Sophie. It sounds lovely, but … could it really work?’

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Sophie answered decisively. ‘You need to ring the council and ask.’

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I could feel my stomach lurch with excitement. But, like Debbie, I couldn’t let myself get carried away. A voice in my head urged caution. It all sounded too good to be true.

28 [Êàðòèíêà: i_009.jpg]

Debbie picked up the phone to call the council first thing on Monday morning.

‘Yes, hello, I’d like to speak to the department that looks after caf?s and food outlets. Yes, thank you, I’ll hold … ’ She tapped the handset and looked out of the window, waiting to be put through. ‘Oh, yes, hello. This might sound like a bit of a strange enquiry, but I’d like tospeak to someone about turning a caf? into a cat caf?. Yes, acat caf?. No, not a caf? for cats – a caf? for people, with cats in it. Okay, yes, I can hold … ’

As she was repeatedly put on hold and passed between departments, her initial enthusiasm gave way to frustration. She glanced at her watch and drummed her fingers on the table. No one she spoke to was sure to whom she actually needed to speak; the only thing they were sure of was that it wasn’t them.

‘Oh, yes, hello,’ she repeated wearily, after being put on hold for the fourth time. ‘I’m trying to find out who I need to speak to about opening a cat caf?. I was just wondering what it might involve … Right, I see. Okay, thank you.’

Debbie placed the phone back in its cradle and rolled her head from side to side. I was lying on the dining table next to the phone, hoping that my presence would offer moral support.

‘Well, Molly, apparently we need to write a letter. Why it took the best part of an hour to establish that, I’m not entirely sure. But a letter must be written, so a letter I shall write. Although not until I have had a cup of coffee.’

That evening Jo popped in for a chat and a play with the kittens.‘So how did you get on with the council this morning?’ she asked, lifting Purdy out of the cardboard box for a cuddle.

Debbie threw her head back in despair.‘Well, apart from the fact that no one at the council has ever heard of a cat caf?, and they aren’t sure which department would be responsible for one, plus they don’t know what licences would be required, or what the hygiene regulations might be, or whether animal-welfare organizations needto be consulted … Apart from all of that, the answer to your question is: I got on great!’

Jo grimaced, before burying her face in Purdy’s fur to blow a raspberry on her back.

At dinner that evening Debbie relayed her experience with the council to Sophie, and broke the news that the cat-caf? idea still seemed a long way off. Sophie looked annoyed and opened her mouth to speak, but Debbie cut her off. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Soph – don’t give up. And I’m not giving up, I just wanted to warn you that this isn’t going to be a quick or easy process, and we can’t assume that we’re going to get the answer we want from the council.’

Sophie’s shoulders dropped and she sighed. ‘Well done, Mum. I’m sure you’re doing everything you can.’

That night I was woken by a strange sound. I lifted my head inside the cardboard box, my ears flicking as I tried to detect the source of the noise. I padded out of the living room, my senses on high alert. I could hear gurgling noises from the radiator pipes in the hall, but I could also detect a faint hissing coming from the caf?. I stood at the top of the stairs, my tail twitching. I knew that I risked Debbie’s anger if she discovered me creeping downstairs under cover of night, but my instincts were telling me something was amiss. In the end it was the thought of my kittens sleeping in the next room that made up my mind: something was wrong, and it was my duty to investigate.

I launched myself at the plyboard panel, scrabbling over the top and knocking it backwards as I dropped onto the stairs. I slipped down the staircase, pausing on the bottom step to take in the sight of the caf?, which I had not seen since the night I gave birth. I felt a pang of longing when I noticed that my gingham cushion was still in place on the windowsill, as if waiting for my return. I hoped its presence was a sign that Debbie believed I would, one day, be allowed back in the caf?.

The hissing sound was coming from the kitchen, so I crept past the serving counter through the doorway. Instantly my fur prickled in alarm. The air smelt strangely sweet and thick. It made my nose tingle, and after a few breaths my head started to swim. I followed the sound of hissing to the boiler, which was emitting creaking metallic noises. There was water trickling down the wall behind it, a steady stream that was already forming a pool on the kitchen floor and was spreading out across the tiles.

I turned and made my way quickly out of the kitchen and upstairs to the flat. I paused to take some deep breaths of clean air in the hallway, before running up the second flight of stairs to Debbie’s bedroom. Debbie was fast asleep and did not stir when I jumped onto the quilt beside her, or when I walked alongside her body and stood next to her face. I lifted one paw and tapped her lightly on the cheek. Her nose wrinkled and she lifted her hand, as if swatting a fly away, but her eyes remained closed. I patted her again, more insistently. This time she opened her eyes, startled to find me looming in front of her face. ‘Oh, Molly, it’s you,’ she murmured sleepily.

I meowed, trying to convey the urgency of the situation.

‘Shh, girl,’ she said, lifting her hand sleepily to stroke my back. I meowed again, louder this time, and patted her cheek for a third time. ‘Molly, I’m sleeping – leave me alone,’ she protested. She closed her eyes and rolled away from me, pulling her pillow over her head.

In desperation, I jumped from the bed onto her dressing table which was crowded with plastic bottles and pots of make-up and old lipsticks. It was hard to find space for my feet among the cotton-wool pads and hairbrushes. After all the weeks I had spent chastising my kittens for destructive behaviour, I was aware of the irony of my current predicament. I felt guilty even contemplating it, but I knew what I had to do: I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then swiped firmly across the contents of the dressing table with my paw.

Immediately there was a loud clattering, as the first bottle toppled over and knocked those around it, which in turn dislodged some small plastic pots and a wooden cup full of make-up brushes. In a matter of seconds half the contents of Debbie’s personal toilette had rolled off the dressing table and bounced across the bedroom floor. The cacophony had the desired effect. Debbie threw the pillow across the bed and sat bolt upright, her hair sticking to one side of her face.

‘Molly, what on earth are you playing at?’ she shouted angrily. I jumped onto the bed and stood across her legs, meowing in the most commanding tone I could manage. Debbie leant over and switched on her bedside lamp, looking at me irritably. ‘Molly, what is it?’ I jumped down from the bed and scratched at her bedroom door, looking at her over my shoulder. She sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘This had better be good, Molls.’

I ran down the stairs to the landing. Debbie followed at an infuriatingly slow pace, pulling on her dressing gown as she stumbled sleepily along the hall. I ran to the end of the hallway and waited for her at the top of the stairs to the caf?. As she got nearer, Debbie noticed the piece of plyboard lying on the floor.

‘Molly, where do you think you’re going? You’re not allowed down there,’ she said sternly. I walked over the plyboard and placed one foot on the first step, trying to entice her to come after me. ‘Hey, Molly, I said you’re not allowed down there.’ She moved along the dark hallway and bent down to scoop me up. As she was about to lift me off the floor, she stopped. She stood up straight and sniffed. ‘Oh, my God, is that gas?’ she said, suddenly alert.

She raced past me down the stairs past me and I heard her run into the kitchen below.

‘Oh, my God, the gas is leaking! What do I do?’ she shrieked.

As I ran after her into the kitchen I saw that the pool of water underneath the boiler had spread across the kitchen floor. The air was thick with the pungent smell of gas, making my throat constrict and my eyes water. Debbie was standing in front of the boiler, one hand over her mouth in shock.

‘Windows!’ she shouted, and ran to the back of the kitchen to throw open the windows onto the alley. Then she grabbed the key to the back door and opened that too. She ran past me into the caf? and did the same in there, and soon the cool night breeze was blowing from the cobbled street in front to the alley at the back. Debbie stood by the kitchen door, swinging it back and forth by the handle, to increase the flow of fresh air into the room. The smell of gas quickly began to disperse, although the ominous hissing sound and the dripping of water onto the kitchen floor continued.

‘Sophie!’ she exclaimed suddenly. She closed the kitchen door and stood for a moment with her hand on the key, looking uncertain. ‘Door open or door shut, Molly?’ she asked me desperately. I chirruped helplessly, wishing I knew which was the correct answer. ‘You’re right, Molly. Better to leave it open. You’ll watch out for burglars, won’t you? I’ll just be a second.’ I stood dutifully by the open door while Debbie sprinted through the kitchen, then took the stairs two at a time up to the flat. I could hear her shouting as she ran along the hallway, ‘Sophie! You need to wake up, sweetheart. We’ve got a gas leak!’

A few moments later Debbie came tearing down the stairs again, a dishevelled Sophie staggering sleepily behind her. Sophie screwed up her face as the smell of gas hit her for the first time.

‘Right, everybody onto the street,’ Debbie ordered.

‘Are you kidding, Mum? It’s freezing out there. Can’t we just wait inside?’ Sophie protested.

‘Sophie. In case you hadn’t noticed, we have a gas leak, which could not only be poisonous, but is also highly flammable. No, we cannot wait inside.’ Debbie bustled Sophie through the caf? door and out into the cobbles. ‘Come on, Molly, you need to come with us,’ she said impatiently, asI stood in the middle of the caf? twitching my tail. ‘Molly! Come on!’ Debbie shouted, her patience wearing thin. She dashed back inside and tried to put her arms around me to lift me up, but I wriggled and twisted out of her grip. As soon as I had struggled free I ran back towards the stairs.‘Molly, what are you playing at? You need to come outside!’ Debbie had never shouted at me like this before, but I was not about to let her anger deter me.

‘She wants to get her kittens, Mum,’ I heard Sophie say from the street. ‘She doesn’t want to leave them upstairs.’

Debbie groaned.‘Oh, of course, the kittens.’ I could hear the exasperation in her voice.

I started to creep stealthily up the stairs, knowing that, if necessary, I could carry all the kittens to safety without her help.

‘Okay, Molly – fair enough, but we’ll have to be quick. Sophie, you stay there and don’t move.’

‘Are you kidding, Mum? I’m not going to stand out here on my own in the middle of the night! Besides, there are five kittens, and only one of you. It’ll be quicker if I come.’ Sophie was standing in the caf? doorway, hands on her hips, silhouetted by the street light behind. Debbie stood between us, clutching her hair as she tried to decide what to do. Still waiting on the stairs, I was losing patience with her procrastinating.

‘Oh, all right then, come on!’ Debbie cried, and the three of us stampeded upstairs to the flat. ‘I’ll need to find the carrier,’ Debbie gasped, trying to catch her breath after running up the stairs for the second time in a matter of minutes. ‘And then I’ll need to join the gym,’ she panted, as she steadied herself against the banister.

Sophie and I left her throwing coats and shoes out of the hallway cupboard as we ran into the living room. All the kittens were inside the cardboard box, fast asleep and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around them.

‘Got it!’ Debbie shouted in a voice that was verging on hysterical. She appeared in the living-room doorway, triumphantly clutching the carrier, even more flustered and red-faced than she had been before. She ran across the room to the cardboard box, unlocking the front of the carrier as she went. ‘Right, come on Soph, gently does it,’ she said.

The kittens started to squirm as she and Sophie picked them up, one by one, and placed them swiftly inside the carrier. By the time all five were inside they were wide awake, mewing and clambering over each other, confused at finding themselves incarcerated in a plastic box. I stayed close to the carrier as Debbie used both hands to lift it and we made our way, in a clumsy huddle, back along the hallway and down the narrow staircase.

Outside on the street, Debbie plonked the carrier down on the cobbles and sighed with relief.‘They’re heavier than they look, you know!’ she said to Sophie, by way of explanation for her shortness of breath. She slipped her hand into her dressing-gown pocket and pulled out her phone.

It was chilly outside and I could see goosebumps on Debbie’s legs as she stood next to a shivering Sophie. She pressed the screen of her phone, then held it to her ear.

‘Come on, come on – please pick up,’ she whispered, bouncing up and down on the spot in agitation. She stopped moving suddenly and I heard a faint voice at the other end of the line. ‘Oh, hi, John. I’m really sorry to call you so late. It’s Debbie.’

29 [Êàðòèíêà: i_005.jpg]

We huddled in the caf? doorway, under the eerie orange light of a street lamp. Sophie rested her head on Debbie’s shoulder, shivering in her thin cotton pyjamas. Every now and then a breeze wafted the smell of gas over to us, making my eyes prickle. As we waited, the kittens grew agitated, stumbling over each other as they tried to get to the front of the cat carrier. It felt strange to be on the street again, after so many weeks confined to the flat. My ears swivelled in alarm at sounds that had once been the familiar backdrop to my life: owls screeching in the churchyard, and cats yowling as they squared up for a fight in some distant passageway.

After about ten minutes we heard a car engine in a nearby street. Soon a pair of headlights appeared at the end of the parade, approaching slowly along the cobbles.

‘This must be him!’ Debbie whispered, lifting Sophie’s head off her shoulder and stepping out of the doorway. She waved, squinting in the headlights’ beams. ‘Hi.’ She smiled apologetically as John climbed out of the van. ‘I can’t thank you enough for coming out. I didn’t know whatelse to do.’

John’s eyes were puffy with sleep and, although his lips wore a thin smile, he did not return her greeting. He heaved his tool bag from the passenger seat onto his shoulder. ‘Quite the street party you’re having here,’ he said, glancing at Sophie, at me and at the carrier full of kittens.

‘Well, yes, because of the gas,’ Debbie explained nervously. ‘I got Sophie up, but then Molly wanted to go back for the kittens, so we had to get them too. But then I couldn’t find the carrier, and I was out of breath from the stairs and I really need to do more exercise … ’

John stared past Debbie blankly, ignoring her words as he walked towards the doorway.‘Very sensible, Molly,’ he said, when Debbie finally paused for breath. ‘You mustn’t leave the kittens inside if there’s a gas leak.’ He bent down to stroke me and I purred, aware of Debbie looking crestfallen as she stood behind him.

‘Well, obviously I would have gone back for the kittens anyway. I mean, I wouldn’t have left them in there,’ she stammered.

John straightened up, looking into the caf?. ‘Shall I take a look then?’ he said, cutting her off mid-sentence.

‘Oh, of course – I mean, yes, please; thank you,’ she babbled gratefully. John switched his torch on and walked inside. ‘Shall I put the lights on for you?’ she called as we followed him into the caf?.

‘Not yet,’ he replied brusquely. ‘Don’t want the place to go up in flames, do you?’

‘Oh, no, of course – I knew that.’ She sounded girlishly eager to please.

Sophie headed for a table in the corner of the caf? and placed the carrier of fidgeting kittens on the floor. Debbie trailed John into the kitchen, continuing to talk to his back.

‘I’ll never forget that advert on TV when I was younger: “If you can smell gas” and all that – scared the life out of me. “Don’t use switches,” it said, and that’s always stayed with me. Never forgotten it.’

From the shadow of the serving counter I watched as John began to take the boiler apart, resolutely ignoring Debbie. I wished there was something I could do to stop her talking; it was obvious that he was finding her anxious prattle irritating.

After a few minutes the hissing noise stopped.‘The gas is off,’ John said. ‘I suggest we keep the windows open for a while, but it’s safe to go upstairs, if you want to go back to bed.’

Debbie breathed a sigh of relief.‘Did you hear that, Soph? You can go back to bed now,’ she called through the doorway.

Sophie was hunched on a chair with her head propped against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She did not acknowledge Debbie’s words, but I heard her chair scrape on the flagstones as she stood up.

‘Oh, take the kittens up too, would you, Soph?’ Debbie pleaded. Sophie grunted a half-hearted objection, before picking up the carrier and stumbling towards the stairs. I heard the kittens mewing in protest as it bumped against every step on the way up to the flat. ‘Night-night, love, I’ll be up soon,’ Debbie called from the foot of the stairs, her voice sounding artificially upbeat. There was no response from Sophie, and Debbie sighed.

‘You know, you really shouldn’t have left it this long. I did warn you that the boiler needed replacing as a matter of urgency,’ John said coldly, once Debbie had returned to the kitchen.

Debbie hung her head in shame.‘I know, I know. I was planning to do it. It’s just, what with the refurbishment and everything else, I hadn’t got round to it yet …’ she trailed off. John had turned his back to her again, wordlessly dismissing her excuses. Debbie sat down on a stool, looking despondent.

‘On the bright side, you’re very lucky you caught this when you did. Could have been a lot worse, if the gas had been running all night.’

Debbie shuddered.‘I can’t even bear to think about it. Thank goodness for Molly.’ At this, John glanced quizzically over his shoulder. ‘She came into my room and woke me up,’ she elaborated, visibly relieved that John had, at last, shown an interest in something she had said. ‘She wouldn’t take no foran answer. Patting my face, knocking things off my dressing table – it was like an episode ofLassie up there!’

John raised his eyebrows and smiled for the first time since he had arrived.‘Well, good for Molly. You’ve got a lot to thank her for.’

Debbie shivered as a gust of wind from the alley blew through the kitchen, rattling the window blinds. Rubbing her arms against the chill, she contemplated the puddle of rusty water on the floor.‘I suppose I might as well make myself useful,’ she sighed, taking a mop and bucket from the cupboard.

I crept around the side of the serving counter to watch them through the doorway. John was taking the boiler apart, piece by piece, painstakingly removing rusty metal panels and segments of pipe. Debbie made her way slowly across the floor, swinging the mop back and forth, squeezing it out into a bucket. She looked almost comically dishevelled in her faded dressing gown and damp slippers. One of her cheeks was pillow-creased, and a clump of hair stood up at the back of her head. I saw her cast a furtive glance at her reflection in the kitchen window and surreptitiously try to smooth her hair with the palm of her hand.

The awkwardness between them was palpable. John had resumed his tight-lipped frostiness. And, having been unable to stop talking when he first arrived, it seemed as if Debbie had run out of things to say. Crouching between the counter and the doorway, I racked my brain for a way to defuse the tension between them.

‘That’s the gas and water disconnected,’ John said at last, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll do my best to source a replacement for you tomorrow. Until then, I’m afraid everything’s going to have to stay as it is.’ He addressed his words to the boiler rather thanto Debbie, while she nodded gratefully, fiddling with the mop handle.

‘Well, thank you so much,’ she said after a moment’s silence, when it had become clear that John had nothing further to say on the matter.

The first streaks of orange and pink were appearing in the sky outside, and an outburst of chatter from some nearby magpies pierced the air. John had started to pack up his tools. Whatever Debbie might think of me, I knew that if I was going to act, it would have to be now or never. I sidled over to John and wound myself around his leg.

‘Oh, hello, Molly,’ he said, giving me a cursory stroke. I saw Debbie glance sideways, surprised to see that I had not followed Sophie and the kittens upstairs. I loitered by John’s feet and, as soon as he turned away to pick something up, I jumped into his tool bag. ‘Come on, girl, out youget,’ he coaxed, lifting me gently under my tummy and placing me on the floor. I immediately jumped back in and looked at him mischievously. ‘Molly, come on now.’

He was starting to get annoyed, and I was conscious of Debbie glaring at me, her surprise turning to embarrassment. John lifted me out for a second time and zipped his bag shut. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and began to walk towards the caf? door. My tail twitched; I sensed that, if Debbie let him leave without the two of them clearing the air, the damage would be irreparable. I trotted after him and darted between his feet as he walked, causing him to stumble and trip.

‘Oh, Molly, be careful!’ he exclaimed, exasperated. I dashed in front of him and meowed plaintively. He looked down at me and his irritation was plain to see; he looked exhausted and annoyed. I began to despair – things were not going to plan, and it looked as if my actions had succeeded onlyin making John crosser than before. He opened his mouth to speak and I closed my eyes, prepared for the inevitable telling-off. But instead of John’s voice, I heard Debbie’s.

She was giggling. I opened my eyes and peered around John’s leg, to see Debbie leaning against the kitchen doorway with her arms folded. ‘I think Molly’s telling you to stay for a cup of tea,’ she laughed.

John put his bag down on the floor.‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he smiled.

Debbie put the kettle on, while John moved around the caf? closing the doors and windows. The pink dawn was spreading upwards through the sky and the first rays of sunlight had broken over the roofs opposite.

‘I love the new look of the place, by the way,’ John said, as the caf?’s bright interior emerged from the gloom. ‘Especially those paw prints on the floor. Nice touch!’

‘You can probably guess who was responsible for those,’ Debbie answered drily from the kitchen. ‘Molly’s our design director, as well as our fire safety officer.’ She carried two mugs of tea through the caf? and placed them on the table in the bay window.

Much as I wanted to stay and eavesdrop on their conversation, I had a feeling that my presence would be a distraction. They had talked enough about me for one night, and there were other things they needed to discuss. I tiptoed unnoticed past their table and crept upstairs, leaving them sipping tea in the golden dawn light.

30 [Êàðòèíêà: i_006.jpg]

I squeezed into the cardboard box, trying not to wake the sleeping kittens. As I lay down alongside Eddie, he instinctively twisted towards me, nestling his face into my neck. I licked the top of his head and he began to purr drowsily, stretching out his legs between mine.

Looking down at his outstretched body, it was impossible to ignore the similarities between Eddie and his father, the tomcat. The resemblance was uncanny: a square face framed by white whiskers, a bib of white on his chest, and legs that, for now at least, appeared too long for his body. But, as he grew, I realized that it wasn’t just the tomcat’s physical features that Eddie had inherited. His temperament was also unmistakeably like his father’s. There was a selflessness about him, a willingness to put the needs of others before his own, which made my heart swell with pride. I sometimes watched him at feeding time, waiting patiently while his sisters ate, never doubting that there would be enough food to go round. It made my heart catch in my throat to witness his generosity of spirit, and the way it mirrored the chivalry his father had shown me in the alley.

My remorse for the way I had treated the tomcat had never left me. Since the birth of the kittens I had had less time to dwell on it, but the moments when I glimpsed their father’s traits in them still brought me up short. I sometimes wondered how they would react if they were ever to meet him. Would they instinctively know he was their father, or would they think him a stranger – perhaps even consider him a threat? The pleasure and pride I took in watching my kittens grow would forever be tinged with sadness at what I, and they, had lost. In my desperation to find an owner to replace Margery I had, unwittingly, sacrificed my opportunity for feline companionship. I could not wish for a better owner than Debbie, but I would always wonder whether, if I had done things differently, the tomcat might still be living in the alley and might still be a part of my life.

It was, in part, this regret that had motivated me to bring Debbie and John together that night. It was too late for me and the tomcat, but I wanted Debbie to make an informed choice: to know what she was giving up, if she ruled out the possibility of a relationship with John. As I started to drift out of consciousness, my mind wandered back to my conversation with Nancy, as I had prepared for my journey to Stourton.‘Humans always think they know what they want, but they don’t always know what theyneed. You can be the one to show them,’ she had told me, as we sat in the playground on the edge of Rob’s estate. At the time I had not understood what she meant, so preoccupied was I with the daunting challenge that lay ahead of me. But as I was lulled to sleep by the sound of Eddie’s heartbeat thumping against my chest, I wondered whether I had done just that for Debbie: I had shown her that what she needed was John.

‘Debbie, are you up there? What’s going on? Why aren’t you open?’

Jo was in the caf? stairwell, shouting up to the flat. The kittens began to stir around me, emerging unwillingly from the fog of sleep. I heard Debbie stumble out of her bedroom in response to Jo’s shouts, having overslept after the previous night’s drama. Trying not to disturb the kittens, I climbed out of the box and walked to the hallway, just as Jo’s worried face appeared above the plyboard at the top of the stairs.

‘I’ve been calling you, but it kept going to voicemail, so I let myself in with the spare key. Why aren’t you open – is everything all right?’

Debbie staggered down the stairs from her bedroom.‘We can’t open today. We’ve got no gas or hot water,’ she explained, lifting the upended ironing board out of her way. The contents of the cupboard were still strewn across the hallway floor, after Debbie’s frantic efforts to locate the cat carrier during the night.

‘Boiler finally packed in?’ Jo asked. Debbie nodded sheepishly. Jo’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, Debs, you knew that needed to be sorted out!’

‘I know, Jo. Please, I had enough of a telling-off from John about it last night.’

‘John’s been round? Last night?’ Jo’s mouth curled into a smile; I sensed that, like me, she also nursed hopes on this subject. ‘So, it’s not all bad news then. I’ll put the kettle on, then you can tell me all about it.’ She bustled past Debbie into the kitchen.

I followed Debbie into the living room, where she slumped, yawning, onto a dining chair. The sound of voices had finally roused the kittens and they trotted towards the kitchen in hope of breakfast. I could hear their excited mewing as they tried to get Jo’s attention.

‘Oh, all right kitties, here you go,’ she said, filling their bowls with cat biscuits. A couple of minutes later, Jo put a cup of coffee and a slice of toast on the table in front of Debbie.

‘Thanks, Jo,’ Debbie murmured, taking a bite.

‘So go on then, tell me what happened.’ Jo’s eyes glinted with eager anticipation. Debbie rubbed her face. ‘Well, around three a.m. Molly came and told me the gas was leaking.’

Jo did a double-take.‘Molly told you the gas was leaking?’ she repeated.

Debbie took a sip of coffee.‘Well, she didn’ttell me, obviously, but she must have known something was wrong, because she kept waking me up, wanting me to follow her downstairs.’

Jo cast an admiring look in my direction, then listened avidly while Debbie recounted the night’s events. She sat in open-mouthed horror when Debbie described the dripping boiler and hissing gas pipe; chuckled as she explained how we had all stood on the street, waiting for John to arrive; and couldn’t contain her glee when Debbie admitted that she and John had stayed up past dawn drinking tea. Having finished her story, Debbie stifled another yawn.

‘So, what’s next?’ Jo asked.

‘I’ve got to speak to the bank today about increasing the loan. John said he’s going to try and find us a replacement this week—’

‘I’m not talking about the boiler!’ Jo cut in, exasperated. ‘I mean what’s next with John?’

Debbie looked at the table bashfully.‘I don’t know, Jo – probably nothing. We didn’t exactly discuss our future plans. It was hardly the time or place.’

‘Are you kidding, Debs? He came out to help you in the middle of the night. He’s seen you in your dressing gown! That’s practically married, in my book.’

Debbie winced.‘Please, don’t remind me.’ She took a bite of toast, avoiding Jo’s piercing gaze. ‘I suppose I do owe him, after what he did for us,’ she said at last, to emphatic nodding from Jo. ‘Maybe I should offer to take him for a drink, to say thanks.’

Jo was silent, but I saw her smile as she took a sip from her mug.

John returned to the caf? a few days later to fit the new boiler. The walls in the flat shook with banging and drilling from the kitchen below, followed eventually by gurgling in the pipes as the heating system refilled.

It was late afternoon by the time Debbie came upstairs to the flat, and she disappeared immediately into the bathroom to run herself a bath. I was desperate to know how she and John had got on with each other, but I had to wait until she and Sophie ate dinner before my curiosity was satisfied.

Debbie looked refreshed in clean pyjamas, her hair still damp from the bath, as she placed two bowls of pasta on the dining table.

‘Soph, just out of interest, how would you feel if, one evening, I went out for a drink?’ Her voice was studiedly casual, but my ears pricked up.

‘With Jo?’ Sophie asked disinterestedly, scrolling across the screen of her phone.

Debbie paused.‘No, not with Jo. With John.’ Her eyes flicked nervously across the table.

‘John? Who’s John?’ A distracted frown was forming between Sophie’s brows.

‘John the plumber. Who replaced the boiler.’

Sophie looked up, her face a study in befuddlement.‘John the plumber?’ Debbie nodded. Sophie looked perplexed for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, whatever.’

‘Whatever?’ Debbie repeated. ‘Is that “whatever” as in “I don’t mind”, or “whatever” as in “I do mind”?’

Sophie looked infuriated and amused in equal measure.‘It means “whatever”, Mum, as in “Do whatever you like”. You can go for a drink with whoever you want to go for a drink with.’

Debbie seemed troubled, unsure whether Sophie’s encouragement was genuine or sarcastic. Sophie lifted a forkful of pasta into her mouth with one hand while tapping her phone with the other, oblivious to her mother’s discomfort.

‘But, you wouldn’t find it … strange at all?’ Debbie persisted.

Sophie put her fork down on her plate and looked calmly at Debbie.‘Mum, like I said, I don’t mind. If you want to go for a drink with John, then go for a drink with John. It’s about time you got yourself out there.’ Debbie smiled, visibly touched by Sophie’s response. ‘Otherwise you’re going to turn into one of those crazy women who live alone and talk to their cats. Let’s be honest, you’re not far off it already.’

Debbie’s smile faded. She opened her mouth to protest, but hesitated, looking down at her food in silence. From my position on the arm of the sofa I delivered my haughtiest stare at Sophie, bristling at the suggestion that there was anything crazy about the way in which Debbie talked to me.

‘Okay, I just wanted to check. Thanks, Soph,’ Debbie said meekly, and Sophie shrugged again.

John’s name was not mentioned again, and as the week went on I began to despair of Debbie following through on her plan to take him for a drink. A few nights later, however, she disappeared up to her bedroom after work. I could hear drawers being opened and closed, and her cries of frustration made me think that her evening’s plans must involve something other than a takeaway with Jo. My curiosity piqued, I trotted upstairs and peered round her bedroom door, to see Debbie standing next to the bed in her dressing gown, pink-cheeked and agitated. She had emptied the contents of her wardrobe onto the bed, where the clothes lay in a tangled heap on the quilt. Sophie was sitting at the dressing table, her chin resting on her hand, looking bored.

‘How I can have so many clothes, and yet still have nothing to wear?’ Debbie whined.

I jumped onto the bed, treading carefully around the mounds of sweaters, skirts and trousers.

‘You’ve got loads of stuff to wear, Mum, you’ve just got to make a decision,’ Sophie replied glumly.

Debbie dropped hopelessly onto the edge of the bed. She looked close to tears, so I scaled a mound of knitwear to rub against her arm. She stroked me despondently while Sophie, tutting with frustration at her mother’s indecisiveness, leant over to tackle the mountain of clothes.

‘No; no; possibly; no,’ Sophie said, assessing each item in turn before placing it back on the bed. ‘This is quite nice.’ She held up a pink V-necked top.

Debbie took it and held it in front of her body.‘You don’t think it’s a bit … revealing?’ she asked, an uncertain smile playing around her lips.

‘Well, if you’re worried, why don’t you wear this under it?’ Sophie replied calmly, plucking a cream-coloured camisole from the pile and handing it to Debbie. ‘Or something on top … No, Mum, not that!’ – Debbie had picked up a chunky-knit cardigan – ‘a scarf or something. You could wear your nice jeans, the fitted ones.’

Debbie was unconvinced, but Sophie’s enthusiasm gave her the confidence to try the ensemble. While she changed, I climbed onto a pile of rejected clothes, circling a few times to form a nest. I lay down and began to wash.

‘What do you think?’ Debbie asked, standing in front of her full-length mirror. It was not often that I saw her wear anything other than her work uniform of black trousers and nondescript sweater. The deep pink of her top brought out the blue of her eyes. ‘Are you sure it’s not too much, Soph?’ She smiled, girlishly self-conscious, and for a moment I glimpsed Sophie in her face.

Sophie eyed her mother up and down dispassionately.‘No, Mum, you actually look all right.’

Debbie sighed and stared at her reflection, the look on her face suggesting resignation rather than satisfaction.

‘Hurry up, Mum – you don’t want to keep John waiting,’ Sophie teased. My ears pricked up. I was delighted, at last, to hear confirmation that Debbie’s plans involved John.

Debbie glanced at her watch and gasped.‘I’ve just remembered why I never wear heels!’ she muttered as she sat on the end of the bed, struggling to force her feet into a pair of shoes. She slipped on her jacket and grabbed her handbag. ‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she instructed Sophie, who rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

In the hallway, Debbie blew us both a kiss before disappearing downstairs and letting herself out through the caf?. I sat at the top of the stairs, listening as the clicking of her heels on the cobbles faded into the distance.

Much later that evening, after Sophie had gone to bed, I was woken by the sound of the caf? door slamming. Debbie climbed the stairs and groaned with relief as she slipped her shoes off. I stepped into the hall to greet her.

‘Good evening, Molly,’ she smiled and I trotted towards her, my tail raised in salutation.

The giggly tone of Debbie’s voice suggested the evening had gone well, and I hoped she would want to talk about it. She poured herself a glass of water at the kitchen sink before hobbling to the sofa, where I jumped onto the cushion next to her.

‘What is it, Molly? Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked. I purred encouragingly. ‘Well, you can purr all you like. I’m not a crazy woman who talks to cats, you know. At least, not yet.’ She chuckled. ‘And, besides, a lady will never kiss and tell.’ She pressed my nose gently but firmly with the tip of her finger, before drinking her water in one long gulp. When the glass was empty she pushed herself upright. ‘Time I got to bed,’ she announced, wincing at the pain in her feet.

My tail twitched with frustration as I watched her limp out of the room. I desperately wanted to hear details about how the evening had gone, and her refusal to talk left me feeling thwarted. She made her way slowly upstairs to the bedroom, and I smiled inwardly when I heard her groan, upon finding her bed still covered in piles of clothes.

31 [Êàðòèíêà: i_002.jpg]

The week after Debbie and John’s date began like any other. Sophie rushed out on Monday morning, late for her bus; Debbie ate a piece of toast at the kitchen sink, before disappearing downstairs to work; and I spent the day in the flat, supervising the kittens. They were almost three months old now, and although I had done what I could to curb their more boisterous tendencies, I couldn’t help but notice the damage they had wrought around the living room: the frayed fabric on the sofa corners, the chewed rug tassels and the scratched wallpaper.

Debbie had never said a word to admonish them for their behaviour, but my heart always sank when I uncovered new evidence of their destructiveness; it meant the time was surely coming when Debbie would rehome them. I knew the kittens would thrive in their own homes, with loving owners and the space they needed to develop into mature, independent cats. I knew it would be wrong to keep them cooped up together with me in the tiny flat. And yet, in spite of all that, my heart ached whenever I thought of being separated from them.

When Debbie returned to the flat that evening she looked tired and worn out. She flopped onto the sofa next to Sophie, kicking off her shoes.

‘Good day at school?’ Debbie asked.

Sophie shrugged.‘It was all right. Just teachers stressing about exams, as usual.’

Debbie patted Sophie’s arm encouragingly. ‘Nearly there now, Soph, just a few more weeks to get through, then you can relax.’ She flicked through the pile of post that she had carried upstairs with her, sighing when she saw the postmark on one of the envelopes. ‘Another letter from Stourton District Council. Iwonder what demand they’ve come up with this time.’ The previous few weeks had been punctuated by the arrival of letters from the town council, each one raising a new objection to Debbie’s plans for the cat caf?. She grimaced as she ripped open the envelope.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ she said, scanning the letter’s contents.

‘What?’ Sophie replied. Debbie’s mouth had fallen open and her lips were pale. ‘Mum, what’s wrong? You’re worrying me.’

‘I can’t believe it. Nothing’s wrong, Soph. Read this, will you?’ She handed the letter to Sophie, sliding forward to perch on the edge of the sofa.

Not wanting to be left out of whatever crisis was brewing, I jumped off the windowsill and went to sit by Debbie’s feet.

Sophie’s eyes flicked across the letter, her brow knitted in concentration. But, as she handed the letter back to Debbie, she grinned. ‘They’re giving you permission to open the cat caf?. They’ve said yes, Mum!’

Debbie leapt up, her sudden movement sending me and the kittens scattering across the room in panic. She was clutching the letter close to her chest, as if frightened that someone might snatch it from her. She paced back and forth across the rug, rereading phrases from the letter aloud, reassuring herself that she hadn’t misunderstood their meaning.

‘ “As long as all the cats in question are the owner’s pets and will not to be offered to the public for adoption, it will not be necessary to obtain a licence for the cat caf? from Animal Welfare.” ’ Debbie emitted a gasp of disbelief. ‘I can’t believe it! After everything they put us through, it turns out all they needed was confirmation that the cats belong to me and won’t be rehomed!’

She let out a high-pitched squeal and began to jump up and down on the rug as the letter’s meaning sank in. The kittens, responding to her excitement, began to chase each other in frenzied circuits around the living room, but Debbie didn’t seem to notice them. ‘“Molly’s Cat Caf?”. It’ll be your caf?, Molls – yours and the kittens’. What will the old battleaxe make of that, eh?’ Debbie smiled at me, her eyes glinting. Behind her, Purdy, hotly pursued by Abby, shot up the living-room curtain, startling Debbie and making her shriek.

Sophie stood up and touched her mother’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should sit down while you let it sink in, Mum,’ she said soothingly.

‘Sit down? How can I sit down! This calls for a celebration,’ Debbie shouted gleefully, waving the letter in the air. She ran into the kitchen, where I could hear her rummaging noisily through the kitchen cupboards. ‘Why is there never any champagne when you need it?’ she shouted.

‘Because you drank it the night the kittens were born,’ Sophie replied drily.

‘Well, I should have bought some more to replace it,’ Debbie yelled. ‘Anyone would think we don’t have enough things to celebrate in this flat!’ A few moments later she reappeared, carrying a bottle and two wine glasses on a tray. ‘Right, I’m afraid this is the best I can do,’ she said, placing the tray on the dining table.

‘Oh, Mum, what is that?’ Sophie asked, picking up the bottle dubiously. ‘Lambrini Cherry? Are you kidding?’

‘I know, but it’s the best we’ve got. I won it at the tombola at the school Christmas fair, remember?’ She peeled off a paper raffle ticket, which had been taped to the neck of the bottle, then poured the fizzing pink liquid into the glasses.

‘To Molly’s Cat Caf?!’ Debbie toasted merrily, clinking her glass against Sophie’s.

Sophie took a sip, winced, then ran into the kitchen to spit her mouthful into the sink.‘Urgh, that’s rank, Mum,’ she shouted, rinsing her mouth with tap water.

Debbie picked up the bottle and examined the label.‘Hmm. Expiry date was October of last year. That might explain the vinegary tang. Never mind.’ She took the bottle into the kitchen and emptied it down the plughole.

The following fortnight passed in a state of frenetic activity as Debbie prepared for a final inspection by Environmental Health. She spent her days making adjustments to the caf?, while I listened to the goings-on from behind the plyboard panel at the top of the stairs. The installation of a new gate next to the serving counter – designed to block feline access to the kitchen – was of little interest to me, but my ears pricked up with curiosity when I heard her accept a large delivery from a pet-supplies van parked outside. When John was set to work in the alleyway with a saw and long pieces of timber, I pressed my nose against the living-room window, eager to see what he was building, but all I could make out were the offcuts of wood that he threw into the recycling bin. Debbie spent her evenings in the flat with Sophie, whose exams were at last finished, and together they devised dishes for the new cat-themed menu.

‘How about Tummy Tickler Teacakes?’ she asked Sophie, tapping her cheek thoughtfully with her pen.

Sophie nodded enthusiastically.‘Frosty Paws Cake-Pops?’ she suggested in return, while Debbie scribbled keenly on her notepad.

‘We’ve got to have some tuna on there somewhere. It’s Molly’s favourite, after all,’ Debbie insisted. ‘What about tuna-melt muffins, with grated cheese?’ Sophie suggested. ‘Perfect,’ Debbie smiled, as my mouth began to water.

When the day of the inspection arrived, Debbie was agitated. She paced around the flat, unable to eat any breakfast, and smiled wanly when Sophie shouted,‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’ll be fine,’ on her way out.

At the appointed time, Debbie ran down to the caf? and I listened from the top of the stairs as she showed the Environmental Health Inspector around the premises. She sounded calm and businesslike as she answered his questions, proudly displaying her colour-coded cleaning materials – red for the cat area, blue for the kitchen – and showing him our vaccination certificates. At last Debbie walked the inspector to the caf? door, bidding him farewell and closing it carefully behind him. Then I heard her squeal and she raced up the stairs.

‘Guess what, Molly – we passed!’ she shrieked, leaping over the plyboard panel and scooping me up into the air.

Her excitement was infectious and I let her spin me around in the air, even though it made me dizzy.

‘Would you like to go downstairs and explore your caf??’ Debbie asked the kittens as they frolicked around her, sensing her mood. With mock-solemnity, she removed the plyboard barrier and ushered them onto the top step.

Purdy led the charge, with the others following behind, all of them torn between excitement and fear. I brought up the rear of the procession alongside Maisie, who preferred to stick close to me for reassurance. When she reached the bottom step, Purdy paused, suddenly cowed by the size and unfamiliarity of the caf?. Behind her, the kittens formed a nervous queue. I slipped past them to stand on the caf? floor, encouraging them to follow me. They inched slowly forwards, taking cautious, precise steps across the flagstones as they gazed around them, their eyes wide with wonder.

Only when they had all stepped onto the flagstones did I turn to look too. The caf? felt instantly familiar. I quickly spotted my trail of paw prints on the floor, and my gingham cushion in the window. But dotted around the caf?, between the tables and chairs, were scratching posts, polythene play tunnels and platform towers. Debbie had placed two cosy armchairs in front of the stove, each with a cushion reading ‘Reserved for the cat’ propped against its back. On the floor between the armchairs was a basket full of cat toys, which Abby and Bella wasted no time in emptying onto the floor, where they began to bat a catnip mouse between them.

When I turned around I saw that John had fixed wooden planks to one of the walls in a zigzag formation, to make a walkway that led up to a small hammock suspended from the ceiling. Purdy immediately mounted the lowest plank and, flicking her tail from side to side, sashayed up to the hammock at the top. She climbed inside and stared triumphantly down at her siblings.

Debbie and I stood in the middle of the caf?, watching them play. ‘Do you think they like it, Molly?’ she asked, and I purred at her. I knew they loved it. I did too.

32 [Êàðòèíêà: i_003.jpg]

Molly’s Cat Caf? opened for business the following week. I took my role as the caf?’s figurehead seriously, sitting on my cushion in the window, looking out onto the street with pride. There was a noticeable buzz around the caf? on launch day: Debbie had draped bunting in the window, and a large chalkboard stood on the pavement outside, declaring the caf? ‘Open for Coffee, Cake and Cuddles’. Inquisitive passers-by gathered in front of the glass to peer inside, and a glimpse of the kittens was often enough to tempt them through the door.

Just before lunchtime, my meditative daze was interrupted by the sound of wheels rattling on the cobblestones outside. I opened my eyes to see the old lady with the shopping trolley striding past the caf?, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. I instinctively braced myself for confrontation, but she kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, determined not to look in my direction. Watching her trundle away, I felt a glow of satisfaction. Behind me, Debbie was happily handing out menus and taking orders, while delighted customers played with the kittens. The old woman’s attempt to sabotage the caf? had failed, and there was nothing more she could do to hurt us.

In those early days I sometimes had to open my eyes and look around, to be sure that the cat caf? was not a dream. Ever since my incarceration in the flat I had prepared myself for the worst, imagining the regretful look on Debbie’s face as she broke the news that she had found new homes for the kittens and me. I had rehearsed the scene in my mind so many times that it felt real, and I would sometimes wake from a nap with a jolt, convinced that when I opened my eyes I would find that the kittens had gone.

About a week after the caf?’s relaunch, I was woken by the tinkling of the bell on the door. Still half-asleep and momentarily panicked, I scanned the caf? to check that all the kittens were present. Reassured that there was no cause for alarm, I watched drowsily as a woman pushed an elderly lady in a wheelchair throughthe caf? to a table.

I lowered my chin to my paws and closed my eyes, but something prevented me from drifting off. There was a scent in the air that I recognized, but could not place. Unable to sleep, I jumped down from the armchair and followed the scent trail across the caf?. Unaware that I was stalking up behind them, the two customers murmured to each other as they perused their menus. My feeling of unease was growing, evoking a sensation that I could only describe as homesickness. When I was a few paces away from the customers, I stopped dead in my tracks. My mind and senses were suddenly alert with recognition: the scent was lavender.

I padded around the side of the wheelchair to look at the figure inside it. An elderly woman was slumped low in the seat, her face hidden behind her menu. Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up, I lifted a paw and tugged at the folds of skirt around the lady’s ankles. She peered over the side of her chair, two rheumy blue eyes in a face framed by soft waves of silver.

‘Well now, who’s this?’ she asked, extending one hand shakily towards me.

With my heart beating in my throat, I stepped forwards to sniff her papery skin. In that instant, a wave of emotion stronger than anything I had ever experienced surged through me and, before I even had time to think, I had leapt over the arm of the wheelchair and into the lady’s lap.

‘I think that cat likes you, Margery,’ said the young woman at the table, as I rubbed my head ecstatically against the soft folds of Margery’s cheek.

‘I used to have a cat just like this,’ she replied, clucking softly as she stroked my body. ‘There, there, puss,’ she whispered, and I purred so loudly that I thought my heart would burst.

When I pulled my back from Margery’s face, I saw that Debbie had walked over to the table and was watching in amazement. ‘This is Molly,’ she said. ‘I’ve only had her for a few months. She was a stray.’

‘Oh, Molly, yes – that’s her name!’ Margery replied, her eyes still on me, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Is that you, Molly?’ She took hold of my face gently, between quivering hands. I purred and rubbed her fingers with my whiskers, wanting to leave her in no doubt of who I was.

So many times, since losing Margery, I had sought solace in memories of our life together. Imagining her smile, or the feel of her hands on my fur, had kept me going when I was alone and desperate. Remembering our happy times at home had given me faith that another loving owner might be out there, somewhere, if only I could find them. But, as time passed, Margery’s image had faded, becoming pale and indistinct like the sun-bleached photographs she had kept on the mantelpiece. Then, when I could no longer call her image to mind, all that had remained was the memory of how she had made me feel: safe, and loved.

As Margery cradled me on her lap in the caf?, I felt transported back to my kittenhood, believing that nothing could hurt me while I was in her arms. My unhappy time at Rob’s house, the lonely journey to Stourton, my bittersweet memories of life in the alley, even my joy at having the kittens – all fell away, and for a few blissful moments it was just me and Margery, and our love for each other. Just as it had been in the beginning.

I have no idea how long we remained like that, utterly absorbed in each other, feeling as if the world had shrunk to the chair that held us both.

Eventually, unwillingly, I started to become aware of the caf? around us. I heard hushed voices nearby, the sound of the kittens playing and somebody sniffing above my head. When at last I opened my eyes, I saw Debbie standing next to Margery’s wheelchair, dabbing her cheek with a tissue.

‘She moved into the care home last year. I knew she loved cats, so when I heard about this place I decided to bring her,’ Margery’s companion said quietly.

‘Do you think Molly could really have been her cat?’ Debbie whispered.

‘She’s got advanced dementia and gets confused by a lot of things, but she seems pretty certain about this,’ the carer replied.

‘Molly does too,’ Debbie agreed. ‘I’ve never seen her react like this to a stranger before.’

Debbie brought Margery a pot of tea and a Cat’s Whiskers cookie, pulling up a stool beside her wheelchair.

Margery took her hand.‘This is my cat Molly, you know,’ she said, beaming at Debbie.

‘I know, Margery. Isn’t it lovely that you’ve found each other again?’

Margery’s smile lit up her face.

‘I wonder how she managed to find her way to Stourton,’ Debbie prompted, at which Margery’s brow furrowed. ‘She’s Molly, my cat,’ she repeated.

I sensed her agitation, and knew that confusion was beginning to descend. I rubbed my head against her hand, trying to reassure her that we were together again, and that nothing else mattered.

All too soon it was time for Margery to leave. Debbie took a photograph of the two of us, before lifting me gently from Margery’s lap. ‘You will come back, I hope?’ Debbie asked, as she walked them to the door.

The carer promised they would return soon.‘It’s done her the world of good,’ she smiled.

As Margery was wheeled past, she reached out and took Debbie’s hand, grasping it tightly. ‘She’s my cat, you know,’ she said, looking up into Debbie’s face intently.

Debbie squeezed her hand and nodded.‘I know, Margery. Come back and see her soon.’

Over dinner that evening Debbie told Sophie about what had happened, her eyes filling with tears as she described our reunion. She passed her phone to Sophie, its screen displaying the photo of the two of us.

‘Wow!’ Sophie said, her eyes reddening. She was studying the photo closely when the phone beeped. ‘It’s a text from John, Mum,’ Sophie said, handing the phone back to Debbie. ‘He says you need to talk.’

33 [Êàðòèíêà: i_004.jpg]

Debbie unlocked the door and stood aside to let John in, gesturing towards the nearest table. Outside, the evening sky was heavy with low cloud, and a sharp wind whipped through the trees, heralding the arrival of a storm. In the dusky half-light of the caf? I crouched inside the cardboard box by the stove, trying to quell a feeling of foreboding in my stomach.

John smiled tensely at Debbie as he walked past her, but she remained resolutely aloof. Although I didn’t understand what had caused this sudden coolness between them, I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew I had played a part in bringing them together, and I had done everything I could to encourage Debbie to trust John. If he had done something to betray her trust, would I have to bear some of the responsibility for that too?

He slung his jacket over a chair and sat down with his back to me. Debbie sat opposite him across a small table, her face pale but composed as she waited for him to speak.

‘Thanks for letting me come at such short notice,’ John began, sounding polite to the point of formality.

‘So, what do we need to talk about?’ Debbie replied briskly. She looked him in the eye, her gaze challenging him.

John sighed and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding it across the table towards her.‘This came through my letterbox this morning,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought it was only fair to show you.’

Debbie took the single sheet of paper from the envelope. Her face remained impassive as she read, but I could see the page quiver with the trembling of her hands. When she had finished, she folded the letter up and slotted it back inside its envelope.

‘Quite a read, isn’t it?’ she said coldly, placing the letter on the table between them. ‘I notice that whoever wrote it was too much of a coward to sign it. But then, I suppose, poison-pen letters are always anonymous.’ Her voice caught as she spoke and her eyes looked glassy.

I longed to comfort her, to jump into her lap and soothe her with my purr, but I knew this situation was beyond my power to fix. John’s posture suggested that he was looking at her, waiting for her to continue.

‘So I guess you’re here to tell me that you don’t want anything more to do with me?’ Debbie asked matter-of-factly. ‘According to this’ – she waved her hand dismissively at the letter – ‘I’m planning to fleece you for your money, then do a runner. Because that’s what I’ve done before, apparently.’ She took a sharp intake of breath as if, by saying the words out loud, their meaning had hit her for the first time. Her eyes were defiant, but I could see what an effort it was taking for her to stay calm.

‘I never said I believed it,’ John replied quietly. ‘I considered throwing it away and saying nothing about it. But I thought it was better to deal with … something like this … out in the open. I don’t know who wrote it, but—’

‘Oh, I know who wrote it,’ Debbie cut in, her composure suddenly faltering. ‘The same vicious old woman who tried to have us closed down by Environmental Health.’ Her eyes had narrowed and her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. John remained motionless, looking at her across the table, and for a moment the room was silent but for the sound of the caf? awning flapping in the wind outside.

‘Vicious old woman?’ he repeated.

Debbie’s eyes flashed at him. ‘The wretched battleaxe who’s always going up and down the parade, shooting me filthy looks, saying nasty things to Sophie in the street. The old bat has had it in for me since the moment we moved in. She even tried to run Molly down with her shopping trolley once.’ She laughed mirthlessly, acknowledging the apparent absurdity of what she was saying. ‘She said it was an accident and scurried away, but Sophie saw what happened, and it was deliberate. I knew the woman was crazy, but I didn’t think she’d go this far.’ The words poured out of her, betrayingthe resentment that she had kept pent up for so long. When she had finished speaking, her shoulders drooped and she looked down at her hands, avoiding John’s gaze.

I wished I could see his face to gauge his reaction, but his back was squarely to me. He remained silent while he considered her words.‘An old woman with a shopping trolley?’ he asked at last. Debbie nodded, still staring sadly at her hands. ‘Red hair?’

She looked up.‘That’s the one. Why, friend of yours, is she?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘Not exactly, but I’m pretty sure I know who you mean. She’s lived in Stourton for as long as I can remember. Used to own this place in fact.’

Debbie fixed him with a stare.‘This place? You mean the caf??’

John nodded.‘I used to come in here when I was a kid. She was always behind the counter.’ Debbie stared at him, wide-eyed, impatient to hear more. ‘She owned it with her husband, but then one day he disappeared, did a runner—’ John stopped mid-sentence, realizing that he had unwittingly echoed the letter’s accusation against Debbie. ‘Anyway, according to town gossip, he’d run up huge debts: gambling, I think. The caf? was in their joint name, so when the bailiffs showed up, she had no choice but to sell. After that she seemed to take it upon herself to make other people’s lives miserable. She was always making complaints, writing letters, reporting people to the police for no good reason. After a while no one took her seriously – everyone just ignored her.’

‘Well, I can’t ignore her, can I?’ Debbie cut in sharply. ‘The caf? nearly went under, thanks to her interference. I thought we were going to default on the mortgage. Sophie and I could have been homeless.’ She swallowed a sob. ‘And now she’s played her trump card by scaring you off.I’ve got to hand it to her, she plays a good game.’ She turned her head towards the window so that John could not see her tears.

‘Who said anything about her scaring me off?’ John replied quietly.

‘Well, isn’t that why you’re here?’ Debbie shot back defiantly. ‘That’s what “We need to talk” usually means. This is a small town. You couldn’t risk getting involved with someone with my reputation.’ She picked up the letter and waved it towards him. ‘There’s no smoke without fire, after all – isn’t that what you think?’

I had never seen Debbie like this before, not even in the heat of an argument with Sophie. Her lips were white and, although she was crying, she looked like she was seething with rage. I held my breath, praying that John would see through her hostility and recognize the hurt that lay underneath. I willed him to say that he didn’t believe what was written in the letter, that the old woman was crazy and that he trusted Debbie completely. But he didn’t say anything. He was looking down at the table, seemingly in no rush to put her out of her misery.

‘I know you don’t get on with Sophie’s dad,’ he began slowly, ‘but that’s all I know. To be honest, it’s never felt appropriate to ask. Your past is your private business—’

‘Not any more, apparently,’ Debbie interrupted, curtly.

John sighed and I saw his shoulders drop. The thought flashed through my mind that he was giving up, that he was about to take his coat and leave. The hairs on my back prickled in frustration. Surely they could see that this mutual distrust was exactly what the old woman had hoped to achieve, and that if John walked out now, she would have won? I wished I could do something to rescue the situation, to make them realize that they were on the same side. But I knew that, on this occasion, there was nothing I could do but watch.

‘Look …’ When John finally spoke, his voice was conciliatory. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t believe a word of this letter. Like you said, this woman has clearly had it in for you for a while. But maybe’ – Debbie breathed in sharply – ‘maybe it is appropriate for me to ask about your past. Not because I’m suspicious of you, but just because I’m interested.’

John sat back in his chair to show that he had said his piece. His words had sounded good to me, but Debbie’s face remained stony. Outside, the storm had swept in, blowing sheets of rain horizontally along the parade and rattling the caf? door in its frame. The sky had darkened to an ominous steel-grey, leaving Debbie and John sitting in near-darkness. I felt my pupils dilate as my eyes adjusted to the low light.

‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Since you’re interested … ’ Her chin dropped and her eyes rested on the table between them as she spoke. ‘Sophie’s father and I ran a business together in Oxford – property management. He did the hands-on maintenance stuff, and I kept things ticking over in the office at home: answering phone calls, speaking to tenants, that sort of thing. It was my contribution to the household while Sophie was little.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if girding herself to continue.

‘Andrew decided we should buy a place, rent it out and manage it ourselves. He said managing other people’s property was a mug’s game, that the real money was made by the landlords. I wasn’t sure – property in Oxford’s not exactly cheap, and we could only just afford our own mortgage – but he was adamant. He said it would be an investment, a nest egg for our future. He’d already found a place, a repossessed house that was up for auction. The plan was to convert it into flats …’ Debbie’s voice cracked, and her eyes stayed fixed on the table.

John had remained completely motionless while she spoke, listening intently.

‘Anyway, we bought it, but the renovations seemed to go on forever. It turned out the property was a wreck: subsidence, damp – you name it. Andrew became obsessed, spending all his time there. Sophie and I hardly ever saw him. Meanwhile I was trying to hold things together at home. The phone was ringing off the hook, tenants complaining that repairs hadn’t been done, and landlords saying the rent hadn’t been paid. And I told all of them that everything would be okay, that we were on top of it, there was nothing to worry about.’ Debbie’s face crumpled. ‘But there was more to worry about than I realized.’ She hung her head, and I could see tears drop into her lap. ‘He’d been keeping the rent money,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Taking it from the tenants, but rather than paying the landlords, he’d been pumping it into that money-pit of a house. I only found out when one of the landlords turned up on our doorstep.’ Her shoulders shook as she sobbed silently.

‘That must have been horrific,’ John said.

‘That wasn’t the worst of it,’ Debbie continued. ‘When it all came out, the police got involved. Andrew claimed that he knew nothing about it, that I’d been responsible for the company finances and he had no idea what had been going on. We were both charged with obtaining property by deception.’

Debbie had slumped low in her chair. She looked broken, distraught, and I was desperate to comfort her.

‘It didn’t wash in court, of course,’ she went on. ‘The bank had evidence that he’d handled all the money transfers. He got nine months, suspended on the basis that it was his first offence. He was liable for court costs and compensation and, because everything was in our joint names, we had to sell our home.’ She exhaled a long breath and lifted her chin. ‘Of course that was when he decided to tell me that he’d met someone else.’

‘The bastard!’ John said. Debbie mustered a rueful smile and pulled a tissue out of her pocket to wipe her eyes.

‘So there you have it,’ she concluded. ‘That’s my dirty laundry, now aired in public, thanks to a bitter, lonely old woman. Yes, I was once investigated by the police, but my name was cleared. The question is: What are you going to do about it?’

34 [Êàðòèíêà: i_005.jpg]

Jo and Debbie were in the caf? kitchen a couple of nights later, preparing for their Friday night takeaway. Jo was reading the letter with a look of growing horror, while Debbie separated the slices of their pizza with a knife.

‘The evil witch!’ Jo tossed the letter onto the worktop in disgust. ‘Please tell me John wasn’t taken in by it?’

Debbie shook her head.‘I thought it was touch-and-go for a while, but no, he wasn’t taken in. Turns out she used to own this place, and has had it in for anyone who’s run it since.’

‘It makes my blood boil, Debs – it really does,’ Jo replied, prising the lids off two bottles of beer. ‘How dare she make accusations like that about you? And in such an underhand way, too. She should at least have the nerve to say it to your face.’

They moved across the caf? to a table, where Debbie placed the pizza box between them. ‘I know and, believe me, I was livid when I first read it. But then I realized that she’s just a sad, lonely woman who has nothing better to do with her time than try and ruin other people’s lives. She’s tried everything else toget at me, and this was her last-ditch attempt.’ Debbie took a sip of beer, but Jo’s brow remained knitted.

‘I think you’re being very understanding, Debs. I bet her fingerprints are all over that letter. If it was me, I’d get the police onto her. It’s libel!’

Debbie sighed.‘She’s not worth it, Jo. She’s just a bitter old woman and, despite her best attempts, she’s failed. The caf?’s doing better than ever, and John and I are okay. I don’t want to waste any more time thinking about her.’

Jo frowned as she took a bite of pizza, seemingly reluctant to let the subject drop. The smell of their meal had drifted up to the flat and the kittens soon appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They sniffed the air hopefully, before running towards the table in search of scraps.

‘You know what?’ Debbie said, placing a pizza crust on her plate. ‘The irony is that if anyone should understand what I’ve been through, it’s her. She went through pretty much the same thing with her husband as I did with Andrew. It’s sad, really, when you think about it. She obviously never got over it.’

‘Maybe itis sad, Debs, but that doesn’t give her the right to try and ruin your life. And I don’t share your confidence that this was her last-ditch attempt. Who knows what she might try next, if she isn’t stopped.’

Debbie shook her head firmly.‘I appreciate your concern, Jo, but really, I wouldn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’d rattled me. It’s over – she’s lost.’

To make her point, Debbie walked over to the serving counter and picked up the letter, tearing it in half, before dropping it into the bin. When she got back to the table she found that Purdy had jumped into her seat and was sniffing the edge of her plate. Debbie scooped her up and placed her gently but firmly back on the floor.

‘Fair enough – it’s your call, but I’d keep my wits about me, if I were you.’ Jo’s eyes were on Purdy, who, having conceded defeat over the pizza, was scampering up the wooden walkway to the hammock. ‘And maybe you should keep the kittens indoors for the time being. You wouldn’t want them to end up in a stew in the old bat’s kitchen.’

Debbie shot a horrified look across the table.‘Jo, how could you even suggest such a thing! She’s a bitter old woman, not a psychopath.’

Jo shrugged.‘I hope you’re right, Debs. But who knows what she’s capable of?’

Debbie chose not to respond, and they carried on eating in silence. When they had finished, Jo placed the cardboard pizza box on the floor and the kittens rushed over, jostling with each other to be the first to get to its contents. I watched as they devoured the drops of melted cheese and clusters of ground beef, oblivious to the conversation going on around them.

I was unable to get Jo’s words out of my mind, however. Much as I wanted to believe Debbie, my instincts were telling me that Jo was right – that there was no way of knowing what the old woman might do next. I closed my eyes and pictured the look on her face as she thrust her shopping trolley towards me on the street. She had wanted to hurt me, of that I was certain. She had tried, and failed, to sabotage the caf? and Debbie’s relationship with John. Surely her next step would be to hurt the kittens?

My anxiety did not go away, and in the days that followed I was unable to think about anything else. The kittens would soon be old enough to go outside, and I was terrified to think of what might happen if they encountered the old woman in the street. They had led a blessed life and I was convinced that their trusting, friendly natures would make them an easy target for the battleaxe’s ire. It made my blood run cold, just thinking about it.

The summer tourist season in Stourton was under way, the town’s population swollen with visitors. Coachloads of tourists were dispatched in the market square on a daily basis, to meander slowly around the town, admiring its picturesque streets and quaint stone cottages. They wandered in and out of shops in pairs or small clusters, filling their shopping bags with souvenirs and edible treats. As they passed along the cobbled parade they would often pause outside the caf? window, pointing at me through the glass. When they pushed the door open, their faces lit up with delight as the kittens rushed over to greet them.

The customers were happy, the kittens relished all the attention, and Debbie was thrilled with the caf?’s popularity, but still I could not relax. I felt like I was standing guard over my kittens, convinced that – if I dropped my guard – the old lady would pounce. Adrenaline surged through my body every time I heard the rattle of her trolley outside the window. I stared defiantly at her through the glass, but she never once looked at me, keeping her lips pursed and her eyes on the street ahead.

About a week after Jo and Debbie’s conversation, I heard Debbie talking on the phone, booking an appointment with the vet to have the kittens microchipped. I knew that meant they would soon be free to roam outside, and that I would be unable to protect them from the old woman any longer. I had no choice but to act; if I did nothing, I felt sure I would never have peace of mind again.

When the caf? opened that morning, I jumped onto the window cushion and waited. As soon as the old woman appeared on the other side of the street, I slipped out of the caf? and followed her.

She walked briskly to the end of the parade, where she turned right and headed towards the market square. I trotted behind her at a discreet distance, dodging a friendly tourist who tried to stroke me. When she reached the square, the old woman went into the fishmonger’s and I darted under a parked car to catch my breath. I hadn’t visited the square since I had first arrived in Stourton as a homeless stray, and I was overwhelmed by the noise and activity that assaulted me from all sides.

It was difficult to reconcile the hectic scene around me with the lonely square I had encountered at Christmas. It was market day, and packs of tourists surged along the pavements, spilling off the kerbs into the path of passing traffic. Shoppers moved slowly between the market stalls, gimlet-eyed as they searched for bargains, tugging dogs or bored children after them. The lively, bustling atmosphere could not be more different from the ambience I had experienced on my first night, but, in my agitated state, it felt no less daunting.

The old woman stepped out of the fishmonger’s and made her way across to the far side of the square. I dashed out from under the car and ran over the road, glimpsing the wheels of her trolley as they disappeared into a crowd of shoppers. I pushed into the melee, weaving between legs and pushchairs, and reached the pavement just in time tosee her turn down an alley between two shops. I padded closer, peering gingerly around the alley’s entrance. Up ahead, the woman was rapidly disappearing down the passageway and I knew I had to follow. I took a deep breath and entered the alley, automatically dropping to a defensive prowl.

The sounds of the market dropped away, and the rattle of the trolley’s wheels filled the enclosed path, magnified by the stone walls on both sides. I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the primitive instinct that warned me that I was being watched. Panicked, I glanced up to see a pair of cat’s eyes staring intently from the top of the wall beside me. My hackles rose in expectation of an attack, but the cat remained motionless, its eyes fixed with an expression that seemed curious rather than hostile.

A succession of confused images flashed through my mind, memories that had lain dormant for many months. I knew that I recognized the cat, but it took a few seconds to realize that it was the tortoiseshell I had found sleeping on a shed roof, soon after my arrival in Stourton. This was her alley; the same one I had wandered into the morning after my attack by the ginger tomcat. I felt a rush of gratitude when I saw her; it was thanks to her advice that I had sought out the churchyard for shelter, and consequently discovered the alleyway behind the caf?. I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition in her eye and I blinked at her, wishing I had time to thank her, belatedly, for what she had done for me. But I knew that, if I lingered, I would lose sight of the old woman, so I ran on, feeling the tortoiseshell’s inquisitive gaze still on my back.

At the end of the alley, the woman turned into a terrace of neat brick houses. She crossed the road and walked towards the last house in the row, standing her trolley on the pavement while she opened the garden gate. I darted under the hedge that bordered the front of the garden, and raced towards her front door. While she was fastening the gate shut behind her, I lay down on the path in front of her doorstep and closed my eyes.

I felt the path beneath me vibrate as her trolley rolled towards me. Inches from my prostrate body, the trolley stopped, and I half-opened one eye. The old woman surveyed me with a look of disgust.‘Scram, cat. Clear off!’ she said, nudging my leg with the tip of her shoe. I remained motionless and let out a pained yowl. Shocked, she leaned forwards, using her shopping trolley for support as she bent down to examine me more closely. She prodded me lightly on the flank with her finger and I let out another cry of pain, at which she straightened up, tutting in consternation.

I saw her cast a furtive look over her shoulder, as if checking to see that she was alone. She took her trolley tightly by the handle, and my heart began to thump in my chest. When I had set off in pursuit of her I had a hazy notion that, by confronting her, I would call her bluff. Now it had started to dawn on me that, in fact, she was about to call mine. Rather than putting an end to her campaign of harassment against Debbie, I had presented her with the perfect opportunity to finish what she had started: to run me over with her trolley and dispose of me in the privacy of her own home.

She yanked the trolley forward, but suddenly veered onto the grass, skirting around me as if I were roadkill. I felt a surge of relief that I was unharmed, which quickly turned to disappointment. Was she simply going to ignore me, leaving me– dying, for all she knew – in her front garden? I lay on the path, holding my breath, willing her not to go inside. I sensed she was looking at me, and I imagined her face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as she considered her options. I was sure she was convinced I was gravely injured. Would it occur to her that, if I was found dead outside her house, she would be the prime suspect?

I heard slow footsteps on the path behind me.‘What’s wrong with you?’ Her voice was irritable and impatient. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I began to whimper pitifully. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she tutted.

My ears twitched at the sound of the shopping trolley being unzipped behind me, followed by rustling noises as she moved its contents around. I felt one hand slide underneath my hind legs and another under my shoulders, but I lay still, fighting the natural urge to jump out of her hands and run away. She lifted my limp body off the path and I could hear her shallow breathing as she lowered me carefully into the trolley.

I opened my eyes in time to see her face disappear as she slid the zip shut above me.

35 [Êàðòèíêà: i_006.jpg]

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 mybelly: 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 caf? 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 caf? 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 caf? 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 caf?, 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 caf?. 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 caf?. It could be that simple. But I thinkyou’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.

Epilogue [Êàðòèíêà: i_002.jpg]

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 caf? 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 caf?. Intrigued, I jump off the dining table and follow her.

John is standing by the door in the empty caf?, 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 caf?, looking at the cat on the windowsill. The cat turns back to face the caf? 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 Caf? 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 caf? 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 caf? 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 thedoorway, 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 caf?, to head out into the empty streets of Stourton. We pad along the alleyway behind the caf?, 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 caf?. 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 caf? first. I nudge the door open and the warm atmosphere inside the caf? 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 caf? 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.

2. CHRISTMAS AT THE CAT CAFE

1

The honey-coloured buildings that bordered the market square glowed in the dazzling autumn sunshine. I sat in the dappled shade of an elm tree, watching as tourists and shoppers meandered back and forth along the cobbled streets, soaking up the town’s atmosphere of prosperous gentility.

A cool breeze ruffled my fur and I inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of fallen leaves mingled with the aroma of meats and cheeses from the delicatessen behind me. The clock in a nearby church tower had just struck five and I knew that the bustling square would soon give way to a slower pace, as the shops closed for the day and the visitors made their way home. I yawned and jumped down from the wooden bench, taking my time to stretch languorously before setting off on my own homeward journey.

Keeping to the pavement, I trotted past the numerous tea shops, antiques dealers and gift stores that lined the square, then cut in front of the stone steps of the imposing town hall. The gaggles of grey-haired ladies in sturdy shoes barely noticed me weaving between them, preoccupied as they were with making the most of their last opportunity to buy, before climbing back into their waiting coaches. When I first arrived in the Cotswold town of Stourton-on-the-Hill as a homeless cat, the indifference of strangers would have upset me, but now I strode along, my tail held high, buoyed by the knowledge I, too, had a home to return to.

Careful to avoid the many alleyways that led off the square, which I knew to be the fiercely guarded territory of the town’s alley-cats, I turned onto a smart thoroughfare lined with estate agents’ offices and clothing boutiques. I deftly picked my way beneath gates and over fences, until I found myself in a narrow, cobbled parade of shops beside a church.

The parade serviced some of the town’s more mundane requirements, by means of a newsagent, bakery and hardware shop. But at the end of the parade, was a caf?. Like its immediate neighbours, the caf? was modest in size, but its golden stone walls exuded the same warmth as its grander counterparts on the square. Its front aspect was dominated by a curved bay window, framed by hanging baskets from which geraniums trailed, a little straggly, but still in flower after the long summer season. The only indicator that this caf? was different from any of the other eating establishments in Stourton was the chalkboard that stood outside its entrance, proclaiming the caf? ‘Open for coffee, cake and cuddles’. This was Molly’s, the Cotswolds’ only cat caf?, and it was my name printed in pink cursive script across the awning above the window.

Nosing through the cat flap in the caf?’s front door, I was immediately enveloped by the aura of tranquillity that only a room full of dozing cats can generate. The caf? had begun to empty after the teatime rush, but a few tables remained occupied, the customers chatting in hushed voices as they drank tea from china cups. The caf?’s decor was as familiar to me as my own tabby markings, from its beamed ceiling and warm pink walls (the same shade as the trail of paw prints that snaked across the flagstone floor, the result of my encounter with a paint tray when the caf? was being decorated), to the candy-striped oilcloths on the tables and the handwritten Specials board on the mantelpiece above the wood-burning stove.

As I made my way across the flagstones I glanced around the room, making a mental note of my kittens’ whereabouts. There were five of them – from my first and only litter – and their unexpected arrival just over a year earlier had, indirectly, brought about the caf?’s transformation from rundown sandwich shop to thriving cat caf?. I saw Purdy first: she was draped proprietorially across the cat hammock that hung from the ceiling by the stairs, her white-tipped paws dangling over the edges of the hessian fabric. She had been the first-born of the litter and thus had assumed certain privileges over her siblings, which included laying claim to the highest napping spot in the room. As I picked out a path between the tables and chairs, I spotted her sister Maisie on the sisal cat tree that stood in the middle of the room. Maisie was the smallest and most timid of the kittens. She loved to observe her surroundings from the domed bed that protruded from the cat tree’s trunk, her watchful green eyes monitoring the caf?’s activity from her private refuge.

My destination was the sun-faded gingham cushion in the bay window. This had come to be known as‘Molly’s cushion’ by the caf?’s staff and customers, because it had long been my favourite place to sit, allowing me to observe the goings-on both inside the caf? and on the street. I jumped up and turned in circles a few times, kneading its soft surface with my paws, enjoying the familiarity of its smell and feel. Around me, the last few customers pulled on their jackets, gathered their shopping bags and settled their bills. Abby and Bella, always an inseparable pair, had taken joint possession of one of the armchairs in front of the stone fireplace. They were curled up together, with their eyes closed, engaged in a reciprocal wash.

Debbie, our owner, stepped out from behind the wooden serving counter and moved methodically across the room, clearing tables. With the faintly weary air she habitually carried at the end of the working day, she went over to the table nearest the door, lifted her forearm to push the wispy blonde fringe out of her eyes, then began to stack the empty plates and cups onto the crook of her arm. Her blue eyes creased into a smile when Eddie– the only boy in my litter – jumped up onto the tablecloth and began to sniff hopefully at the half-empty milk jug. ‘Eddie, you naughty boy! Where are your table manners?’ Debbie chided him, giving him a gentle shove onto a chair. He gazed longingly after her as she – and the milk jug – disappeared back into the kitchen, before he finally jumped down and wandered disappointedly away.

A flurry of movement outside the window caught my attention. A song thrush was bouncing along the guttering on the buildings opposite, chirping persistently in a shrill warning call that announced the presence of a cat nearby. I craned closer to the window to scan the street and glimpsed a large black-and-white cat striding along the cobbles. Even at a distance, the cat’s rangy frame and confident gait were instantly recognizable: it was Jasper, the father of my kittens. Before he reached the caf? he turned a corner and vanished out of sight. I knew he would be heading to the alleyway that ran along the rear of the parade, where he always went to wait for the caf?’s closing time.

The warmth of the low sun, intensified by the windowpane, began to take its soporific hold on me. I would meet Jasper outside later, for our customary evening walk, but first I felt myself succumbing to the irresistible urge to nap. I lay down on my cushion and tucked my paws neatly beneath my body, purring lethargically as a feeling of peaceful contentment spread through me. I was comfortable, I was well fed and I was surrounded by the people and cats I loved. Life was good, and as my head began to nod gently on the gingham cushion, I could see no reason why it would not stay like this forever.

2

[Êàðòèíêà: _3.jpg]

I had just slipped into a doze when the brass bell above the caf? door tinkled. My ears flickered drowsily, but it took a shriek of surprise from behind the counter to jolt me back to full consciousness.

‘Oh my God, Linda!’

Startled, I lifted my head to see Debbie dash across the now-empty caf? to greet a woman standing on the doormat. I knew immediately that the woman was not a regular Molly’s customer. She was wearing a faux-fur gilet, tight white jeans and high-heeled leather boots, and her blonde hair fell in bouncy layers around a face that was half-obscured by a pair of giant sunglasses. As Debbie reached her, the woman pushed the glasses onto the top of her head and smiled. ‘I was just passing and thought I’d pop in. It’s about time I checked out the famous Cat Caf?,’ she said, wrapping Debbie in a tight embrace.

‘Well, this is it. What do you think?’ Debbie replied, lifting her shoulders in a self-deprecating shrug.

Linda looked around, briskly surveying the caf?’s interior. ‘Very nice, Debs,’ she nodded approvingly. ‘I like it. Homely.’

Debbie glanced over Linda’s shoulder at the door. ‘Where’s Ray? Are you both up from London for the day?’ she asked.

‘No, no, Ray’s not here,’ Linda replied, in a tone that made Debbie look twice at her. ‘I’m allowed to visit my sister on my own, aren’t I?’ Linda added, a touch defensively.

‘Of course you are,’ Debbie gushed, ‘I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,’Linda answered airily. ‘I just thought it’s about time I made the effort to come out here and see you – and Sophie, of course.’

‘Come on, let me get you something to eat,’ Debbie said, pulling out a chair and motioning Linda to sit down.

Linda shrugged off her gilet to reveal a clingy pink top and numerous necklaces draped around her neck. She picked up a menu card while Debbie stood beside her, patiently attentive.‘Feline Fancy; Frosty Paws Cake Pop; Cat’s Whiskers Cookie – it all sounds delicious, Debs,’ she murmured, while Debbie beamed with pride. Linda perused the menu with a look of tortured indecision, before announcing, ‘I’ll have a Feline Fancy and a pot of Earl Grey tea, please.’

As Debbie bustled around the wooden serving counter and into the kitchen, a beeping sound issued from the bag by Linda’s feet. Frowning, she leant over, plucked a mobile phone from inside and began to tap rapidly on its screen. While she typed, I studied her from the window cushion, looking for signs of resemblance between the sisters. Everything about Linda’s immaculately groomed presentation seemed at odds with Debbie’s casual style, from the lacquered nails to her figure-hugging clothes and coiffured hair. I tried to imagine how Debbie might look if she put a similar amount of effort into her appearance, but my mind drew a blank. For as long as I had known her, Debbie had always prioritized comfort over glamour. On the few occasions she had attempted a more polished look, the episodes had ended with her slumped in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, staring at her reflection in despair. ‘Oh, what’s the point?’ she had sighed, before tying her hair back in its customary ponytail and pulling on an old sweater.

Cheered by the last-minute arrival of a customer, my son Eddie padded over to Linda’s chair to sit expectantly at her feet, hoping to charm her for titbits. Linda was unaware of his presence, however, and continued to scowl as she scrolled across the phone’s screen with her thumb. Eddie, ever optimistic, raised a paw and patted gently at the leather tassel on her boot, making Linda jump in surprise.

‘Oh, hello, Puss,’ she murmured distractedly, leaning sideways to peer down at him.

Eddie gazed beseechingly at her, but Linda’s heavily made-up face remained blank. I exhaled impatiently through my nose. This lady, I knew with absolute certainty, was not a cat person. No one who loved cats would have been able to meet Eddie’s pleading eyes and not lower a hand to stroke him. Evidently, I concluded with a slight bristling of my fur, it was not just her appearance that distinguished Linda from her sister.

A few minutes later Debbie emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray.‘Here you go. One Feline Fancy and a pot of Earl Grey. Bon appetit!’ she said, carefully placing the chintzy teacup and plate onto the table. Linda smiled with delight upon seeing the cupcake, which was decorated with pointy cat’s ears and whiskers. Debbie took the chair opposite her. ‘Have you got to rush off or can you stay for dinner? I’ll be done in half an hour or so,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’m not in a hurry at all – dinner would be lovely. I’ve … got a lot to tell you,’ Linda replied, before taking a bite of her Feline Fancy. ‘Oh my God, Debs, this isdivine,’ she added quickly through a mouthful of cake, lifting a napkin to dab her lips.

A flicker of alarm crossed Debbie’s face. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, a faint note of concern in her voice.

‘Yes, of course,’ Linda answered lightly, suddenly absorbed in examining the sachets of sweetener in a bowl on the table. Eddie, sensing that his chances of a fruitful scrounging mission were fading, sniffed disconsolately at the floor around Linda’s feet, before padding over to the vacant armchair by the fireplace. Linda, meanwhile, seemed determined to look anywhere other than at Debbie’s enquiring face.

‘Well, look,’ Debbie began brightly, ‘I’ve got to clear up, but why don’t you go up to the flat when you’ve finished your tea? Sophie will be back from college in a bit. We can all have dinner together.’ She got to her feet and retied the strings of her Molly’s apron behind her back.

‘That would be lovely, Debs. Let’s order a takeaway – my treat,’ Linda replied.

Debbie brought the chalkboard in from the street and turned the door sign to‘Closed’, before heading back into the kitchen, where I could hear her talking to the staff as they stacked crockery inside cupboards and wiped down the stainless-steel surfaces. In the caf?, Linda sipped her tea, pressing her fingertips against the china plate to pick up the remaining crumbs of cake.

The sun had now dropped behind the tiled rooftops on the parade, and the warm yellow light that had filled the caf? was replaced by the cool tones of the October evening. My ears flickered as a gust of wind rattled the awning outside and a draught seeped through the wooden window frame, sending a shiver up my back. Linda was engrossed in her phone once more, its blue glow illuminating her face. When she had drained her tea, she tossed the phone back into her bag and, as she straightened up, her eyes met mine for the first time. She appraised me coolly, as if I were merely another of the caf?’s fixtures and fittings. For the second time since Linda’s arrival, my fur bristled.

After a couple of moments my unblinking stare seemed to unnerve her. She stood up and carried her plate and teacup over to the counter.‘That was lovely Debs. I’ll head upstairs now,’ she called through to the kitchen.

Debbie appeared in the doorway, a pair of sopping wet yellow rubber gloves on her hands.‘Good idea. I won’t be long. Oh, I almost forgot! Have you seen? That’s Molly.’ Debbie gestured with one dripping glove towards the window where I was still staring defiantly at Linda’s back.

Linda turned and her eyes flicked briefly in my direction.‘Oh, yes, I thought I recognized thefamous Molly,’ she said, with an emphasis that struck me as somewhat sarcastic. There was a pause, during which Debbie smiled indulgently at me while Linda looked as if she was struggling to think of something else to say. ‘She’s been watching me since I got here,’ she remarked eventually.

‘Well, don’t forget: it’s her name above the door, so she does have the right to refuse entry,’ Debbie joked.

Linda emitted a fake-sounding laugh and walked back to the table to fetch her belongings. Feeling suddenly protective towards the empty flat, I jumped down from the windowsill to follow her as she climbed the stairs, holding my breath as her sickly-sweet perfume filled my nostrils in the narrow stairwell.

Rounding the banisters into the hallway, Linda glanced briefly into the tiny kitchen on her right, before turning left into the living room. I slunk in silently a few paces behind her and crept across the room to an empty shoebox that sat on the floor next to the television. I climbed into the box to watch, as Linda made an inquisitive circuit of the living room, taking in the dining table cluttered with unopened post, a bowl of overripe fruit and a stack of lever-arch files; the well-worn sofa and armchair, whose threadbare fabric was concealed by an assortment of colourful cushions and fluffy throws; and the coffee table that was overflowing with old newspapers and an empty box of tissues.

Noticing two photographs among the jumble of ornaments that stood on the mantelpiece, Linda glided across the rug for a closer look. She glanced cursorily at the cardboard-mounted school portrait of Sophie, Debbie’s teenage daughter, but her eyes lingered longer on the photo of Debbie beaming with pride, as she held me in her arms on Molly’s launch day. Her curiosity satiated, Linda turned back to face the room, with a faintly bored expression. She casually swiped a magazine from the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa, kicking off her boots with a relieved groan.

Like all cats, I had an instinct for evaluating people’s laps and, as I observed Linda, I tried to picture myself jumping into her lap for a cuddle. But, try as I might, I could not imagine feeling comfortable in it: it was not a lap that I would classify asinviting. Overall, there was something I found off-putting about Linda, and it was not just to do with her spiky boots and talon-like fingernails. I guessed that Linda was a few years younger than Debbie, probably in her mid-forties, but whereas Debbie’s physique gave an impression of softness and curves, Linda seemed to be all angles and edges. Her face, which was a curious shade of orange, was longer and thinner than Debbie’s, and her nose and chin were more pronounced.

Linda sat flicking through the magazine absent-mindedly for about fifteen minutes, until Debbie’s heavy end-of-the-day tread could be heard on the stairs. ‘One day my knees are going to pack up on me, I swear,’ she complained, collapsing onto one of the dining chairs with an involuntary ‘oof’ noise and rubbing her kneecaps with both hands.

Linda sprang up from the sofa.‘Let me get you a cuppa, Debs. You stay here.’ She rummaged about noisily in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets in search of mugs and teabags.

At the dining table, Debbie began to sort half-heartedly through the unopened post.‘So, how’ve you been, Linda?’ she called across the hall.

My ears flickered as I tried to make out Linda’s reply over the clatter of teaspoons against the worktop, but the next thing I knew, Debbie had leapt up from her seat and dashed out of the room.

‘Oh, Linda, what’s wrong?’ I heard Debbie ask over the sound of sniffing. ‘Go and sit down,’ she instructed her sister, ‘I’ll bring the tea through.’

Linda reappeared at the living-room door, her eyes rimmed with red. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and sat down at the dining table, dabbing her eyes.

‘Come on, now. What’s happened?’ Debbie asked tenderly, placing two steaming mugs on the table.

Linda’s face flooded with colour. ‘Ray and I have been arguing,’ she answered.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Linda. What happened?’ Debbie asked kindly, placing one hand on her sister’s back.

Linda heaved a weary sigh, shielding her eyes with the damp tissue.‘Things haven’t been great for a while, but it all came to a head last night,’ she whispered. ‘All Ray ever does is snipe at me. He says that I do nothing except shop, go to the hairdresser’s and get my nails done, but it’s not true!’ She paused to blow her nose, and I saw Debbie’s eyes fleetingly register her sister’s pearly-pink nails and the diamond-encrusted rings on her fingers. She continued to stroke Linda’s back in sympathetic silence. ‘Besides,’ Linda went on indignantly, ‘he was the one who encouraged me to give up work, in the first place. He wanted atrophy wife, but now he resents me for it. I’ve had enough, Debs. I can’t bear to be around him any more. I just can’t …’

As Linda’s words tumbled out, Debbie began to look troubled. ‘So, Linda,’ she began, tentatively, ‘when you say you can’t bear to be around him any more, do you mean … ?’

‘I mean I’ve left him!’ Linda’s voice cracked melodramatically and she broke into fresh sobs.

A flash of sudden comprehension illuminated Debbie’s face, and the hand that had been stroking Linda’s back fell still. ‘I see,’ she said, but the calmness in her voice was betrayed by a look of growing panic. ‘Well, have you spoken to him today? If you talk to him, you might find …’

But Linda’s sobbing grew louder and more persistent, drowning out Debbie’s efforts to reassure her. ‘No, Deb, I can’t talk to him – I can’t go back! I just can’t.’ She slumped forward until her forehead practically touched the dining table, her shoulders shaking and her chest heaving.

Debbie resumed the slow rubbing motion on her sister’s back. ‘No, of course not, Linda. I understand,’ she said soothingly.

Over the sound of Linda’s sniffing, I heard cat biscuits being eaten from the dish in the kitchen, and a few moments later Eddie padded into the living room. With a cursory glance at the snivelling stranger bent double over the table, he spotted me in the cardboard box and walked towards me, his tail raised in salutation. I blinked affectionately and he climbed into the box beside me and began to wash, unfazed by the drama playing out on the other side of the room.

Several minutes passed while Linda wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and blew her nose.

‘So, have you thought about what you’re going to do?’ Debbie prompted, when Linda had finally stopped sniffing.

Still avoiding looking at her sister, Linda shook her head.

Debbie inhaled deeply, assuming an expression somewhere between resignation and dread.‘Would … you like to stay here, until you get yourself sorted out?’ she asked.

At this, Linda turned to face Debbie.‘Oh, Debs, do you really mean that? Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble?’ she said, her red-rimmed eyes shining.

‘Of course it won’t, Linda,’ answered Debbie, after a fractional hesitation. ‘As long as you don’t mind sleeping on a sofa-bed, that is. We haven’t got much room, as you can see. And it won’t be for long … will it?’ A trace of a nervous smile danced across Debbie’s lips, butLinda appeared not to have heard the question.

She leant over and seized her sister in a hug.‘Oh, Debs, thank you so much. I knew I could count on you,’ she gushed, squeezing her sister tightly around the neck.

Intrigued by the noise of Linda’s crying, the other kittens had now come upstairs to investigate. They prowled around the room, shooting curious looks at the newcomer and sniffing inquisitively at her boots and handbag on the rug.

As Linda and Debbie pulled apart, Linda gave her eyes a final dab.‘Well, I suppose I might as well bring my things in, before it gets dark,’ she said, with an air of practicality, tucking her tissue back inside her jeans pocket.

‘Your things … have you – you mean now?’ I saw the corner of Debbie’s mouth twitch.

‘If that’s okay?’ Linda asked, with an ingratiating smile. ‘I just threw a few things in the car this morning, to keep me going.’

‘Er, okay,’ Debbie answered, her eyes flitting anxiously around the cluttered room. ‘I’d better clear up some of this mess, to make some space for you.’

‘Deb, please, don’t go to any trouble – it’ll be fine. You’ll hardly know I’m here,’ Linda insisted. She jumped up from her chair, startling the kittens who scattered skittishly across the room, and grabbed a bunch of keys from her bag. ‘I’ll just nip down and get my stuff from the car. Back in two minutes,’ she said, pulling on her boots.

‘Hang on, you’ll need the key for the caf? door,’ Debbie called after her sister’s retreating back.

Linda leant back through the doorway, smiling as Debbie tossed her a key.‘Thanks. I’ll get a copy cut tomorrow,’ she said airily.

Downstairs, the caf? door slammed shut. In the living room Debbie stood next to the dining table, looking slightly shell-shocked. Slowly the kittens began to emerge from their various hiding places, still jumpy after Linda’s sudden departure. Debbie watched them with a preoccupied look for a few moments until, with a brisk shake of her head, she set about trying to tidy up. She had just picked up the stack of newspapers from the coffee table when the caf? door tinkled again.

‘It’s only me,’ Linda shouted from the bottom of the stairwell.

Clutching the papers, Debbie listened as Linda mounted the stairs. Her tread was slow and laboured, accompanied by sporadic grunts of frustration, and every step was followed by a dull thud as something heavy hit the floor.

‘Linda, are you all right?’ Debbie called, hastily setting the newspapers back down. She winced at the sound of scraping against a wall in the hallway.

I watched from the corner of the room as a large plastic container came through the door, followed by Linda, pink-faced from exertion. In addition to the plastic container that she held in front of her body, she was also pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her. She edged past the dining table, almost knocking over a dining chair, and Debbie automatically stepped forward to take the container, placing it in the middle of the floor.

It took me a moment to register that the container was a pet carrier; and it was a further few seconds before I realized, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that the animal inside was a dog.

3

[Êàðòèíêà: _4.jpg]

Linda wheeled her suitcase across the room and stood it beneath the window, then puffed out her cheeks with relief.

‘Um, Linda, what’s this?’ Debbie asked, looking dubiously at the pet carrier, which had begun to wobble on the rug.

‘Oh, this is Beau. Didn’t I mention him?’ Linda’s voice was offhand.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at her, before returning my gaze to the quaking plastic box. The kittens stood around the living room, fascinated and alarmed in equal measure. Purdy, who had always been the most confident of the siblings, strode brazenly towards the carrier, sniffing the air as she prowled in a circle around it. The box fell ominously still as its occupant sensed her silent movements. The other kittens looked on, happy to let their braver sister do the investigating for them.

‘No, I’m pretty sure you didn’t mention him. Beau is a dog, I take it?’ Debbie replied, in the unnaturally even tone she used when trying not to lose her temper with Sophie.

‘Yes, but he’s only small, and very well trained,’ Linda reassured her. She crouched down in front of the carrier, which started to rock violently as its occupant scuffled to the front and began to paw at the wire door. ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Beau? Do you want to come out?’she cooed in a babyish voice, her lips puckering into a pout.

A small black nose appeared through a gap in the door, and a pink tongue flicked underneath, reaching for Linda’s face. I averted my eyes, repulsed by the demeaning display of canine submission, but the licking had the desired effect on Linda; she kissed the wet nose and began to unlock the carrier.

Before the door was even fully open, the dog had shot out into the room, where his demeanour changed instantly from submissive to aggressively territorial. He was a buff-coloured fluffy creature– not much larger than me – with short, stubby legs and a plume of a tail that curled back over his body. The fur around his cheeks had been neatly trimmed to emphasize the teddy-bear-like roundness of his snub-nosed face; and his dark eyes, which were half-hidden beneath feathery eyebrows, darted beadily around the room.

I scanned the area to locate all the kittens, praying they were near enough the door to be able to escape, should they need to. My eye was immediately drawn to Purdy, who was on the living-room rug behind Beau’s carrier. The nonchalance she had displayed while Beau was incarcerated had vanished now that he was free. She had drawn herself up into a defiant arc, with her hackles raised and tail fluffed voluminously.