Christmas at the Cat Cafe

Much as I felt sorry for Debbie, I could understand why Sophie wanted to spend as little time in the flat as possible. It was no longer a place I particularly wanted to be in, either. So when, after lunch on Sunday, Debbie dug the cat carrier out of the hall cupboard and asked, ‘Shall we go and see Margery, Molls?’ I was relieved, and craved more than ever the sanctity of Margery’s lavender-scented room and the feeling that I was, for once, the centre of attention.

Outside, the sky was ominously grey and the wind whipped through the trees, shaking loose their leaves in a continuous cascade. As Debbie stood on the front step, locking the café door, I saw Jo outside her hardware shop, manoeuvring her Labrador, Bernard, into her van. His arthritic hips left him unable to jump, and she had hooked an arm under his hindquarters to lever him into the back.

As Debbie stepped onto the pavement the rain started – fat, heavy drops that the wind blew into us sideways. Grabbing the handle of the carrier in both hands, Debbie broke into a run towards her car, unable to stop and speak to Jo in the gathering rainstorm.

The drive to Margery’s care home seemed to take forever as we crawled along in heavy traffic, Debbie drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. When at last we arrived and had parked the car, the rain bounced noisily off the top of the carrier as Debbie ran up to the sliding doors. Even once we were inside Margery’s room, I was unable to relax. In spite of Debbie’s best efforts to soothe her, the howling wind and torrential rain outside left Margery agitated and fearful. She eyed us nervously, seemingly unsure who we were and why we were in her room.

Debbie sensed Margery’s discomfort too, and that our presence might be adding to her anxiety, so after about twenty minutes she got to her feet and lifted me back into the cat carrier. On our way out, my carrier collided with something in the doorway, and my view through the wire door was suddenly filled with a close-up view of a pair of grey trousers.

‘Oh!’ Debbie exclaimed, backing into the room to allow the owner of the trousers to enter.

‘Oh, hello. Debbie, isn’t it?’ a man asked in a nasal, whiny voice, which I immediately recognized as belonging to David, Margery’s son.

Debbie had moved aside to allow David into the room and I had a clear view of him as he stepped across the beige carpet.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she replied, politely courteous. ‘How are you, David – keeping well, I hope?’

I had not seen David since the day Margery had been moved into the care home, but I felt my hackles instinctively start to rise. He looked just as I remembered him: small and wiry, with a pinched-looking face and thinning hair. I knew from experience, however, that David’s weedy appearance hid a surprising pugnacity.

‘Fine, thanks,’ he replied tersely, before walking over to Margery’s armchair and giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here today,’ he said, turning to face Debbie, his voice faintly accusatory.

‘Oh, we’re just leaving,’ Debbie replied, her apologetic tone suggesting that she too had felt the intended barb. ‘Well, take care, David,’ she said, but he had his back to her and was yanking the vacant armchair closer so that he could sit down.

The journey home was even slower than the drive there and, on this occasion, I had no feeling of well-being to lift my spirits. Instead, I felt irritable and cross. Seeing David had unsettled me, bringing back upsetting memories of his callous disregard for Margery’s – and my own – feelings when he had decided to sell our home. Recalling those unhappy times made me yearn to be back in the comfort and security of the café, with Debbie, Jasper and the kittens. But another part of me dreaded our return, and feared that I would find the same cosy scene that had greeted me after my last absence. When we finally arrived, however, the café was quiet. Ming was snoozing on her platform and her ears didn’t even flicker when Debbie hurriedly unlocked the door and ran inside to escape the pouring rain.

I went upstairs to the flat and climbed into the shoebox in the living room. I undertook a self-soothing wash, inwardly bemoaning the fact that the world seemed full of people and animals who, in one way or another, were determined to pick away at the fabric of my life. When I had finished washing I lay down in the box, listening to the rain lashing against the windowpanes, and waiting for the relief that only sleep could bring me.

‘Has anyone seen Eddie today?’ Debbie called up from the café a little later that evening, and instantly I was wide awake. She ran up the stairs and peered into the living room. ‘That’s odd,’ she said, looking worried. ‘He doesn’t normally stay out for this long.’

Linda glanced up from the sofa. ‘Which one’s Eddie, again?’ she asked vaguely.

‘Black-and-white. Friendly,’ Debbie replied testily.