Christmas at the Cat Cafe

‘Well, you think something awful must have happened to him – that he’s got lost or been attacked, but . . .’ she trailed off, suddenly unsure whether to continue.

‘But?’ I prompted.

‘Well, maybe he left because he wanted to see more of the world than just the café. Maybe it was just . . . the right time for him to go.’

In spite of her tactful tone, I instinctively bristled at her words.

‘But if he thought it was time to leave, surely he would have told us first?’ I replied, in a voice that was sharper than I intended.

Purdy’s eyes narrowed and I knew that she felt dismissed by my response. ‘Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t,’ she answered. She sounded nettled, and her tail was starting to flicker impatiently. She gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Can I go now?’

Reluctantly, I blinked to let her know she was free to leave, and she slipped silently out through the cat flap.

I waited on the doormat for a few seconds, then pushed my way through after her. Aware of Purdy loitering on the cobbles outside the hardware shop, but not wanting her to think I was pursuing her, I set off in the other direction, pondering her words as I walked. With hindsight, I knew that my response would have hurt Purdy’s feelings. She had probably thought she was being helpful by suggesting that Eddie had simply decided it was time to move on, to see what life was like in the world beyond the café.

But my maternal intuition told me Purdy was wrong: no one knew Eddie like I did: how sensitive and home-loving he was and how, in spite of his grown-up appearance, he was really just a little boy at heart. The idea that he would choose to leave the comfort of the cat café in order to take his chances on the streets was barely credible. The notion that he might do so without talking to me first was out of the question. Purdy might have thought she was being helpful but, in fact, she was being naive.

I looked around and realized that, without any conscious intention, I had walked my usual route to the market square. Rows of market stalls had appeared overnight, their striped canopies flapping in the chilly breeze. Even in low season, the Saturday market drew a crowd, and the square was thronged with shoppers beneath a pale, grey sky. I sat down beside the wooden bench under the elm tree and soaked up the familiar sounds of the market: the slamming of car doors, the barks of excited dogs and the sporadic whines of complaint from overwrought toddlers.

I allowed my eyes to drift over the mass of people and colourful tarpaulins, towards the buildings that surrounded the market. Spying a gap between the sweet shop and an antiques dealer’s to my left, I felt a sudden flutter in my stomach. Until now I had mostly left it to Jasper to search the alleys, but if my memory served me well, this alley was different from the others in town . . .

The afternoon light was already beginning to fade as I slipped into the narrow opening that marked the alley’s entrance. I jumped onto the drystone wall that ran along one side, and made my way carefully along its jagged surface. Up ahead, in a garden that backed onto the passageway, an old shed stood against the wall, surrounded on all sides by overgrown brambles. Keeping my eyes fixed on its roof, I approached cautiously, dropping to my haunches so that my gait became a stealthy prowl. As I crept closer, I glimpsed movement in the brambles, followed by a lightning-quick flash of gold-coloured eyes through the tangle of thorny branches. I froze, my heart pounding, one paw hovering in the air as I stared at the spot where the eyes had appeared.

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

The face of a small tortoiseshell cat emerged from the midst of the brambles and peered at me, unblinking.

‘I know you,’ I said. ‘We’ve met before.’

The tortoiseshell crept warily across the shabby tarpaulin of the shed roof and eyed me apprehensively. ‘You came here a long time ago,’ she said at last. ‘You were injured.’

‘That’s right,’ I replied, feeling a rush of relief. ‘I wondered if you could help me again,’ I continued, with a hopeful glance at her hesitant face. ‘I’m looking for my son, Eddie. He’s gone missing and I wondered if, maybe, he’s been here?’

The tortoiseshell’s golden eyes narrowed intently.

‘Well, a black-and-white tom has passed through a few times this week,’ she replied.

I felt my heart begin to thump. ‘Was he wearing a silver collar?’ I asked, trying to stem my excitement.

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, no collar that I can remember. He looked like an alley-cat.’

My heart sank in disappointment; this must have been Jasper, on his daily tour of the alleyways.

The tortoiseshell tilted her head to one side. ‘So your boy’s missing, is he?’ she said. ‘That’s sad.’ It was a simple expression of sympathy that made my eyes begin to tingle.