Christmas at the Cat Cafe

My mind whirred as I tried to remember when I had last seen Margery. Somehow it felt important to recall our final encounter, and her last words to me. Then it came to me: it was that stormy Sunday – the very day, in fact, when Debbie realized Eddie was missing. Margery had been distracted and agitated and we hadn’t stayed long, and had bumped into David on our way out. My throat tightened when I realized that, the last time I had seen Margery, she hadn’t even seemed to know who I was.

I closed my eyes and allowed a wave of regret to wash over me. If I had known that would be the last time I’d see her, I would have jumped onto her lap and purred, and stayed there until she recognized me – so that she knew I would always love her. But it was too late now. I had wasted my last chance to say goodbye.

I circled slowly on the damp pile of flattened cardboard beneath the fire escape, listening to the sounds of the alley. A solitary pigeon cooed softly from a rooftop behind me, and a squirrel scampered across the wall opposite. A strange feeling of hollowness spread through me; I felt empty and insubstantial. It was as if my very identity was defined not by who I was, but by who I had lost: Eddie, Jasper and now Margery. Feeling utterly alone, I curled up on the cardboard and closed my eyes, praying for the relief from my mental turmoil that only sleep could bring.

That night, I slept deeply and dreamlessly, not stirring until the cawing crows woke me with a start at dawn. The sun was just coming up and the sky was a glorious pink, shot through with gold, and there was a crisp, wintry feel in the air as I crawled out from underneath the iron steps. In the churchyard the frost-tipped grass crunched under my feet as I made my way to the square, where I padded over to the elm tree and jumped onto the bench underneath its bare branches.

I had lived in Stourton for almost two years now, and had spent as much of my life without Margery as I had spent with her. I tortured myself with an almost unbearable dilemma: if I were offered the chance to go back in time – to remain with Margery in her cosy bungalow – would I do so? There would be no cat café, no Debbie, no kittens, no Jasper, but I would have had two more years of love from my precious Margery.

But there was nothing I could do to get back the time I had lost; there was no bargain to be made, no retrospective deal that could be struck. I had thought I had lost Margery two years earlier, but fate had intervened and, miraculously, she had come back to me. But now she really was gone, and I had to accept that I would never see her again.

17

Plodding back along the cobbles towards the café, my mind was foggy and my limbs felt heavy to the point of exhaustion. I nosed through the cat flap and stood on the doormat, flicking my tail, gazing aimlessly around the café. The kittens were nowhere to be seen, but Ming had assumed her customary meditative pose on top of the cat tree, facing the window with her eyes closed, her chocolate-brown tail neatly encircling her paws. I stared at her for a few moments. I had so often felt suspicious of her apparent ability to disengage from her surroundings; but, on this occasion, I deeply envied her imperturbable composure.

Perhaps Ming sensed she was being watched, because her eyes sprang open and she turned her head slowly in my direction. Her look was intense, yet inscrutable, conveying neither hostility nor warmth, but in my grieving state, her blue-eyed stare was more than I could bear. With my tail held as high as I could muster, I walked shakily across the café and climbed the stairs to the flat.

Upstairs, I heard Debbie humming softly over the splash of water from the kitchen sink. ‘There you are, Molls!’ she said fondly, catching sight of me as I peered round the doorframe. ‘Where’ve you been? I was starting to worry about you.’ She crouched down and began to rub my ears. ‘You poor thing, you must be missing Margery,’ she sighed.

Feeling my throat constrict, I nestled my head into her curved palm, savouring the familiar scent of her skin.

‘Would you like some breakfast?’ she asked, as if eating would help to assuage my grief. She stood up and reached inside one of the cabinets for a pouch of cat food, squeezing its contents into the bowl on the floor.

I stared at the mound of chunks dolefully, unable to summon up the energy to eat.

‘Not feeling hungry?’ Debbie asked, as I stood listlessly by the bowl. ‘That’s all right, Molly. It’s there if you want it, okay?’ she said, dropping to her haunches and pressing my nose gently with her fingertip.