Christmas at the Cat Cafe

I slipped through the cat flap and padded down the side of the café, turning right into the narrow alleyway that ran along the back of the parade. This had been Jasper’s territory when he had lived on the streets, and he still considered it his domain. A drystone wall bordered one side, facing onto the vista of mismatched fire escapes, dustbins and air vents that made up the rear view of the café and its neighbours.

As I moved noiselessly along the tarmac, there was a flicker of movement beneath the iron steps of a fire escape, and a moment later Jasper’s bulky black-and-white form emerged. He gave his square head a perfunctory shake, before stretching out, his fur rippling as the muscles flexed beneath his skin. When I had first stumbled into this alleyway as a half-starved stray, I had been intimidated by Jasper’s imposing physical presence. The scars on his ears suggested he was an accomplished fighter, and my experience with another of the town’s alley-cats made me instinctively wary around him. Over time, however, I had come to realize that his street-cat looks and taciturn manner belied a sweet-natured, chivalrous disposition.

I sat down next to the iron steps and Jasper came to sit beside me. ‘Sleep well?’ I asked.

‘Not so great,’ he answered, with a slight narrowing of his amber eyes. We contemplated the skyline in silence for a few moments: the rising sun had broken through the cloud, and the light mist that had swathed the nearby church spire was beginning to melt away. ‘Who is she?’ he asked finally, in a voice heavy with disdain.

‘Her name’s Linda – she’s Debbie’s sister.’

Jasper looked pensive. ‘And is she . . . are they . . . staying long?’ he asked.

I realized that, amidst the drama of the previous evening, Linda had not specified how long she planned to stay. ‘Just a few days, I think,’ I answered vaguely, with more hope than conviction.

‘Hmm,’ Jasper replied, returning his thoughtful gaze to the sky.

Having lived on the streets all his life, Jasper had an ambivalent attitude towards the cat café, at best. It had been a mark of his devotion to me, and his dedication as a father, that he had compromised his street-cat independence to spend time with us indoors, albeit on his own terms. He consistently avoided the café during opening hours, considering the idea of being ‘on show’ to customers demeaning; but, after closing time, he would slip through the cat flap, to enjoy some of the benefits of our lifestyle. I sometimes teased him about his double standards, pointing out that his proud assertion that he would ‘always be an alley-cat’ was not entirely credible when he spent his evenings sprawled semi-conscious on the café’s flagstones in front of the dying embers of the stove. I suspected, however, that Jasper would draw the line at sharing his indoor territory with a highly strung stranger and a lunatic lapdog.

The town was beginning to wake up around us; somewhere in the distance a dustbin lorry rumbled its stop–start progress around the streets, while the rooks and magpies in the adjacent churchyard cawed incessantly, starting the day in dispute, as always. Behind me, I detected movement in the flat above the café: the swoop of a venetian blind being raised and the patter of water from the shower. I could picture the scene inside: Debbie hurrying from the steaming bathroom into the kitchen to fill our food bowls, before shouting up the stairs to the attic, to wake Sophie for college. My stomach began to growl with hunger.

‘Are you coming in for breakfast?’ I asked Jasper, knowing full well what his answer would be.

His nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Not today,’ he replied dismissively, but when his eyes caught mine, I saw a trace of a smile. ‘If he stays much longer that dog will need putting in his place,’ he commented wryly.

‘Don’t worry, Purdy’s already done it,’ I said.

Jasper blinked his approval and puffed out his chest. ‘Good for her,’ he commented. Then he stood up, stretched and slunk away towards the row of conifers at the end of the passage.

Inside, the kittens had vanished from the café. I crept cautiously up the stairs, my ears alert for indications of Beau’s whereabouts. The living-room door was still closed, but I could hear Debbie in the kitchen, talking happily to the kittens. ‘There you go, Purdy; now, be nice, make room for Maisie. Bella and Abby, you can share the pink dish – there’s plenty for both of you. Don’t worry, Eddie, I haven’t forgotten about you, aren’t you a patient boy?’

Her loving chatter made my heart swell with gratitude; she knew my kittens almost as well as I knew them myself, and she always made sure they each received their fair share of food and attention.