Molly and the Cat Cafe

I slipped out of the doorway and, avoiding the rain-splashed kerb, ran as fast as I could to the end of the street. My head remained bowed as I followed the pavement round a bend, at which point I stopped, my ears twitching as they detected a change in my surroundings. The intense, echoing quality of the rain in the narrow street had gone and I sensed that the town had opened up in front of me. I could hear human voices on all sides, car engines and the clanking of metal in the distance. Feeling an urge to seek cover and get my bearings, I dashed between the wheels of a parked car and twisted my body rapidly from side to side, flicking the loose water from my fur. A shiver was starting to spread through my bones and my instincts were telling me to wash and sleep, but I knew it was too risky to settle down here. Exhausted though I was, my mind vividly recalled the look on Nancy’s face as she instructed me, ‘Never. Ever. Sleep underneath a parked car. Got it?’

Night was falling fast and I could not afford to linger. I peered out from under the car bonnet. Up ahead, buildings of honey-coloured stone faced onto a handsome market square, their mismatched rooftops silhouetted against the steel-grey sky. In the square, traders were packing away their market stalls, dismantling poles and loading unsold stock into their vans. The shops were closing for the night, but there were still a few people on the streets, grim-faced and laden with bags. After so long away from human habitation, I struggled to take in the scene before me. But it was not the noisiness of the square, or the bustling activity of the market traders, that made me catch my breath – it was the lights. Everywhere I looked there were bulbs strung between lamp posts, cables of fairy lights snaking through window displays, and illuminated stars twinkling in doorways. On the far side of the square, white bulbs were wreathed around a large fir tree. There was no mistaking the signs all around me: Christmas was coming.

As the shock of this realization sank in, I was reminded afresh of the life I had lost. When I had lived with Margery, Christmas had been my favourite time of year. The first sign of it was the appearance of Margery’s small artificial tree by the front-room window. I would sit on the windowsill next to its sparse, bare branches, waiting patiently while Margery rummaged in the understairs cupboard for the box of decorations. As soon as she placed it on the living-room floor I would jump down and dip my paw into the mound of baubles inside, delighting in the rattling sound they made as I tried to catch them with my claws.

Margery would remove ornaments from the box one by one and hang them carefully on the tree, while I lurked behind, waiting to bat them off the branches with my paw. Margery would chide me, ‘Tsk, Molly!’, but she smiled as she spoke and never made any attempt to stop me. Once the baubles were in place, she would pull a long string of tinsel from the box and I would pounce on it, wrestling with its rustling fronds until Margery tugged it out from underneath me, laughing. She would weave a string of coloured lights around the tree and place a sparkly star at the top, then would stand back to appraise her work. ‘There, Molly, what do you think?’ she would ask, and I would purr in approval.

I slid out from under the car now, feeling vulnerable and exposed as I began to skirt around the edge of the square. The market traders were oblivious to my presence as I slunk behind their vans. I glanced up at each shop I passed: their windows were full of antiques, cookware or walking boots and waxed jackets. A chalkboard on the pavement alerted me to the presence of a pub up ahead. Its door was open onto the street, inviting passers-by to take refuge from the chill and damp outside. I tiptoed into its wooden porch, glimpsing a cosy wooden-beamed bar and a roaring log fire inside. It was almost temptation beyond endurance, to see people warming their feet by the flames and not slip across the room to join them. But the aroma of damp dog hung in the air, and the ‘Dogs welcome’ sign on the door left me in no doubt that this was an establishment that favoured dogs over cats.

As I continued my circuit of the square, I passed a bookshop and an interior-design store with swathes of fabric draped across a chaise longue in the window. My stomach rumbled insistently, reminding me that I needed to find something to eat as a matter of urgency. I came across a bakery that proclaimed its ‘organic artisan breads’, but its shelves were empty and it was dark inside. By the time I reached the Olde Sweet Shoppe on the corner of the square I was downcast. The window displayed rows of glass jars, each full of sugary concoctions that held no appeal whatsoever for a cat in desperate need of a good meal.