Molly and the Cat Cafe

Debbie shrugged disconsolately. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said flatly, looking unconvinced. ‘How about Debbie’s Divorcee Diner? The only thing more bitter than our coffee is our clientele.’

‘Now there’s an idea,’ Jo laughed. ‘I can see the full-page ad in the local paper already.’

Debbie smiled tipsily, topping up their glasses with the last of the wine.

‘Chin up, Debs,’ Jo said, taking a sip. ‘Spring’s just around the corner, the tourists will start to arrive soon and things’ll pick up, I’m sure of it.’

‘Thanks, Jo, perhaps you’re right. That’s if we haven’t gone bankrupt by spring,’ Debbie added ruefully.

It was almost midnight by the time Jo left. They hugged and Debbie waved as Jo scuttled past the window back to her own flat. Debbie picked the foil food trays off the floor and cleared the table. Once she had finished in the kitchen, she made her way unsteadily round the café, flicking the lights off and struggling clumsily with the key as she locked the door. I followed a few paces behind as she climbed slowly up the stairs to the flat, swaying as she went. She leant her shoulder against the wall for a few seconds to regain her balance. ‘Shhh, Molly, you’ll wake Sophie!’ she whispered loudly, and my tail twitched in indignation.

Debbie stumbled into the bathroom and I ran up the second flight of stairs to her bedroom to wait for her. I curled up on the end of her bed, mulling over the evening’s conversation. Had Debbie been serious when she said the café might be bankrupt by spring? And if she was right, what would that mean for us? I pictured the café being closed down, and Debbie tearfully telling me that she couldn’t look after me any more. I began to wash, trying to push thoughts of such an unhappy scenario from my mind.

I was acutely aware that my ability to be of any practical help to Debbie was minimal. Just as I had been unable to prevent Margery’s illness from enveloping her mind, so I was equally powerless to turn around the fortunes of the café. All I could do for Debbie was what I had done for Margery: hope that my presence brought her some comfort, and pray that things were going to be okay.

Debbie emerged from the bathroom smelling of toothpaste and soap. She wearily changed into her pyjamas, throwing her clothes across the bed onto a chair by the window. They missed, sliding to the floor in a heap. Debbie groaned and looked at the clothes guiltily for a moment. ‘Never mind, sort it out tomorrow,’ she slurred under her breath, before climbing into bed and switching off the bedside light. The room took on an ethereal quality as a shaft of moonlight illuminated the silvery tones of the quilt. I padded up the bed and nudged Debbie’s side with my nose. One arm was draped across her forehead, but she began to stroke me sleepily with her other hand.

‘Oh, Molly,’ she sighed. ‘So much for a fresh start. The café’s losing money hand over fist, and my daughter hates me.’

Her hand dropped limply onto the cover in front of me, and I began to lick it gently. Her eyes were closed, but Debbie smiled weakly and moved her fingers to tickle me under the chin. ‘Still, I suppose it’s not all bad,’ she mumbled drowsily. ‘At least I found you, Molly.’ Debbie’s hand fell still, but I continued to lick her fingers, listening as her breathing became slower and deeper and she sank into sleep. Once I was certain she was asleep, I continued with my own wash, tasting the lingering scent of Debbie’s skin on my fur.

As I washed, it occurred to me for the first time how much Debbie and I had in common. Not that she knew it, of course, but I was also an outsider in Stourton. I had come to the town in the hope of a fresh start too and, like Debbie, I knew what it was like to feel unwelcome here.

Memories of my first night in Stourton came unbidden to mind. I vividly recalled the desperate loneliness I had felt as people rushed past me on the market square, preoccupied with their last-minute Christmas shopping. Being surrounded by people, yet feeling unnoticed and unloved, had been far harder than fending for myself in the countryside. In town, there was no escaping the fact that it was an owner that I longed for – someone to care for me and take me home. The trauma of being attacked by the alley-cat had compounded my feeling of desolation. I had felt completely alone: invisible to the humans of Stourton, and viewed as a rival by its felines.