Molly and the Cat Cafe

Watching Debbie as she slept, I wondered if she felt the same way about Stourton as I had: that at best it was indifferent to her, and at worst it resented her presence. I dearly wished I could tell Debbie that I knew how she felt, or reassure her that she would find a way through it, just as I had. I had survived in the alley after all, living on my wits until Debbie had taken me in. But, as I thought about my life in the alley, I felt a familiar stirring of guilt. It was true that I had been ownerless, but I had not been alone out there. The tomcat had made sure, in his unassuming way, that I knew there was somewhere I could find food and shelter, somewhere that was safe from the vicious alley-cats. I felt a swell of gratitude to him, followed by a pang of remorse that I had repaid his kindness by moving inside as soon as I had the chance.

I had been back out to the alley to look for him again on several occasions since my first attempt. Each time I was optimistic, convinced I would catch sight of his tail disappearing through the conifers or his green eyes lurking in the shadows, but each time I was disappointed. The alley was silent and uninhabited. He had vanished without a trace.

Debbie was deep in sleep now and her face was relaxed in a way I rarely saw when she was awake. I finished my wash and lowered my chin onto my paws, reflecting on everything she had done for me. She had given me a home, but she had also given me a purpose; she was struggling too, and I knew she needed me. I would always regret the way I had treated the tomcat, but from now on Debbie had to be my priority.

18

In addition to feeling like outsiders in Stourton, Debbie and I had something else in common: Sophie appeared to hate us both. Debbie always started the day with the best intentions, waking Sophie for school by singing ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ as she pulled open the bedroom curtains. ‘Leave me alone,’ Sophie would shout from under the covers, establishing a mood of determined sulkiness, which she would maintain for the rest of the day.

Sophie was never far from her mobile phone; she even slept with it under her pillow. With headphones permanently in her ears, she was oblivious to everything around her, and Debbie seemed resigned to the fact that she had to repeat herself at least three times before her daughter heard anything she said. Other than her phone, however, Sophie showed a total disregard for her belongings. She left her clothes in piles on the bedroom floor and allowed her school books to get trodden underfoot, in spite of Debbie’s repeated pleas for her to take more care.

Sophie’s rage seemed to be triggered by the slightest thing I did. She was revolted by the smell of my food, horrified by my moulting fur and mortally offended if she even caught me looking at her. ‘Why does that cat always stare at me?’ she complained at the table one evening, carrying her food upstairs to her bedroom and leaving Debbie, in stunned silence, to finish dinner alone.

One of my early attempts to win Sophie round backfired miserably. Early one morning I found a mouse scurrying inside the fireplace in the living room. I dispatched it swiftly, before picking it up carefully between my jaws and carrying it upstairs to the attic. Sophie was still asleep in bed, so I crept silently into her room and placed the still-warm mouse on a dirty plate she had left on the floor. As I tiptoed out onto the landing I felt a glow of satisfaction. Surely, if Sophie wanted a sign that somebody cared for her, this ought to do the job?

I joined Debbie in the little kitchen, where she was making herself a cup of tea. She had just poured the milk when we heard a blood-curdling shriek from above.

‘Sophie? What on earth’s the matter?’ Debbie called.

Sophie appeared at the end of the hallway, pulling on her school uniform. ‘That. Cat. Is. Gross,’ she hissed as she pushed past us. ‘And I am not cleaning it up!’ she added, plugging in her headphones and running downstairs.

We heard the café door slam and Debbie looked at me questioningly. Ashamed of what I had done, I could hardly bear to meet her gaze and slunk into the living room. I heard Debbie move around in Sophie’s room upstairs, trying to make some order in the mess. A short while later she reappeared in the living room, clutching a plastic bag with the remains of the dead mouse inside. I looked at the bag sheepishly, waiting for a telling-off. ‘Don’t worry, Molly, it was a lovely thought,’ Debbie said supportively. ‘But no more gifts for Sophie, please.’