Molly and the Cat Cafe

‘And now she thinks she owns the place, by the look of it,’ John joked, and Debbie tilted her head in agreement.

John gave me a final rub behind the ears before setting to work on the boiler. I lay down in my shoebox, listening as he and Debbie chatted. He had grown up in Stourton, he told her. It had changed a lot since his childhood, what with all the second-home owners and the rise in property prices. A lot of the shops in Stourton were still family businesses, though, and had stayed in the same family for generations.

‘This place was empty for a while, if I remember rightly,’ he said. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Coming up to six months,’ Debbie replied. ‘We were in Oxford before. I’ve never run a café before and it’s been a . . . learning curve.’

John smiled. ‘I remember coming here when I was a kid. It was a greasy spoon back then. Although’ – he peered through the kitchen doorway to the café – ‘it hasn’t changed all that much since then. I’m sure that’s been here for at least thirty years!’ He was looking at the ugly serving counter.

‘Oh, has it really?’ Debbie replied, looking aghast at the metal-and-plastic construction. She scanned the café’s interior unhappily. ‘I suppose the whole place could do with a bit of an update, now that you mention it.’

I had been absorbed in observing the two of them, but a movement on the street caught my eye. Sophie was striding along the cobbles, heading home for lunch. As she crossed the street in front of the café she stopped, distracted by something. The old lady with the shopping trolley and curiously coloured hair was on the other side of the street and had said something to her. Sophie pulled a headphone out of one ear, a frown forming as she listened. It was all over in a matter of seconds and then the old lady was on her way again, the wheels of her shopping trolley rattling over the cobbles.

When she pushed open the café door, Sophie’s face was furious.

‘Oh, hi, Soph. We’ve got hot water again if you want a . . . shower . . .’ Debbie had stepped out of the kitchen to greet her, but Sophie barged past, heading straight for the stairs. ‘What’s wrong, love?’ Debbie called, but the only answer was the sound of a door slamming upstairs. Debbie looked at the floor, embarrassed.

‘Teenagers, eh?’ John said sympathetically when she returned to the kitchen, and Debbie managed a weak smile.

He had done what he could and began to pack his tools away. I wandered across the café to sniff at his bag, while Debbie made out a cheque for the work. She was full of gratitude and promised to be in touch soon about replacing the boiler.

John opened his mouth as if to say something, but then paused, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air. He caught sight of me on the floor next to his bag. ‘Bye, Molly, look after the place, won’t you?’ he said, giving me a quick stroke as he lifted the bag to his shoulder.

As he was leaving he popped his head back through the door.

‘You know, I’m sure I could get that stove working for you, if you ever decide to do the place up.’

‘Thanks,’ Debbie replied thoughtfully. ‘I might take you up on that.’

John left, and for a moment Debbie’s eyes lingered on the door after it had closed behind him.

‘You know what, Molly, I think he’s right. This place needs a facelift. And that monstrosity has got to go,’ she said, eyeing the serving counter with disgust.

Part of me wanted to say that I could have told her that weeks ago, but I thought it was enough to purr encouragingly. After her stressful morning it was good to see a sparkle back in Debbie’s eyes, although whether that was down to the thought of doing up the café or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.

20

Debbie arranged for someone to mind the café so that she could spend the following day looking into the business finances. She carried several heavy folders into the living room and spread them across the table, then sat down with a heavy sigh. She had tied her hair back in a ponytail, and reading glasses were perched on her nose as she worked her way through the piles of paper in front of her. During the course of the morning she made numerous lengthy phone calls enquiring about business-development loans and interest rates, and sat listlessly as recorded music was played down the telephone line. Making a show of supportiveness, I sat on the dining table to keep her company, but before long I had dozed off in an empty foolscap box-file.

Debbie was still engrossed in her work when Sophie got home from school. ‘Hello, love. Gosh, is that the time already?’ she said, looking up, startled. She stretched back in her chair, rolling her head from side to side to relieve the tension in her neck. ‘Tell you what, Soph, why don’t I make us both a cup of tea? I could do with a break from all these numbers.’