Molly and the Cat Cafe

‘Hiya, Pat, I’m up to my neck in it here. There’s eighty years’ worth of rubbish lying on the floor in front of me, and I’m only on the first room.’

David stood up and closed the spare-room door, evidently trying to keep Margery from overhearing the conversation. I watched and listened in silence from my vantage point inside the cardboard box.

‘No, I haven’t spoken to her about it yet. I know, I know.’ I could tell he was getting annoyed. ‘I’ve got to time it right. Got to pick the right moment or she’ll go to pieces. But I’m making a start by clearing some of this rubbish out. I will tell her – yes, I know, soon. But you know what she’s like, so determined to be independent.’

Inside my cardboard hiding place I could feel alarm starting to spread around my body. I couldn’t imagine what it was that David hadn’t told Margery, but it was obviously something that would upset her. I remained still, praying he would say more to enlighten me, but instead he became impatient with Pat and ended the phone call with a curt, ‘Look, I’ve got to get on with this. We’ll talk about it later.’

Over the next few weeks David continued to visit the house regularly. He would let himself in and call out to Margery from the hallway, ‘Hi, Mum, it’s David. I’m here to help you tidy up.’

But what he called ‘tidying’, I saw as the dismantling of our home, one room at a time. Over and over again he filled the boot of his car with soft furnishings, bags of old clothes and piles of papers, reassuring Margery that it wasn’t anything she needed and saying that it was only fit for the tip.

Margery seemed too frightened to protest. Usually she would take herself into another room rather than watch her possessions being ransacked. Occasionally I saw a wistful look in her eye as she studied a pile of belongings that had been earmarked for the charity shop.

I, however, was furious. How dare he come into our home and make completely arbitrary decisions about what Margery – and, for that matter, what I – was or wasn’t allowed to keep? Time and again I would find that one of my favourite things – a moth-eaten old picnic rug or a hessian foot stool – had been taken to the tip without my knowledge.

The house no longer smelt like home, either. The distinctive scent of lavender, which had always suffused Margery’s clothes and furniture, was now smothered by the chemical reek of polish and detergent, so overpowering that they made my eyes water and my throat sore.

During this time I spent my days patrolling the house, attempting to reclaim my territory by rubbing my scent glands on as many surfaces as possible. But it was a hopeless task, in the face of David and his relentless packing, boxing and cleaning. If Margery wasn’t around, David made no attempt to hide his dislike of me, shooing me out of the house at every opportunity, although I noticed that in front of Margery he still maintained the pretence of finding me endearing.

There is no doubt in my mind that the upheaval at home made Margery’s confusion worse. I could see her deteriorate in front of my eyes. She had all but stopped eating, having given up cooking weeks ago when she could no longer hold all the stages of the process in her mind. She found it difficult to settle – like a wary cat expecting to be attacked – and would repeatedly go to the front window and peer out, as if waiting for something or someone.

I did what I could to try and calm her nerves, but as her distress increased, so did my sense of foreboding. I still didn’t know what David planned, but deep down I knew that life for Margery and me was going to change. All I could do was stay close and try and comfort her, whilst taking what reassurance I could from the familiar feel of her hands on my fur, and the smell of her skin.

One afternoon I came into the living room to find Margery in tears, as David sat beside her on the sofa with his arm awkwardly round her shoulder.

‘Come on, Mum, you know it’s for the best,’ he was saying in a pleading voice. ‘It’s just not safe for you to be here any more. The stairs are too much for you now, and you know you’ve been getting forgetful recently.’

Margery said nothing, but wept silently into her cotton handkerchief.

‘The Elms is a great place. They’ll be able to take proper care of you there. Cook your meals, do your washing and all that. Come on now, it’s for the best.’ And he embraced her in a clumsy bear hug.

I tiptoed silently out of the living room. My head was spinning and I needed to get some fresh air. I pushed my way through the cat flap and went to sit on the front path. I began to wash, an activity that helps me to order my thoughts as much as my appearance.

At least now I knew the worst, and there was finally an explanation for what had been going on. Margery was going to move out, to live in a place called The Elms. Pausing mid-wash, I looked up and noticed for the first time a wooden ‘For Sale’ sign attached to the gate at the end of the path. I felt my blood run cold.