Molly and the Cat Cafe

Debbie looked unconvinced, and stood up to take the cloth back to the kitchen.

The smell of paint on my paws had intensified my queasiness. I jumped down from the window and picked a careful route across the café, avoiding the trail of damp prints. Desperate for some fresh air, I stood at the door hoping to catch somebody’s attention. ‘Would you like to go out, Molly?’ Sophie asked, her voice sounding uncannily like her mother’s. I chirruped gratefully as she pulled the café door open for me.

I stepped out onto the doorstep and took a few deep breaths of spring air, allowing the sun’s rays to warm my face. I sat for a while on the pavement outside the café, waiting for the queasiness to pass, before heading to the alley behind the café. It was silent but for the cooing of pigeons in the eaves and the chattering crows building their nests in the churchyard treetops. Although it still held painful memories for me, I felt a feeling of peace and well-being as I contemplated the empty alley. It was impossible not to think about the tomcat as I stood in the place that had been our shared home; but, rather than the usual sadness and guilt, I felt the glimmering of something positive inside. Maybe it was an acceptance that he had gone, or perhaps it was just an acknowledgement that, finally, life seemed to be settling down, after months of upheaval.

I crept over to my old hiding place under the fire escape, curious to see if it had changed since I had last used it, in the depths of winter. There were cobwebs draped across the paint tins and a few woodlice scurrying across the cardboard under my feet, but other than that it hadn’t changed at all. I lay down under the iron steps, immediately feeling the familiar way in which the cardboard underfoot snugly accommodated my body. Curled up in the shelter that had been my home, I felt comforted, as if somehow the tomcat was there with me. I wrapped my paws in front of my face and went to sleep.

The café remained closed for several days for refurbishment. Once the walls were finished, Debbie attacked the woodwork, sanding and smoothing, before repainting the sills and window frames with white gloss paint. Midweek, a large van pulled up outside to deliver the new serving counter. The installation was a noisy process, which I was happy to avoid, staying in the flat for the duration of the drilling and banging. Only when everything had gone quiet in the café and the van had driven away did I pad downstairs to investigate.

When Debbie saw me on the bottom step she smiled. ‘Aha, here she is!’

I lifted my tail in greeting and walked over to her. She and Sophie were behind the new counter, stacking napkins and cutlery in drawers. It was much less cumbersome than the one it had replaced, with a solid wooden top and whitewashed panelling on the front. Every now and then Debbie stroked its knotted surface approvingly.

I moved across the floor, taking in the other alterations to the café. The room that had once been a study in grey was now vibrant with colour. Debbie had placed gingham cushions on the seats and candy-striped oilcloths on the tabletops. Pictures framed in driftwood and heart-shaped wreaths of rosebuds were hanging on the pink walls. A jug of tulips stood on the mantelpiece over the stove, alongside a blackboard upon which Debbie had neatly chalked the menu. The café was inviting and homely, almost unrecognizable from its previous drab incarnation. I felt irrationally proud of the trail of pink paw prints that weaved across the floor as if they represented my own contribution to the makeover.

Padding from the counter towards the window, I was momentarily alarmed when I noticed that my shoebox had gone from the sill. As if reading my mind, Debbie said, ‘Don’t worry, Molly, I haven’t thrown it away – it’s here, look.’ She pointed to a nook inside the fireplace, a low stone shelf in the side-wall next to the stove, where my shoebox had been tucked. ‘I thought it might look better somewhere less prominent,’ Debbie explained, apologetically. ‘I’ve put a cushion for you on the windowsill instead.’

I jumped up and stepped onto the pink gingham cushion, turning in circles to feel its texture and firmness. Debbie smiled as she watched me from behind the counter, with Sophie on a stool beside her, folding menu cards. The cushion felt good, and I started to knead it appreciatively with my front paws.

‘Glad you like the cushion, Molls. Now check this out . . .’ Debbie took one of the menus from Sophie’s neat pile. ‘We’ve got a new name too. Molly’s Café. It was Sophie’s idea, wasn’t it, Soph?’

I looked up. Debbie was walking towards me, beaming as she held the menu in front of me.

‘Well, it makes sense. She acts like she’s the boss already,’ Sophie said drily from behind the counter.