Molly and the Cat Cafe

‘Mum, sorry, but no. Just, no,’ Sophie had replied firmly, and Debbie had muttered that maybe the website could go on the back burner for now.

In spite of Sophie’s evident frustration with some of her mother’s schemes, their bickering remained good-natured. There was an atmosphere of female solidarity in the flat, which extended to me, too. It seemed that Debbie, Sophie and I had all reached the same conclusion: there was no certainty about what the future held for any of us, so we just had to make the best of what we had in the present. It was a strange time, knowing that we could all be about to lose what little security we had, but I took comfort in the camaraderie that had developed between us. Whatever fate had in store, it felt as though we would face it together.

I did my bit for morale in the flat by raising my kittens to the best of my ability. I made sure they were spotlessly clean at all times and scrupulously attentive to their own personal hygiene. If they were too boisterous or their play became aggressive, I could be a firm disciplinarian, putting them in their place with a swipe of my paw. But I also encouraged their independence and adventurousness, knowing that in later life they might need resilience and courage to fall back on. I took some comfort in knowing that I had provided them with the skills they needed to give them the best possible chance in life.

When the kittens were about eight weeks old, Debbie was going through the accounts books on Sunday evening when Sophie rushed in, her face flushed with excitement.

‘Mum, look at this.’ The kittens sensed her heightened mood and emerged from their various hiding points around the room, keen as always to be at the heart of the action. Sophie held out her phone to Debbie, who was putting her glasses on to view the tiny screen. She looked confused.

‘I don’t understand, Soph – is it a funny cat video?’

Sophie tutted impatiently. ‘No, it’s not a cat video, Mum. It’s a cat café.’

Debbie’s face was blank. ‘A cat café?’

‘Yes, like a normal café, except that it’s got cats. Customers come specifically to see the cats; and to eat, of course.’

Debbie took the phone from Sophie’s hand. ‘But I don’t understand: how is that possible? How do they get around health-and-safety?’

‘I don’t know, but it must be possible – someone else has done it!’

Debbie stared intently at the screen.

‘We should do the same, Mum. It’s obvious! We can keep Molly and the kittens, and the customers will love it.’

Debbie started to smile uncertainly. ‘But that isn’t . . . We couldn’t . . . Surely it can’t be that straightforward?’

‘It could be, Mum,’ Sophie laughed. ‘There’s not just one of these places – they’re popping up all over the world. Cat cafés are the in-thing right now, and in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Sophie gestured to the kittens, who had jumped onto the dining chairs and were now scaling the tabletop, ‘we’ve got the cats and we’ve got the café, so we’re practically there already!’

Debbie’s face wore a look of half-excitement, half-consternation, but Sophie was not done yet.

‘And I’ve been thinking, Mum. You can tweak the menu, you know? Cat-shaped cookies, cupcakes with whiskers – that sort of thing. The tourists will go crazy for it.’

Debbie laughed nervously. ‘I don’t know, Sophie. It sounds lovely, but . . . could it really work?’

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Sophie answered decisively. ‘You need to ring the council and ask.’

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I could feel my stomach lurch with excitement. But, like Debbie, I couldn’t let myself get carried away. A voice in my head urged caution. It all sounded too good to be true.

28

Debbie picked up the phone to call the council first thing on Monday morning.

‘Yes, hello, I’d like to speak to the department that looks after cafés and food outlets. Yes, thank you, I’ll hold . . . ’ She tapped the handset and looked out of the window, waiting to be put through. ‘Oh, yes, hello. This might sound like a bit of a strange enquiry, but I’d like to speak to someone about turning a café into a cat café. Yes, a cat café. No, not a café for cats – a café for people, with cats in it. Okay, yes, I can hold . . . ’

As she was repeatedly put on hold and passed between departments, her initial enthusiasm gave way to frustration. She glanced at her watch and drummed her fingers on the table. No one she spoke to was sure to whom she actually needed to speak; the only thing they were sure of was that it wasn’t them.

‘Oh, yes, hello,’ she repeated wearily, after being put on hold for the fourth time. ‘I’m trying to find out who I need to speak to about opening a cat café. I was just wondering what it might involve . . . Right, I see. Okay, thank you.’

Debbie placed the phone back in its cradle and rolled her head from side to side. I was lying on the dining table next to the phone, hoping that my presence would offer moral support.