Molly and the Cat Cafe

‘Well, Molly, apparently we need to write a letter. Why it took the best part of an hour to establish that, I’m not entirely sure. But a letter must be written, so a letter I shall write. Although not until I have had a cup of coffee.’

That evening Jo popped in for a chat and a play with the kittens. ‘So how did you get on with the council this morning?’ she asked, lifting Purdy out of the cardboard box for a cuddle.

Debbie threw her head back in despair. ‘Well, apart from the fact that no one at the council has ever heard of a cat café, and they aren’t sure which department would be responsible for one, plus they don’t know what licences would be required, or what the hygiene regulations might be, or whether animal-welfare organizations need to be consulted . . . Apart from all of that, the answer to your question is: I got on great!’

Jo grimaced, before burying her face in Purdy’s fur to blow a raspberry on her back.

At dinner that evening Debbie relayed her experience with the council to Sophie, and broke the news that the cat-café idea still seemed a long way off. Sophie looked annoyed and opened her mouth to speak, but Debbie cut her off. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Soph – don’t give up. And I’m not giving up, I just wanted to warn you that this isn’t going to be a quick or easy process, and we can’t assume that we’re going to get the answer we want from the council.’

Sophie’s shoulders dropped and she sighed. ‘Well done, Mum. I’m sure you’re doing everything you can.’

That night I was woken by a strange sound. I lifted my head inside the cardboard box, my ears flicking as I tried to detect the source of the noise. I padded out of the living room, my senses on high alert. I could hear gurgling noises from the radiator pipes in the hall, but I could also detect a faint hissing coming from the café. I stood at the top of the stairs, my tail twitching. I knew that I risked Debbie’s anger if she discovered me creeping downstairs under cover of night, but my instincts were telling me something was amiss. In the end it was the thought of my kittens sleeping in the next room that made up my mind: something was wrong, and it was my duty to investigate.

I launched myself at the plyboard panel, scrabbling over the top and knocking it backwards as I dropped onto the stairs. I slipped down the staircase, pausing on the bottom step to take in the sight of the café, which I had not seen since the night I gave birth. I felt a pang of longing when I noticed that my gingham cushion was still in place on the windowsill, as if waiting for my return. I hoped its presence was a sign that Debbie believed I would, one day, be allowed back in the café.

The hissing sound was coming from the kitchen, so I crept past the serving counter through the doorway. Instantly my fur prickled in alarm. The air smelt strangely sweet and thick. It made my nose tingle, and after a few breaths my head started to swim. I followed the sound of hissing to the boiler, which was emitting creaking metallic noises. There was water trickling down the wall behind it, a steady stream that was already forming a pool on the kitchen floor and was spreading out across the tiles.

I turned and made my way quickly out of the kitchen and upstairs to the flat. I paused to take some deep breaths of clean air in the hallway, before running up the second flight of stairs to Debbie’s bedroom. Debbie was fast asleep and did not stir when I jumped onto the quilt beside her, or when I walked alongside her body and stood next to her face. I lifted one paw and tapped her lightly on the cheek. Her nose wrinkled and she lifted her hand, as if swatting a fly away, but her eyes remained closed. I patted her again, more insistently. This time she opened her eyes, startled to find me looming in front of her face. ‘Oh, Molly, it’s you,’ she murmured sleepily.

I meowed, trying to convey the urgency of the situation.

‘Shh, girl,’ she said, lifting her hand sleepily to stroke my back. I meowed again, louder this time, and patted her cheek for a third time. ‘Molly, I’m sleeping – leave me alone,’ she protested. She closed her eyes and rolled away from me, pulling her pillow over her head.

In desperation, I jumped from the bed onto her dressing table which was crowded with plastic bottles and pots of make-up and old lipsticks. It was hard to find space for my feet among the cotton-wool pads and hairbrushes. After all the weeks I had spent chastising my kittens for destructive behaviour, I was aware of the irony of my current predicament. I felt guilty even contemplating it, but I knew what I had to do: I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then swiped firmly across the contents of the dressing table with my paw.