Molly and the Cat Cafe

Debbie leapt up, her sudden movement sending me and the kittens scattering across the room in panic. She was clutching the letter close to her chest, as if frightened that someone might snatch it from her. She paced back and forth across the rug, rereading phrases from the letter aloud, reassuring herself that she hadn’t misunderstood their meaning.

‘ “As long as all the cats in question are the owner’s pets and will not to be offered to the public for adoption, it will not be necessary to obtain a licence for the cat café from Animal Welfare.” ’ Debbie emitted a gasp of disbelief. ‘I can’t believe it! After everything they put us through, it turns out all they needed was confirmation that the cats belong to me and won’t be rehomed!’

She let out a high-pitched squeal and began to jump up and down on the rug as the letter’s meaning sank in. The kittens, responding to her excitement, began to chase each other in frenzied circuits around the living room, but Debbie didn’t seem to notice them. ‘“Molly’s Cat Café”. It’ll be your café, Molls – yours and the kittens’. What will the old battleaxe make of that, eh?’ Debbie smiled at me, her eyes glinting. Behind her, Purdy, hotly pursued by Abby, shot up the living-room curtain, startling Debbie and making her shriek.

Sophie stood up and touched her mother’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should sit down while you let it sink in, Mum,’ she said soothingly.

‘Sit down? How can I sit down! This calls for a celebration,’ Debbie shouted gleefully, waving the letter in the air. She ran into the kitchen, where I could hear her rummaging noisily through the kitchen cupboards. ‘Why is there never any champagne when you need it?’ she shouted.

‘Because you drank it the night the kittens were born,’ Sophie replied drily.

‘Well, I should have bought some more to replace it,’ Debbie yelled. ‘Anyone would think we don’t have enough things to celebrate in this flat!’ A few moments later she reappeared, carrying a bottle and two wine glasses on a tray. ‘Right, I’m afraid this is the best I can do,’ she said, placing the tray on the dining table.

‘Oh, Mum, what is that?’ Sophie asked, picking up the bottle dubiously. ‘Lambrini Cherry? Are you kidding?’

‘I know, but it’s the best we’ve got. I won it at the tombola at the school Christmas fair, remember?’ She peeled off a paper raffle ticket, which had been taped to the neck of the bottle, then poured the fizzing pink liquid into the glasses.

‘To Molly’s Cat Café!’ Debbie toasted merrily, clinking her glass against Sophie’s.

Sophie took a sip, winced, then ran into the kitchen to spit her mouthful into the sink. ‘Urgh, that’s rank, Mum,’ she shouted, rinsing her mouth with tap water.

Debbie picked up the bottle and examined the label. ‘Hmm. Expiry date was October of last year. That might explain the vinegary tang. Never mind.’ She took the bottle into the kitchen and emptied it down the plughole.

The following fortnight passed in a state of frenetic activity as Debbie prepared for a final inspection by Environmental Health. She spent her days making adjustments to the café, while I listened to the goings-on from behind the plyboard panel at the top of the stairs. The installation of a new gate next to the serving counter – designed to block feline access to the kitchen – was of little interest to me, but my ears pricked up with curiosity when I heard her accept a large delivery from a pet-supplies van parked outside. When John was set to work in the alleyway with a saw and long pieces of timber, I pressed my nose against the living-room window, eager to see what he was building, but all I could make out were the offcuts of wood that he threw into the recycling bin. Debbie spent her evenings in the flat with Sophie, whose exams were at last finished, and together they devised dishes for the new cat-themed menu.

‘How about Tummy Tickler Teacakes?’ she asked Sophie, tapping her cheek thoughtfully with her pen.

Sophie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Frosty Paws Cake-Pops?’ she suggested in return, while Debbie scribbled keenly on her notepad.

‘We’ve got to have some tuna on there somewhere. It’s Molly’s favourite, after all,’ Debbie insisted. ‘What about tuna-melt muffins, with grated cheese?’ Sophie suggested. ‘Perfect,’ Debbie smiled, as my mouth began to water.

When the day of the inspection arrived, Debbie was agitated. She paced around the flat, unable to eat any breakfast, and smiled wanly when Sophie shouted, ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’ll be fine,’ on her way out.