Molly and the Cat Cafe

She walked briskly to the end of the parade, where she turned right and headed towards the market square. I trotted behind her at a discreet distance, dodging a friendly tourist who tried to stroke me. When she reached the square, the old woman went into the fishmonger’s and I darted under a parked car to catch my breath. I hadn’t visited the square since I had first arrived in Stourton as a homeless stray, and I was overwhelmed by the noise and activity that assaulted me from all sides.

It was difficult to reconcile the hectic scene around me with the lonely square I had encountered at Christmas. It was market day, and packs of tourists surged along the pavements, spilling off the kerbs into the path of passing traffic. Shoppers moved slowly between the market stalls, gimlet-eyed as they searched for bargains, tugging dogs or bored children after them. The lively, bustling atmosphere could not be more different from the ambience I had experienced on my first night, but, in my agitated state, it felt no less daunting.

The old woman stepped out of the fishmonger’s and made her way across to the far side of the square. I dashed out from under the car and ran over the road, glimpsing the wheels of her trolley as they disappeared into a crowd of shoppers. I pushed into the melee, weaving between legs and pushchairs, and reached the pavement just in time to see her turn down an alley between two shops. I padded closer, peering gingerly around the alley’s entrance. Up ahead, the woman was rapidly disappearing down the passageway and I knew I had to follow. I took a deep breath and entered the alley, automatically dropping to a defensive prowl.

The sounds of the market dropped away, and the rattle of the trolley’s wheels filled the enclosed path, magnified by the stone walls on both sides. I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the primitive instinct that warned me that I was being watched. Panicked, I glanced up to see a pair of cat’s eyes staring intently from the top of the wall beside me. My hackles rose in expectation of an attack, but the cat remained motionless, its eyes fixed with an expression that seemed curious rather than hostile.

A succession of confused images flashed through my mind, memories that had lain dormant for many months. I knew that I recognized the cat, but it took a few seconds to realize that it was the tortoiseshell I had found sleeping on a shed roof, soon after my arrival in Stourton. This was her alley; the same one I had wandered into the morning after my attack by the ginger tomcat. I felt a rush of gratitude when I saw her; it was thanks to her advice that I had sought out the churchyard for shelter, and consequently discovered the alleyway behind the café. I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition in her eye and I blinked at her, wishing I had time to thank her, belatedly, for what she had done for me. But I knew that, if I lingered, I would lose sight of the old woman, so I ran on, feeling the tortoiseshell’s inquisitive gaze still on my back.

At the end of the alley, the woman turned into a terrace of neat brick houses. She crossed the road and walked towards the last house in the row, standing her trolley on the pavement while she opened the garden gate. I darted under the hedge that bordered the front of the garden, and raced towards her front door. While she was fastening the gate shut behind her, I lay down on the path in front of her doorstep and closed my eyes.

I felt the path beneath me vibrate as her trolley rolled towards me. Inches from my prostrate body, the trolley stopped, and I half-opened one eye. The old woman surveyed me with a look of disgust. ‘Scram, cat. Clear off!’ she said, nudging my leg with the tip of her shoe. I remained motionless and let out a pained yowl. Shocked, she leaned forwards, using her shopping trolley for support as she bent down to examine me more closely. She prodded me lightly on the flank with her finger and I let out another cry of pain, at which she straightened up, tutting in consternation.

I saw her cast a furtive look over her shoulder, as if checking to see that she was alone. She took her trolley tightly by the handle, and my heart began to thump in my chest. When I had set off in pursuit of her I had a hazy notion that, by confronting her, I would call her bluff. Now it had started to dawn on me that, in fact, she was about to call mine. Rather than putting an end to her campaign of harassment against Debbie, I had presented her with the perfect opportunity to finish what she had started: to run me over with her trolley and dispose of me in the privacy of her own home.