Molly and the Cat Cafe

She yanked the trolley forward, but suddenly veered onto the grass, skirting around me as if I were roadkill. I felt a surge of relief that I was unharmed, which quickly turned to disappointment. Was she simply going to ignore me, leaving me – dying, for all she knew – in her front garden? I lay on the path, holding my breath, willing her not to go inside. I sensed she was looking at me, and I imagined her face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as she considered her options. I was sure she was convinced I was gravely injured. Would it occur to her that, if I was found dead outside her house, she would be the prime suspect?

I heard slow footsteps on the path behind me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Her voice was irritable and impatient. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I began to whimper pitifully. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she tutted.

My ears twitched at the sound of the shopping trolley being unzipped behind me, followed by rustling noises as she moved its contents around. I felt one hand slide underneath my hind legs and another under my shoulders, but I lay still, fighting the natural urge to jump out of her hands and run away. She lifted my limp body off the path and I could hear her shallow breathing as she lowered me carefully into the trolley.

I opened my eyes in time to see her face disappear as she slid the zip shut above me.

35

It was stiflingly close inside the trolley, and pitch black, but for a chink of daylight through a gap in the zip. The sharp corner of a piece of packaging dug into my flesh, and I twisted onto all fours to absorb the impact as the trolley’s wheels bounced along the ground beneath me. There was a strong stench of mackerel emanating from the plastic bag under my paws which, combined with the airlessness and rocking motion of the trolley, made me feel nauseous. I slowed my breathing in an effort to fight the growing queasiness in my belly: I didn’t know what the old lady had planned for me, but I suspected that vomiting over her shopping would not help my cause.

Desperate for fresh air, I began to tug at the zip above me until it snagged on my claw and I was able to work it slowly back along its track. As soon as the gap was large enough, I poked my head through and saw the lady’s knuckles gripping the trolley handle just a few inches from my nose. My relief at breathing fresh air was short-lived, however, as I scanned my surroundings, wondering where she was taking me. There were walls on both sides, and the woman’s back blocked my view ahead.

I stood up on my hind legs and extended my neck as far as I could, trying to see around her body. Something moved at the edge of my vision and I twisted my head, to see the tortoiseshell cat staring back at me. The quizzical semi-recognition I had seen in her eyes on my first journey through the alley had been replaced by a look of bafflement. I blinked at her for the second time that morning, well aware of how bizarre I must look, with my disembodied head protruding from an old woman’s trolley. The tortoiseshell’s tail twitched and she watched in amused silence as I was wheeled past.

As we neared the end of the alley I dropped back down beneath the zip, not wanting to draw attention to myself from passers-by. I could hear the noise of the market square around me, the slam of car doors and the shuffle of feet on the pavement, and before long I felt the uneven bump of cobbles underneath the trolley’s wheels. We stopped, then I heard a bell tinkle as a door opened, followed by a lurching sensation as the trolley was pulled inside.

Relief washed over me as I recognized the familiar sounds of the café around me: the hum of conversation and clink of teacups, and scratching sounds as one of the kittens went to work on a nearby scratching post.

‘Excuse me,’ I heard the old woman say.

A moment’s silence, then Debbie’s voice, sounding surprised, ‘Oh. Can I help you?’

I could imagine Debbie’s shocked expression upon finding herself face-to-face with the woman who had done so much to hurt her.

‘I’ve got your cat,’ the woman mumbled.

‘I’m sorry?’ Debbie answered, and there was no mistaking the fear in her voice. I knew she would be thinking of her conversation with Jo, regretting that she hadn’t paid more heed to her friend’s warnings that the battle axe couldn’t be trusted.

‘She was on my doorstep, I think she might be injured,’ the old lady stammered.

When Debbie answered, she sounded angry and suspicious, ‘Molly? Are you sure? Well, where is she?’

Before she could answer, I popped my head through the gap in the zip. Debbie gasped and watched, speechless, as I wriggled out of the trolley and jumped onto the floor.

‘Molly!’ exclaimed Debbie, rushing towards me. I stood up to greet her, aware of the dumbfounded expression on the old woman’s face.