Мелисса Дэйли - Molly And The Cat Cafe

I padded around the side of the wheelchair to look at the figure inside it. An elderly woman was slumped low in the seat, her face hidden behind her menu. Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up, I lifted a paw and tugged at the folds of skirt around the lady’s ankles. She peered over the side of her chair, two rheumy blue eyes in a face framed by soft waves of silver.

‘Well now, who’s this?’ she asked, extending one hand shakily towards me.

With my heart beating in my throat, I stepped forwards to sniff her papery skin. In that instant, a wave of emotion stronger than anything I had ever experienced surged through me and, before I even had time to think, I had leapt over the arm of the wheelchair and into the lady’s lap.

‘I think that cat likes you, Margery,’ said the young woman at the table, as I rubbed my head ecstatically against the soft folds of Margery’s cheek.

‘I used to have a cat just like this,’ she replied, clucking softly as she stroked my body. ‘There, there, puss,’ she whispered, and I purred so loudly that I thought my heart would burst.

When I pulled my back from Margery’s face, I saw that Debbie had walked over to the table and was watching in amazement. ‘This is Molly,’ she said. ‘I’ve only had her for a few months. She was a stray.’

‘Oh, Molly, yes – that’s her name!’ Margery replied, her eyes still on me, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Is that you, Molly?’ She took hold of my face gently, between quivering hands. I purred and rubbed her fingers with my whiskers, wanting to leave her in no doubt of who I was.

So many times, since losing Margery, I had sought solace in memories of our life together. Imagining her smile, or the feel of her hands on my fur, had kept me going when I was alone and desperate. Remembering our happy times at home had given me faith that another loving owner might be out there, somewhere, if only I could find them. But, as time passed, Margery’s image had faded, becoming pale and indistinct like the sun-bleached photographs she had kept on the mantelpiece. Then, when I could no longer call her image to mind, all that had remained was the memory of how she had made me feel: safe, and loved.

As Margery cradled me on her lap in the café, I felt transported back to my kittenhood, believing that nothing could hurt me while I was in her arms. My unhappy time at Rob’s house, the lonely journey to Stourton, my bittersweet memories of life in the alley, even my joy at having the kittens – all fell away, and for a few blissful moments it was just me and Margery, and our love for each other. Just as it had been in the beginning.

I have no idea how long we remained like that, utterly absorbed in each other, feeling as if the world had shrunk to the chair that held us both.

Eventually, unwillingly, I started to become aware of the café around us. I heard hushed voices nearby, the sound of the kittens playing and somebody sniffing above my head. When at last I opened my eyes, I saw Debbie standing next to Margery’s wheelchair, dabbing her cheek with a tissue.

‘She moved into the care home last year. I knew she loved cats, so when I heard about this place I decided to bring her,’ Margery’s companion said quietly.

‘Do you think Molly could really have been her cat?’ Debbie whispered.

‘She’s got advanced dementia and gets confused by a lot of things, but she seems pretty certain about this,’ the carer replied.

‘Molly does too,’ Debbie agreed. ‘I’ve never seen her react like this to a stranger before.’

Debbie brought Margery a pot of tea and a Cat’s Whiskers cookie, pulling up a stool beside her wheelchair.

Margery took her hand. ‘This is my cat Molly, you know,’ she said, beaming at Debbie.

‘I know, Margery. Isn’t it lovely that you’ve found each other again?’

Margery’s smile lit up her face.

‘I wonder how she managed to find her way to Stourton,’ Debbie prompted, at which Margery’s brow furrowed. ‘She’s Molly, my cat,’ she repeated.

I sensed her agitation, and knew that confusion was beginning to descend. I rubbed my head against her hand, trying to reassure her that we were together again, and that nothing else mattered.

All too soon it was time for Margery to leave. Debbie took a photograph of the two of us, before lifting me gently from Margery’s lap. ‘You will come back, I hope?’ Debbie asked, as she walked them to the door.

The carer promised they would return soon. ‘It’s done her the world of good,’ she smiled.

As Margery was wheeled past, she reached out and took Debbie’s hand, grasping it tightly. ‘She’s my cat, you know,’ she said, looking up into Debbie’s face intently.

Debbie squeezed her hand and nodded. ‘I know, Margery. Come back and see her soon.’

Over dinner that evening Debbie told Sophie about what had happened, her eyes filling with tears as she described our reunion. She passed her phone to Sophie, its screen displaying the photo of the two of us.

‘Wow!’ Sophie said, her eyes reddening. She was studying the photo closely when the phone beeped. ‘It’s a text from John, Mum,’ Sophie said, handing the phone back to Debbie. ‘He says you need to talk.’

33

Debbie unlocked the door and stood aside to let John in, gesturing towards the nearest table. Outside, the evening sky was heavy with low cloud, and a sharp wind whipped through the trees, heralding the arrival of a storm. In the dusky half-light of the café I crouched inside the cardboard box by the stove, trying to quell a feeling of foreboding in my stomach.

John smiled tensely at Debbie as he walked past her, but she remained resolutely aloof. Although I didn’t understand what had caused this sudden coolness between them, I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew I had played a part in bringing them together, and I had done everything I could to encourage Debbie to trust John. If he had done something to betray her trust, would I have to bear some of the responsibility for that too?

He slung his jacket over a chair and sat down with his back to me. Debbie sat opposite him across a small table, her face pale but composed as she waited for him to speak.

‘Thanks for letting me come at such short notice,’ John began, sounding polite to the point of formality.

‘So, what do we need to talk about?’ Debbie replied briskly. She looked him in the eye, her gaze challenging him.

John sighed and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding it across the table towards her. ‘This came through my letterbox this morning,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought it was only fair to show you.’

Debbie took the single sheet of paper from the envelope. Her face remained impassive as she read, but I could see the page quiver with the trembling of her hands. When she had finished, she folded the letter up and slotted it back inside its envelope.

‘Quite a read, isn’t it?’ she said coldly, placing the letter on the table between them. ‘I notice that whoever wrote it was too much of a coward to sign it. But then, I suppose, poison-pen letters are always anonymous.’ Her voice caught as she spoke and her eyes looked glassy.

I longed to comfort her, to jump into her lap and soothe her with my purr, but I knew this situation was beyond my power to fix. John’s posture suggested that he was looking at her, waiting for her to continue.

‘So I guess you’re here to tell me that you don’t want anything more to do with me?’ Debbie asked matter-of-factly. ‘According to this’ – she waved her hand dismissively at the letter – ‘I’m planning to fleece you for your money, then do a runner. Because that’s what I’ve done before, apparently.’ She took a sharp intake of breath as if, by saying the words out loud, their meaning had hit her for the first time. Her eyes were defiant, but I could see what an effort it was taking for her to stay calm.