Мелисса Дэйли - Christmas At The Cat Cafe

My fur was soaked through to my skin, as I ran down the steps and took the road opposite the market cross. I made my way slowly along the pavement, checking underneath parked cars for any sign of Eddie. Every now and then I heard the yowl of an alley-cat somewhere in the distance and froze, rotating my ears to listen, lest I should hear Eddie or Jasper’s voice in reply.

At the end of the street I turned right, onto a wide, busy thoroughfare lined with pubs and hotels. Traffic rushed past me in both directions, and a group of people dressed for a night out stumbled out of a hotel, laughing. I pressed up against a wall and let them pass, the women’s high heels clicking against the pavement just inches from my paws. A little further along the street they turned into a pub, pulling open the heavy wooden door and releasing a gust of warmth and light, which momentarily transfixed me. Could Eddie have found his way inside such a place? His sociable nature and love of people meant I couldn’t rule it out. But the town was full of pubs like this – how could I possibly search them all? I sniffed disconsolately at the wooden porch around the entrance, before padding away down the street.

For nearly an hour I continued to prowl the area, probing into dark doorways and behind dustbins until my paw-pads were soaked and freezing. The hopelessness of my task had begun to dawn on me: there was no way Jasper and I could search the whole of Stourton tonight; and, even if Eddie had passed this way, the incessant rain would have washed away any trace of his scent. Tired and dispirited, I turned to head home, making no effort to dodge the splashing puddles as cars raced past me. Jasper was waiting for me in the café doorway, and I knew immediately from his downcast posture that his search had also been fruitless.

‘He’s a sensible cat, he’ll be okay,’ he whispered as I stepped onto the doorstep. I dropped my gaze, too exhausted to point out that just because Eddie was sensible it did not necessarily mean he would be all right.

‘You coming in?’ I asked wearily.

Jasper’s tail twitched; since our conversation about Ming, he had hardly come indoors at all. But his face softened as we stood facing each other, equally drenched, on the doorstep. ‘After you,’ he replied, glancing at the door.

The following morning Debbie checked the alleyway for Eddie, returning from the kitchen with a look of mingled disappointment and concern.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Debs. He’ll come back when he’s hungry,’ Linda said breezily, pulling her apron over her head. ‘Our cat Toby used to do this all the time when we were little, d’you remember?’

Debbie inclined her head. ‘Maybe, Linda – let’s hope so,’ she replied.

I spent the day in the window, keeping watch for any sign of Eddie, while Jasper headed out to continue the search. The kittens were subdued, spending most of the day sleeping or pacing the floor, sniffing at Eddie’s usual napping spots, throwing anxious glances in my direction. In my vulnerable state I resented Ming’s mute haughtiness more than ever. I kept it to myself, but I could not quell the growing suspicion that Ming had had something to do with Eddie’s disappearance. Had some covert conversation taken place between them after the hissing incident, in which he had confided his hurt feelings, and she had encouraged him to run away? Or was I paranoid to imagine such a thing?

As the grey light outside the window gave way to darkness, I caught sight of Ming’s reflection in the glass: a ghost-like apparition hovering, motionless, behind me. A flash of blue made me think she was watching me; but, when I turned to look, her eyes were closed.

13

Debbie was cashing up at the till one evening, when Linda sidled over to the wooden counter. ‘Debbie,’ she wheedled. ‘Can I pitch you an idea for the menu?’

‘Mm-hmm,’ answered Debbie absent-mindedly, sliding piles of coins across the worktop into clear plastic bags.

‘Ming’s Fortune Cookies,’ Linda announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet eagerly. On the window cushion, my ears flickered. Debbie’s face was blank with confusion. ‘I’ve made a prototype,’ Linda went on, pulling something red and crinkly from her apron pocket and placing it on the counter.

Debbie picked up the twist of cellophane and unwrapped it, to reveal a small cookie and a folded slip of paper.

‘That’s Ming’s Motto,’ Linda explained earnestly.

‘ Time spent with cats is never wasted ,’ Debbie read, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Linda whipped a notepad out of her apron. ‘I’ve got plenty more mottoes,’ she said keenly. ‘ All cats are equal, but some are more equal than others. To err is human, to purr is feline .’ She looked at her sister expectantly. ‘See, not just a pretty face, am I?’ she beamed, tapping her forehead with the tip of her pen.

‘That’s a good idea, Linda – I like it. If you print off the mottoes, we can make a batch and see if they sell,’ Debbie said.

‘Trust me, Debs, they’ll sell like hotcakes,’ replied Linda, practically glowing. ‘Remember, I know a thing or two about marketing – that was my career until I married Ray,’ she said, carefully folding the motto and cookie back inside their wrapper.

‘And you no longer needed a career,’ I heard Debbie mutter under her breath when Linda had bustled past her into the kitchen.

The following morning Debbie was at the dining table, reading the local newspaper with a furrowed brow. ‘Linda, have you seen this? Ming’s in the paper!’ she called across the hallway.

In the shoebox, I froze in mid-wash and glanced across the room to see Linda appear at the living-room door, grinning broadly.

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she preened, leaning against the doorframe with an expression of barely suppressed triumph.

‘Exotic New Kitty Joins Cat Café,’ Debbie read aloud, before firing a disapproving sideways look at Linda. ‘Popular new addition to Stourton’s cat café . . . Beautiful Ming is a real glamour-puss . . . a tragic Siamese rescued from a life of neglect’ – here, Debbie paused to raise a sceptical eyebrow at Linda – ‘“Ming has brought a taste of Eastern promise to the Cotswolds,” says Molly’s spokesperson, Linda Fleming.’ At this, Debbie set her coffee mug roughly down on the table and sat back in her chair. ‘“A taste of Eastern promise”, Linda – are you kidding?’ she scowled. ‘And since when have you been Molly’s spokesperson?’ she added scornfully.

But Linda was unrepentant. ‘Trust me, Debs, it’ll be great for business,’ she winked, and trotted downstairs to the café.

Debbie reread the article with a look of growing displeasure. Then she tossed the newspaper across the table and sat for a moment, staring at the now-empty doorway with an expression of deep resentment on her face.

Trepidation mingled with curiosity in my mind, as I padded across the room and jumped onto the table. The newspaper lay open on the feature about Ming. In the middle of the page was a full-length portrait of Ming sitting regally on her platform, directing a haughty stare down the lens of the camera. The kittens and I were nowhere to be seen. In the bottom left-hand corner there was a second photograph: a small, professional-looking headshot of Linda, which must have been taken several years earlier: she was heavily made-up with immaculately blow-dried hair and looked a good five years younger. Beneath her image ran the caption ‘Linda Fleming: rescues cats’.

I exhaled crossly and glared at the photo, aware of fury rising in the pit of my stomach. Everything about the newspaper coverage enraged me, from the made-up account of Ming’s ‘tragic’ back-story, to Linda’s positioning of herself as a ‘cat-rescuer’ and, most importantly, the misleading impression it gave that Ming was the café’s sole charge and main attraction. It was as if the kittens and I had been air-brushed out of existence altogether. The article was inaccurate on every front and yet, seeing Linda’s distorted claims in print somehow gave them credibility. Deciding I had seen enough, I sat down on top of the newspaper and began to wash, making sure to position my hindquarters squarely on top of Ming’s conceited face.