Мелисса Дэйли - Christmas At The Cat Cafe

‘But you could afford it, couldn’t you, Debs, if you used Margery’s legacy to pay for it?’

Debbie held up her hands, palms outwards, fingers spread. ‘No way, Linda – that’s out of the question!’ she exclaimed, her eyes round with horror.

‘Is it, Debs? Says who?’ Linda was hunched forward earnestly. ‘Margery left that money to Molly, remember, to make sure she would always be looked after. And what better way to look after Molly’s interests than to make sure that her future – and the café’s, and yours – is secure?’

Debbie lowered her hands to her lap and her head drooped. She looked defeated.

‘Just promise me you’ll think about it, Debs,’ Linda pleaded. ‘It’s what Margery would have wanted.’

21

The following day brought ominous grey clouds scudding low across the sky, and by lunchtime the rain had arrived, driving down on the parade in icy sheets. The thought of Eddie enduring the wintry conditions alone, outdoors and without shelter, consumed me. In spite of the weather, I slipped out and made straight for the alleyway, to curl up beneath the fire escape. Hearing the relentless pounding of raindrops on the iron steps above me, and feeling the winter chill seep into my bones, was a kind of penance, as if I was sharing, at least to some degree, Eddie’s suffering.

As I made my way back from the alleyway that evening, I rounded the corner to see Jo on the cobbles in front of the café. She was battling to steady her umbrella against the lashing rain, clutching a bag from the Indian takeaway close to her body with her free hand. I broke into a run and slipped in behind her when she opened the door and a blast of cold air rushed into the café with us, causing the paper napkins to flutter in their holders and the window blinds to tap against the glass.

‘Hiya, Debs, food’s here,’ Jo shouted, shaking out her umbrella on the doorstep. She walked across the flagstones, pausing by the cat tree to deliver an amused double-take at the photo of Ming suspended from the bunch of mistletoe.

‘It’s Ming-istletoe . Linda’s idea,’ Debbie explained, deadpan, as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

‘Of course,’ Jo murmured, stifling a smile.

She deposited the bag of food on the counter and walked over to the fireplace. Purdy, who had been spread out on the flagstones, jumped up and wrapped herself around Jo’s ankles, scent-marking her jeans enthusiastically with the sides of her mouth.

‘Hello, Purdy,’ Jo cooed, bending over to rub her briskly around the whiskers. I could hear Purdy’s purr from the windowsill. ‘So, how’re things with you, Debs?’ Jo asked, drying the backs of her rain-soaked legs in the warmth from the stove.

Debbie made a face that was half-grimace, half-smile, then pulled something out of her back pocket. ‘Have a read of that,’ she said despondently, handing the folded envelope to Jo. The letter had arrived in the post that morning; I had recognized the solicitor’s insignia, and noticed how Debbie had swiftly plucked the envelope off the mat and stuffed it in her apron, looking around furtively to make sure Linda hadn’t seen.

‘Hmm, they’re turning up the pressure, aren’t they?’ Jo said, casting her eyes over the letter’s contents while Debbie gathered plates and cutlery.

‘I can hardly blame them,’ replied Debbie. ‘They need to know what I plan to do, but . . .’ Her posture slumped and she stared at the crockery in front of her.

‘But, what?’ Jo asked. ‘I thought you’d already decided to decline the legacy.’

‘I had, Jo!’ said Debbie fervently. ‘But that was before Linda started going on about how Margery might not have wanted David to inherit. She thinks David’s trying to bully me and that I should respect Margery’s wishes and . . . Oh, I just don’t know any more,’ she wailed.

Jo pulled a stool towards the counter and sat down, hungrily ripping open a paper bag of poppadoms.

‘She’s making me doubt myself, Jo,’ Debbie continued, looking dejected. ‘Am I being naive for thinking the money should go to David, regardless of Margery’s will? I know how much Molly meant to Margery, and David certainly isn’t the easiest of people—’

‘That sounds like an understatement, Debs,’ Jo interjected, taking a bite of crispy poppadum.

Debbie’s head dropped. ‘He was awful, Jo, I’ve never felt so belittled by anyone in my life,’ she admitted. ‘But that doesn’t make it right to disinherit him, does it?’ she asked, her eyes round with worry.

‘There’s no easy answer,’ Jo agreed. ‘But Linda is right about one thing. A bit of financial security for you and Sophie wouldn’t go amiss, would it?’

Debbie winced. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ she asked. ‘That’s what’s so horrible about this whole situation. Linda knows I’ve got no pension, and no one to depend on financially. She knows that thinking about the future terrifies me, and she’s using it to justify taking the money.’

Jo did her best to convey sympathy whilst simultaneously shovelling a handful of poppadum shards into her mouth.

‘If it makes you feel any better, Debs,’ she said, as they moved their meal over to a table and sat down, ‘I know exactly what you mean about financial security, or lack thereof.’

Debbie pulled herself out of her torpor and looked at her friend with concern. ‘Business still slow?’ she asked kindly.

‘Stourton’s changed, Debs,’ Jo complained. ‘My humble hardware shop isn’t in keeping with the place any more. We don’t fit in with all the beauty salons and designer boutiques and . . . cat cafés all over the place.’

Debbie poured out two large glasses of wine. ‘On behalf of the cat cafés, I apologize,’ she said sincerely, handing a glass to Jo. ‘But people will always need Hoover bags, surely?’ she asked hopefully.

‘That’s true, Debs, but they can get them from the market, can’t they? Just like they can get most of what I stock from the market.’

Debbie gave her friend a sympathetic look and there followed a sisterly silence while the two of them ate and drank.

‘I’ve got to be honest, Debs,’ Jo said gloomily. ‘If someone left Bernard money in their will, I’d think very seriously before turning it down.’ She managed a half-smile and took a gulp of wine.

‘Well, it could happen,’ Debbie replied, determinedly upbeat. ‘I’m sure there must be a rich benefactor out there somewhere, with a soft spot for arthritic Labradors.’

‘Arthritic Labradors who are slightly incontinent and a bit smelly,’ Jo clarified.

Debbie chuckled. ‘How is Bernard, anyway?’ she enquired.

Just as Jo had always taken an interest in me and the kittens, Debbie also felt an affectionate fondness for Jo’s dog.

‘Oh, he’s plodding on, bless him,’ answered Jo. ‘I took him to see my dad last weekend on the farm. They were like two peas in a pod, wheezing and limping around the yard together.’ She was smiling, but her eyes looked damp.

There was a sudden rattle and tinkle, followed by a gust of night air as the café door opened. Debbie and Jo both looked up, surprised by the unexpected interruption.

‘Oh, hi, sweetheart,’ Debbie said, twisting in her chair to see Sophie standing on the doormat. ‘You’re home early.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘My plans changed. What’re you eating?’ she asked, drawn towards their table by the spicy aroma of their food.

‘Indian. There’s plenty left. Why don’t you join us?’

Sophie stood beside them, considering the offer. ‘Okay,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a plate.