Мелисса Дэйли - Christmas At The Cat Cafe

For my sister, Emma

‘What greater gift than the love of a cat?’

Charles Dickens

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The honey-coloured buildings that bordered the market square glowed in the dazzling autumn sunshine. I sat in the dappled shade of an elm tree, watching as tourists and shoppers meandered back and forth along the cobbled streets, soaking up the town’s atmosphere of prosperous gentility.

A cool breeze ruffled my fur and I inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of fallen leaves mingled with the aroma of meats and cheeses from the delicatessen behind me. The clock in a nearby church tower had just struck five and I knew that the bustling square would soon give way to a slower pace, as the shops closed for the day and the visitors made their way home. I yawned and jumped down from the wooden bench, taking my time to stretch languorously before setting off on my own homeward journey.

Keeping to the pavement, I trotted past the numerous tea shops, antiques dealers and gift stores that lined the square, then cut in front of the stone steps of the imposing town hall. The gaggles of grey-haired ladies in sturdy shoes barely noticed me weaving between them, preoccupied as they were with making the most of their last opportunity to buy, before climbing back into their waiting coaches. When I first arrived in the Cotswold town of Stourton-on-the-Hill as a homeless cat, the indifference of strangers would have upset me, but now I strode along, my tail held high, buoyed by the knowledge I, too, had a home to return to.

Careful to avoid the many alleyways that led off the square, which I knew to be the fiercely guarded territory of the town’s alley-cats, I turned onto a smart thoroughfare lined with estate agents’ offices and clothing boutiques. I deftly picked my way beneath gates and over fences, until I found myself in a narrow, cobbled parade of shops beside a church.

The parade serviced some of the town’s more mundane requirements, by means of a newsagent, bakery and hardware shop. But at the end of the parade, was a café. Like its immediate neighbours, the café was modest in size, but its golden stone walls exuded the same warmth as its grander counterparts on the square. Its front aspect was dominated by a curved bay window, framed by hanging baskets from which geraniums trailed, a little straggly, but still in flower after the long summer season. The only indicator that this café was different from any of the other eating establishments in Stourton was the chalkboard that stood outside its entrance, proclaiming the café ‘Open for coffee, cake and cuddles’. This was Molly’s, the Cotswolds’ only cat café, and it was my name printed in pink cursive script across the awning above the window.

Nosing through the cat flap in the café’s front door, I was immediately enveloped by the aura of tranquillity that only a room full of dozing cats can generate. The café had begun to empty after the teatime rush, but a few tables remained occupied, the customers chatting in hushed voices as they drank tea from china cups. The café’s decor was as familiar to me as my own tabby markings, from its beamed ceiling and warm pink walls (the same shade as the trail of paw prints that snaked across the flagstone floor, the result of my encounter with a paint tray when the café was being decorated), to the candy-striped oilcloths on the tables and the handwritten Specials board on the mantelpiece above the wood-burning stove.

As I made my way across the flagstones I glanced around the room, making a mental note of my kittens’ whereabouts. There were five of them – from my first and only litter – and their unexpected arrival just over a year earlier had, indirectly, brought about the café’s transformation from rundown sandwich shop to thriving cat café. I saw Purdy first: she was draped proprietorially across the cat hammock that hung from the ceiling by the stairs, her white-tipped paws dangling over the edges of the hessian fabric. She had been the first-born of the litter and thus had assumed certain privileges over her siblings, which included laying claim to the highest napping spot in the room. As I picked out a path between the tables and chairs, I spotted her sister Maisie on the sisal cat tree that stood in the middle of the room. Maisie was the smallest and most timid of the kittens. She loved to observe her surroundings from the domed bed that protruded from the cat tree’s trunk, her watchful green eyes monitoring the café’s activity from her private refuge.

My destination was the sun-faded gingham cushion in the bay window. This had come to be known as ‘Molly’s cushion’ by the café’s staff and customers, because it had long been my favourite place to sit, allowing me to observe the goings-on both inside the café and on the street. I jumped up and turned in circles a few times, kneading its soft surface with my paws, enjoying the familiarity of its smell and feel. Around me, the last few customers pulled on their jackets, gathered their shopping bags and settled their bills. Abby and Bella, always an inseparable pair, had taken joint possession of one of the armchairs in front of the stone fireplace. They were curled up together, with their eyes closed, engaged in a reciprocal wash.

Debbie, our owner, stepped out from behind the wooden serving counter and moved methodically across the room, clearing tables. With the faintly weary air she habitually carried at the end of the working day, she went over to the table nearest the door, lifted her forearm to push the wispy blonde fringe out of her eyes, then began to stack the empty plates and cups onto the crook of her arm. Her blue eyes creased into a smile when Eddie – the only boy in my litter – jumped up onto the tablecloth and began to sniff hopefully at the half-empty milk jug. ‘Eddie, you naughty boy! Where are your table manners?’ Debbie chided him, giving him a gentle shove onto a chair. He gazed longingly after her as she – and the milk jug – disappeared back into the kitchen, before he finally jumped down and wandered disappointedly away.

A flurry of movement outside the window caught my attention. A song thrush was bouncing along the guttering on the buildings opposite, chirping persistently in a shrill warning call that announced the presence of a cat nearby. I craned closer to the window to scan the street and glimpsed a large black-and-white cat striding along the cobbles. Even at a distance, the cat’s rangy frame and confident gait were instantly recognizable: it was Jasper, the father of my kittens. Before he reached the café he turned a corner and vanished out of sight. I knew he would be heading to the alleyway that ran along the rear of the parade, where he always went to wait for the café’s closing time.

The warmth of the low sun, intensified by the windowpane, began to take its soporific hold on me. I would meet Jasper outside later, for our customary evening walk, but first I felt myself succumbing to the irresistible urge to nap. I lay down on my cushion and tucked my paws neatly beneath my body, purring lethargically as a feeling of peaceful contentment spread through me. I was comfortable, I was well fed and I was surrounded by the people and cats I loved. Life was good, and as my head began to nod gently on the gingham cushion, I could see no reason why it would not stay like this forever.