Christmas at the Cat Cafe

The alley-cat – I could see him now – said nothing, but continued to glide silently towards me. He had matted ginger fur and a tattered ear, and his yellow eyes narrowed maliciously as he stalked towards me. A low, rumbling growl from the back of his throat left me in no doubt that he was preparing to fight. Cursing my naivety, I turned and tore back down the path. Without pausing for breath, I sprinted across the foggy square, forcing a car to brake as I streaked in front of it, and did not slow down until I had reached the parade. Standing on the cobbles to catch my breath, I felt inordinately comforted by the sight of John’s sturdy form on the café doorstep.

‘Hello, Molly,’ he said amiably, catching sight of me slinking along the pavement. He unlocked the door and I ran inside onto the doormat, waiting with my tail erect for him to stroke me. Smiling, John crouched down to tickle me around the ears.

‘It’s cold out there tonight, isn’t it?’ he murmured, gently wiping the layer of chilly moisture from my fur. I turned and rubbed against his hands with my cheek, grateful for the reassurance of his touch. When he stood up, I made straight for my cushion on the windowsill and set about washing away the lingering smell of the alleyway.

John walked across the café to the stairwell. ‘Debbie, it’s me,’ he called. ‘The table’s booked for eight o’clock.’

‘I’ll be right down,’ Debbie replied in a strained voice from the top of the stairs.

Above us, the sound of footsteps indicated that she had moved to the living room. Through the ceiling I made out the muffled sound of Debbie talking in a tone that sounded plaintive and pleading. She was cut off mid-sentence by an angry growl from Sophie. The beams in the café ceiling creaked beneath the teenager’s heavy tread, stomping across the living room.

‘Well, can you blame me, Mum?’ Sophie hollered from the landing. ‘At least Matt lives in a normal house with a normal family. There’s room to hear myself think, and it’s possible to have a conversation, once in a while, that isn’t about cats!’

John glanced at his watch with a look of weary resignation, then walked over to the fireplace. Jasper was sprawled across one of the armchairs and, as John lowered himself into the opposite chair, lifted his head sleepily. Perhaps it was some masculine bond between them, or they identified with each other being at once part of the café but also slightly removed from it, for John and Jasper had always had a particular fondness for each other. John leant forward in his seat to rub Jasper affectionately between the ears. ‘I don’t know how you put up with it, mate,’ John murmured, as Jasper purred and closed his eyes lazily.

Debbie eventually ran downstairs, flustered and apologetic, and she and John headed out for their date. The flat above me was quiet and I spent a soothing couple of hours washing away the memory of the yellow-eyed alley-cat. It was only when I had curled up in a ball to wait for sleep that John’s comment to Jasper popped back into my head. I don’t know how you put up with it, he had said, and there had been something about his tone that troubled me. I had always taken John’s devotion to Debbie for granted, rarely giving a

thought to the impact the café’s dramas might have on him. It suddenly occurred to me that his reserves of patience might not be infinite and that he might, eventually, tire of waiting on the sidelines while Debbie dealt with the successive crises in her life.

For the first time in a long while, the thought crossed my mind that John might decide he’d had enough of us all.

14

The rift that had opened between me and the kittens since Linda and Ming’s arrival seemed to deepen in the wake of Eddie’s disappearance. I was convinced that my bad-tempered hiss had been the trigger for him running away, but couldn’t bring myself to talk to the kittens about it. My own sense of guilt was bad enough; it would be more than I could bear to hear them say they blamed me, too.

However, when a full week had passed since Eddie’s last sighting, and our searches had led nowhere, I finally plucked up the courage to say something. Purdy was about to push her way out through the cat flap one morning when I intercepted her on the doormat.

‘Can I talk to you about Eddie?’ I asked.

It had been a long time since I had spoken to any of the kittens in private, and I felt surprisingly nervous when she turned her alert, inquisitive face to look at me.

‘I was just wondering if Eddie said anything to you, before he disappeared?’ I began, aware that my pulse was starting to race. If Eddie had confided in his siblings that he was angry with me, I knew Purdy wouldn’t flinch from telling me.

Her green eyes held my gaze steadily. ‘No – nothing,’ she said. Then, after a pause, she added, ‘I think you’re assuming the worst.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.