Christmas at the Cat Cafe

As I awaited Debbie and Ming’s return, my eye kept being drawn to the empty platform on the cat tree, and I found myself unable to settle. As the afternoon wore on, the chatter of customers began to grate on me, and the continuous chug and hiss of the coffee machine made my head ache. Craving fresh air, I slipped out outside and stood on the pavement, grateful for the chill breeze in my fur. The snowfall of the previous week had largely thawed, leaving only the occasional patch of grey slush on the pavements. A dustbin lorry turned the corner onto the parade and began its slow, growling progress up the street, so I ran along the pavement and darted into the recessed doorway of Jo’s hardware store. Waiting for the lorry to pass, I peered through the door. With the shifting reflections of passers-by in the glass, I found it difficult to be sure, but I thought I saw a glimpse of a tabby cat striding down one of the shop’s aisles.

The dustbin lorry pulled up outside the hardware shop and two men in luminous yellow jackets made their way towards the wheelie bins by the kerb. Keen to escape the lorry’s ear-splitting hydraulics, I nudged at the shop’s door. It swung open with very little resistance and, relieved, I slunk inside.

I had never been into Jo’s shop before. I was struck by its musty smell and the fact that, although it was similar in size to the café, the piles of stock that cluttered every surface made it feel smaller. I took a few tentative steps on the faded linoleum, past the serving counter on my right, where Jo was on the phone, complaining about an unpaid invoice. I could hear Bernard’s snuffly snores as he slept by her feet. I padded slowly up the central aisle, past shelves lined with cardboard boxes full of screws and hooks. At the back of the shop, next to a wire rack full of tea towels and dusters, I sensed movement and spun round to find myself almost nose-to-nose with Purdy.

‘What are you doing in here?’ Purdy asked, her tone faintly accusatory.

‘I thought I saw a cat through the window,’ I said, somewhat pointlessly.

At that moment, the door swung open and a man leant in. ‘Got any WD-40?’ he said gruffly. Jo nodded and gestured towards the back of the shop. The man began to head in our direction, his face set in a stern grimace. Purdy and I instinctively darted away from him, dashing down the outer aisle and through the door, before it could swing shut.

In the parade, spots of rain had started to fall, adding to the urgency with which people strode past us. I stood facing Purdy on the cobbles outside Jo’s shop.

‘Do you come here a lot?’ I asked.

‘A fair bit. Why?’

For some reason I couldn’t quite articulate, it stung to think of Purdy spending time in the hardware shop rather than at home. But there was something about her manner that made me want to proceed warily; she seemed to be avoiding my gaze, and her face wore a mask of impatient defiance.

‘I know it’s been difficult lately, with Ming, and Linda and Beau,’ I prompted, feeling that she needed encouragement.

‘It’s got nothing to do with them,’ Purdy replied evasively. ‘This is just somewhere I can come to get away from . . . things.’

‘Oh?’ I said and, in the silence that fell between us, I felt the first tremors of misgiving in my stomach.

Her alert green eyes held mine for a moment and then she said, ‘I just don’t really like being in the café. I’m not sure I ever have.’

‘I had no idea . . .’ I replied, stalling for time while I digested her words.

Perhaps Purdy sensed my inner turmoil, because she began to explain. ‘I don’t like being on display, with strangers fussing over me all day. It’s not really my thing. And sometimes there are just too many . . .’ She trailed off, looking at the ground, uncertain whether to continue.

‘Go on,’ I urged.

‘Too many . . . cats,’ she said, glancing up at my face anxiously.

The rain was falling with increasing force and, all around us, people were shaking open umbrellas and quickening their pace.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling a sudden surge of remorse. ‘I had no idea you were unhappy.’

‘I’m not unhappy,’ she corrected me, droplets of moisture glistening on her whiskers like crystals. ‘I’m just . . . not as happy as I could be, I suppose.’

I knew our conversation would soon be curtailed by the weather, but I desperately wanted to say something to show that, although I was saddened by what Purdy had said, I was grateful for her honesty. But, instead, I heard myself say, ‘Please, don’t run away.’

The disappointed look in her eyes let me know that I had catastrophically misjudged my response. Purdy had found the courage to tell me how she felt, but rather than listen to her, I had panicked. Instead of reassuring her, I had put my own anxiety first, and sought reassurance from her.

‘Of course I won’t run away,’ she replied breezily. Her tail had started to twitch and she glanced back over her shoulder, making no effort to hide her desire to be on her way.