Molly and the Cat Cafe

Outdoor life was tiring and uncomfortable, but in those early days it was also exhilarating. Over time, my physical stamina improved and my hunting technique, which had always been somewhat half-hearted, was honed to brutal efficiency. I also became familiar with the natural world in a way that had never been necessary as an indoor cat. My knowledge of birds had been limited to those I could see from my windowsill – I had never troubled myself to wonder where they nested, or what they ate. Now I was learning that certain hedges were guaranteed to attract the songbirds that loved to feast on their berries, and I could be sure of a kill if I lurked, motionless, nearby. I could also tell from the reactions of the smaller birds when a bird of prey was hovering above the trees at the side of the road, a useful indicator that small rodents were in the vicinity.

The only signs of human habitation that I encountered were farm buildings. I would make a detour from my track to walk over to them – a night spent in a hay-filled barn felt like luxury, compared to what I had become used to. If I encountered people I would keep my head down and dart behind a wall or a piece of machinery. They would ignore me, assuming I was a farm cat, and I was happy to let them do so.

I had lost count of the number of days that had gone by since leaving the estate. My awareness of time’s passing came from the changes in light and air temperature. I had rarely felt cold when I had set out, and the sunlight had felt warm on my back. As the days had gone by, I was aware that the sun was rising lower in the sky and that its pale rays no longer exuded any warmth. The wind cut through my fur, and when it rained I was forced to seek shelter, otherwise a chill would soak through to my bones, leaving me shivery and weak. I knew that winter was coming, and for the first time I felt a flutter of panic. I didn’t know how far I was from town, but I would have to reach it before the depths of winter set in. I knew I could not survive outdoors once the months of snow and frost arrived.

One damp, grey afternoon I allowed my mind to wander as I plodded along the muddy track. I had tried not to let myself think about Margery since setting off for the town, but in my downcast mood I summoned up memories of winters at her house. There had been a rug on the floor in front of the gas fire, where I would doze for hours, legs outstretched and belly exposed, stirring only to change position when the heat became too much and I would turn so that a different part of my body faced the flames. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever find another home like Margery’s.

In the distance, through the drizzle, I could see what looked like a farm: a cluster of low buildings facing each other across a yard. I began to head towards it with some relief: it had felt like a long day and I was looking forward to a good wash and a nap under a barn roof. Tired though I was, I picked up my pace to a trot. As I reached the grassy verge outside the farm’s entrance, I looked up at the wooden sign painted in a sloping, cursive script: ‘Cotswold Organic’. I peered around the stone pillar at the entrance gate. I saw a tarmacked car park, in which there was not a tractor or trailer to be seen, but rather rows of large cars with tinted glass windows, all of them spotlessly clean. My whiskers twitched with confusion.

I sniffed the air, and instead of the usual sour smell of animal dung and rotting hay I detected the delicious scents of fresh fish and cooked meats. My stomach lurched with hunger and my mouth started to salivate at the thought of prepared food, after my recent diet of rodents and birds. I slipped through the entrance gate and across the car park towards the complex of lime-washed wooden buildings arranged around a flagstone courtyard.

I paused at the edge of the car park. This definitely wasn’t like any other farm I’d come across. It was too clean, and there was a stone fountain tinkling delicately in the middle of the yard. A wooden signpost to my right pointed variously to ‘The Spa’, ‘Cookery School’ and ‘Farm Shop’. The sign indicated that the building on my left was the farm shop, so I tiptoed across to peer through its glazed doors. I was startled when the glass doors slid apart and a woman strode out, practically knocking me off my feet with the hessian shopping bag that was slung over her arm.

Before the doors could shut, I dashed inside and hid in the nearest place I could find: underneath a wooden trestle table piled high with fruit and vegetables. I felt relieved to be out of the cold and wet; savouring the feeling of warm air on my damp fur, from heaters above the door. I could see the legs of customers as they moved slowly around the shop floor, although the only sounds were polite murmurings from aproned members of staff as they wrapped items in tissue paper and placed them into large paper bags.