Christmas at the Cat Cafe Read online

  As Debbie stepped onto the pavement the rain started – fat, heavy drops that the wind blew into us sideways. Grabbing the handle of the carrier in both hands, Debbie broke into a run towards her car, unable to stop and speak to Jo in the gathering rainstorm.

  The drive to Margery’s care home seemed to take forever as we crawled along in heavy traffic, Debbie drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. When at last we arrived and had parked the car, the rain bounced noisily off the top of the carrier as Debbie ran up to the sliding doors. Even once we were inside Margery’s room, I was unable to relax. In spite of Debbie’s best efforts to soothe her, the howling wind and torrential rain outside left Margery agitated and fearful. She eyed us nervously, seemingly unsure who we were and why we were in her room.

  Debbie sensed Margery’s discomfort too, and that our presence might be adding to her anxiety, so after about twenty minutes she got to her feet and lifted me back into the cat carrier. On our way out, my carrier collided with something in the doorway, and my view through the wire door was suddenly filled with a close-up view of a pair of grey trousers.

  ‘Oh!’ Debbie exclaimed, backing into the room to allow the owner of the trousers to enter.

  ‘Oh, hello. Debbie, isn’t it?’ a man asked in a nasal, whiny voice, which I immediately recognized as belonging to David, Margery’s son.

  Debbie had moved aside to allow David into the room and I had a clear view of him as he stepped across the beige carpet.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she replied, politely courteous. ‘How are you, David – keeping well, I hope?’

  I had not seen David since the day Margery had been moved into the care home, but I felt my hackles instinctively start to rise. He looked just as I remembered him: small and wiry, with a pinched-looking face and thinning hair. I knew from experience, however, that David’s weedy appearance hid a surprising pugnacity.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ he replied tersely, before walking over to Margery’s armchair and giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here today,’ he said, turning to face Debbie, his voice faintly accusatory.

  ‘Oh, we’re just leaving,’ Debbie replied, her apologetic tone suggesting that she too had felt the intended barb. ‘Well, take care, David,’ she said, but he had his back to her and was yanking the vacant armchair closer so that he could sit down.

  The journey home was even slower than the drive there and, on this occasion, I had no feeling of well-being to lift my spirits. Instead, I felt irritable and cross. Seeing David had unsettled me, bringing back upsetting memories of his callous disregard for Margery’s – and my own – feelings when he had decided to sell our home. Recalling those unhappy times made me yearn to be back in the comfort and security of the café, with Debbie, Jasper and the kittens. But another part of me dreaded our return, and feared that I would find the same cosy scene that had greeted me after my last absence. When we finally arrived, however, the café was quiet. Ming was snoozing on her platform and her ears didn’t even flicker when Debbie hurriedly unlocked the door and ran inside to escape the pouring rain.

  I went upstairs to the flat and climbed into the shoebox in the living room. I undertook a self-soothing wash, inwardly bemoaning the fact that the world seemed full of people and animals who, in one way or another, were determined to pick away at the fabric of my life. When I had finished washing I lay down in the box, listening to the rain lashing against the windowpanes, and waiting for the relief that only sleep could bring me.

  ‘Has anyone seen Eddie today?’ Debbie called up from the café a little later that evening, and instantly I was wide awake. She ran up the stairs and peered into the living room. ‘That’s odd,’ she said, looking worried. ‘He doesn’t normally stay out for this long.’

  Linda glanced up from the sofa. ‘Which one’s Eddie, again?’ she asked vaguely.

  ‘Black-and-white. Friendly,’ Debbie replied testily.

  Linda nodded. ‘Oh yes, now you mention it, I’m pretty sure I passed him on the square yesterday afternoon, near the market cross.’

  My stomach gave a strange jolt, and I sat up in the shoebox to stare at Linda.

  ‘The market cross?’ Debbie repeated. ‘You’re pretty sure, or you are sure?’

  Linda frowned in concentration. ‘Black body, white paws, silver collar?’ she asked, and Debbie nodded. ‘Yep, then it was definitely him. Why, is he not meant to go there?’ Linda’s face was a picture of innocence, but Debbie groaned with exasperation.

  ‘It’s not about whether Eddie’s meant to go there, Linda, but he doesn’t normally stray so far from the café. And if you’re right, and he was there yesterday and

  hasn’t been home since, and now it’s blowing a gale and bucketing down with rain out there . . .’

  Debbie trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish the sentence. She was right: Eddie had never strayed so far from the café before, and he had certainly never stayed away for so long. My little boy had been missing for more than a day, and I had been so fixated on my own problems that I hadn’t even noticed.

  12

  The cat flap snapped shut behind me. I paused momentarily on the doorstep, sniffing the cold, damp air, before dashing along the wet cobbles to the alleyway behind the café.

  In the dark, confined space of the passageway the rain seemed to fall more heavily, the raindrops pounding in a harsh staccato on dustbin lids and metal steps. I nosed through the conifers at the end of the alley and scanned the sodden churchyard. The front aspect of the church and its spire stood out against the black sky, lit from beneath by spotlights embedded in the gravel path, but the dazzling brightness of the stone facade merely emphasized the pitch-blackness all around. I stalked around the outer boundary of the churchyard, my ears alert for movement in the surrounding shrubbery. A rustle in a distant rhododendron caught my attention and I picked up my pace through the long, wet grass.

  Jasper looked askance at me as I squeezed beneath the canopy of tongue-shaped, dripping leaves to the dry patch of earth where he sat. As I edged into his shelter, I gave my head and body a brisk shake, inadvertently spraying him with rainwater.

  ‘Have you seen Eddie?’ I asked, without preamble, and in a huffier tone than I had intended. A full week had passed since our argument about Ming, and since then we had barely seen each other.

  It was Jasper’s turn to shake off the drops of water that had landed on his face and whiskers, and he took his time to do so, before answering, ‘Eddie? Not today. Why?’

  ‘He’s missing,’ I replied tersely. ‘He hasn’t been home since yesterday. Linda saw him on the square by the market cross yesterday morning.’

  Jasper considered me intently. ‘Linda saw him yesterday?’ he repeated. I nodded. ‘So it’s only been a day?’ My eyes narrowed. Sometimes I despaired of Jasper.

  I had always considered his laissez-faire approach to parenting part of his charm, but right now I found it infuriating.

  ‘Only been a day? He’s never stayed out overnight before. And in this weather?’ I was aware of my face growing hot under my fur. ‘What if he’s run away?’ I asked, willing Jasper to recognize the urgency of the situation.

  ‘But why would he run away? That doesn’t sound like Eddie,’ Jasper replied calmly.

  I opened my mouth to reply, but an answer wouldn’t come. I wanted to tell Jasper that Eddie might have run away if he thought I didn’t love him any more. The image of Eddie recoiling from my hiss filled my mind; the hurt and shock on his face, and how he had sloped away with his tail between his legs. I dearly wanted to tell Jasper the truth: that my jealousy of Ming, and my conviction that she wanted to usurp my position in our family, had so consumed me that I had taken my anger out on my sweet and loving boy, and that I had compounded the problem by procrastinating over my apology. But I was too ashamed to admit what I had done and, instead, kept my eyes on the ground and said nothing.

  ‘He’s young, and he’s male,’ Jasper wen
t on, unperturbed. ‘It’s natural for him to wander. Twenty-four hours away from home is nothing.’

  ‘It’s natural for you, maybe, but you’re not Eddie!’ I cut in desperately.

  Jasper’s implacability was maddening. He seemed unable to recognize that what was normal behaviour for an alley-cat like him was not normal for our kittens; least of all for Eddie, who had always been a home-loving boy, far more interested in eating and sleeping than he was in roaming. My shame and remorse were swiftly giving way to a renewed frustration.

  ‘I’m going to look for him. Are you coming or not?’ I hissed, facing him with a look of defiant resolve.

  Jasper’s amber eyes studied me closely. He seemed – at last – to recognize that there was more to my distress than motherly over-protectiveness. ‘C’mon then,’ he said, springing to his feet.

  We strode in silence through the rainy streets, dodging the kerbside puddles as cars swooshed past, dazzling our eyes with their headlights. Clusters of people dashed along the pavements beneath umbrellas, making for pub and restaurant doorways and the promise of open fires and hot meals within. We headed straight for the southern side of the square and climbed the soaking wet steps of the market cross. The imposing town hall looked down on us, its Gothic spire and turrets forming an eerie silhouette against the nighttime gloom. All around, the street lights’ orange halos were reflected in the slick cobbles, as sheets of rain were blown sideways across the market square.

  I looked around at the wide square, trying to imagine where Eddie might have gone. My eye kept returning to the narrow gaps between the shop fronts, which marked the entrance to the alleyways that linked the square to the surrounding streets. I had arrived in Stourton on a similarly inhospitable night nearly two years ago and had sought refuge in the first alley I came to, mistakenly assuming I would find shelter and safety there, not knowing that each alley was the territory of a street-cat. What if, like me, Eddie had wandered into an alley, been attacked and was lying injured somewhere, feverish with pain?

  As if reading my mind, Jasper murmured, ‘I’ll check the alleys, you stick to the road.’

  I blinked at him, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude that at last he was taking my fears seriously. Jasper padded down the stone steps and crept stealthily across the tarmac, disappearing into the opening between the bank and the chemist’s. I kept my eyes fixed on the spot where the tip of his tail had vanished, my ears alert for sounds that might indicate the presence of a hostile street-cat. But the alleyway remained silent.

  My fur was soaked through to my skin, as I ran down the steps and took the road opposite the market cross. I made my way slowly along the pavement, checking underneath parked cars for any sign of Eddie. Every now and then I heard the yowl of an alley-cat somewhere in the distance and froze, rotating my ears to listen, lest I should hear Eddie or Jasper’s voice in reply.

  At the end of the street I turned right, onto a wide, busy thoroughfare lined with pubs and hotels. Traffic rushed past me in both directions, and a group of people dressed for a night out stumbled out of a hotel, laughing. I pressed up against a wall and let them pass, the women’s high heels clicking against the pavement just inches from my paws. A little further along the street they turned into a pub, pulling open the heavy wooden door and releasing a gust of warmth and light, which momentarily transfixed me. Could Eddie have found his way inside such a place? His sociable nature and love of people meant I couldn’t rule it out. But the town was full of pubs like this – how could I possibly search them all? I sniffed disconsolately at the wooden porch around the entrance, before padding away down the street.

  For nearly an hour I continued to prowl the area, probing into dark doorways and behind dustbins until my paw-pads were soaked and freezing. The hopelessness of my task had begun to dawn on me: there was no way Jasper and I could search the whole of Stourton tonight; and, even if Eddie had passed this way, the incessant rain would have washed away any trace of his scent. Tired and dispirited, I turned to head home, making no effort to dodge the splashing puddles as cars raced past me. Jasper was waiting for me in the café doorway, and I knew immediately from his downcast posture that his search had also been fruitless.

  ‘He’s a sensible cat, he’ll be okay,’ he whispered as I stepped onto the doorstep. I dropped my gaze, too exhausted to point out that just because Eddie was sensible it did not necessarily mean he would be all right.

  ‘You coming in?’ I asked wearily.

  Jasper’s tail twitched; since our conversation about Ming, he had hardly come indoors at all. But his face softened as we stood facing each other, equally drenched, on the doorstep. ‘After you,’ he replied, glancing at the door.

  The following morning Debbie checked the alleyway for Eddie, returning from the kitchen with a look of mingled disappointment and concern.

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Debs. He’ll come back when he’s hungry,’ Linda said breezily, pulling her apron over her head. ‘Our cat Toby used to do this all the time when we were little, d’you remember?’

  Debbie inclined her head. ‘Maybe, Linda – let’s hope so,’ she replied.

  I spent the day in the window, keeping watch for any sign of Eddie, while Jasper headed out to continue the search. The kittens were subdued, spending most of the day sleeping or pacing the floor, sniffing at Eddie’s usual napping spots, throwing anxious glances in my direction. In my vulnerable state I resented Ming’s mute haughtiness more than ever. I kept it to myself, but I could not quell the growing suspicion that Ming had had something to do with Eddie’s disappearance. Had some covert conversation taken place between them after the hissing incident, in which he had confided his hurt feelings, and she had encouraged him to run away? Or was I paranoid to imagine such a thing?

  As the grey light outside the window gave way to darkness, I caught sight of Ming’s reflection in the glass: a ghost-like apparition hovering, motionless, behind me. A flash of blue made me think she was watching me; but, when I turned to look, her eyes were closed.

  13

  Debbie was cashing up at the till one evening, when Linda sidled over to the wooden counter. ‘Debbie,’ she wheedled. ‘Can I pitch you an idea for the menu?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ answered Debbie absent-mindedly, sliding piles of coins across the worktop into clear plastic bags.

  ‘Ming’s Fortune Cookies,’ Linda announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet eagerly. On the window cushion, my ears flickered. Debbie’s face was blank with confusion. ‘I’ve made a prototype,’ Linda went on, pulling something red and crinkly from her apron pocket and placing it on the counter.

  Debbie picked up the twist of cellophane and unwrapped it, to reveal a small cookie and a folded slip of paper.

  ‘That’s Ming’s Motto,’ Linda explained earnestly.

  ‘Time spent with cats is never wasted,’ Debbie read, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Linda whipped a notepad out of her apron. ‘I’ve got plenty more mottoes,’ she said keenly. ‘All cats are equal, but some are more equal than others. To err is human, to purr is feline.’ She looked at her sister expectantly. ‘See, not just a pretty face, am I?’ she beamed, tapping her forehead with the tip of her pen.

  ‘That’s a good idea, Linda – I like it. If you print off the mottoes, we can make a batch and see if they sell,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Trust me, Debs, they’ll sell like hotcakes,’ replied Linda, practically glowing. ‘Remember, I know a thing or two about marketing – that was my career until I married Ray,’ she said, carefully folding the motto and cookie back inside their wrapper.

  ‘And you no longer needed a career,’ I heard Debbie mutter under her breath when Linda had bustled past her into the kitchen.

  The following morning Debbie was at the dining table, reading the local newspaper with a furrowed brow. ‘Linda, have you seen this? Ming’s in the paper!’ she called across the hallway.

  In the shoebox, I froze in mid-wash an
d glanced across the room to see Linda appear at the living-room door, grinning broadly.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she preened, leaning against the doorframe with an expression of barely suppressed triumph.

  ‘Exotic New Kitty Joins Cat Café,’ Debbie read aloud, before firing a disapproving sideways look at Linda. ‘Popular new addition to Stourton’s cat café . . . Beautiful Ming is a real glamour-puss . . . a tragic Siamese rescued from a life of neglect’ – here, Debbie paused to raise a sceptical eyebrow at Linda – ‘“Ming has brought a taste of Eastern promise to the Cotswolds,” says Molly’s spokesperson, Linda Fleming.’ At this, Debbie set her coffee mug roughly down on the table and sat back in her chair. ‘“A taste of Eastern promise”, Linda – are you kidding?’ she scowled. ‘And since when have you been Molly’s spokesperson?’ she added scornfully.

  But Linda was unrepentant. ‘Trust me, Debs, it’ll be great for business,’ she winked, and trotted downstairs to the café.

  Debbie reread the article with a look of growing displeasure. Then she tossed the newspaper across the table and sat for a moment, staring at the now-empty doorway with an expression of deep resentment on her face.

  Trepidation mingled with curiosity in my mind, as I padded across the room and jumped onto the table. The newspaper lay open on the feature about Ming. In the middle of the page was a full-length portrait of Ming sitting regally on her platform, directing a haughty stare down the lens of the camera. The kittens and I were nowhere to be seen. In the bottom left-hand corner there was a second photograph: a small, professional-looking headshot of Linda, which must have been taken several years earlier: she was heavily made-up with immaculately blow-dried hair and looked a good five years younger. Beneath her image ran the caption ‘Linda Fleming: rescues cats’.