I closed my eyes and allowed a wave of regret to wash over me. If I had known that would be the last time I’d see her, I would have jumped onto her lap and purred, and stayed there until she recognized me – so that she knew I would always love her. But it was too late now. I had wasted my last chance to say goodbye.
I circled slowly on the damp pile of flattened cardboard beneath the fire escape, listening to the sounds of the alley. A solitary pigeon cooed softly from a rooftop behind me, and a squirrel scampered across the wall opposite. A strange feeling of hollowness spread through me; I felt empty and insubstantial. It was as if my very identity was defined not by who I was, but by who I had lost: Eddie, Jasper and now Margery. Feeling utterly alone, I curled up on the cardboard and closed my eyes, praying for the relief from my mental turmoil that only sleep could bring.
That night, I slept deeply and dreamlessly, not stirring until the cawing crows woke me with a start at dawn. The sun was just coming up and the sky was a glorious pink, shot through with gold, and there was a crisp, wintry feel in the air as I crawled out from underneath the iron steps. In the churchyard the frost-tipped grass crunched under my feet as I made my way to the square, where I padded over to the elm tree and jumped onto the bench underneath its bare branches.
I had lived in Stourton for almost two years now, and had spent as much of my life without Margery as I had spent with her. I tortured myself with an almost unbearable dilemma: if I were offered the chance to go back in time – to remain with Margery in her cosy bungalow – would I do so? There would be no cat café, no Debbie, no kittens, no Jasper, but I would have had two more years of love from my precious Margery.
But there was nothing I could do to get back the time I had lost; there was no bargain to be made, no retrospective deal that could be struck. I had thought I had lost Margery two years earlier, but fate had intervened and, miraculously, she had come back to me. But now she really was gone, and I had to accept that I would never see her again.
17
Plodding back along the cobbles towards the café, my mind was foggy and my limbs felt heavy to the point of exhaustion. I nosed through the cat flap and stood on the doormat, flicking my tail, gazing aimlessly around the café. The kittens were nowhere to be seen, but Ming had assumed her customary meditative pose on top of the cat tree, facing the window with her eyes closed, her chocolate-brown tail neatly encircling her paws. I stared at her for a few moments. I had so often felt suspicious of her apparent ability to disengage from her surroundings; but, on this occasion, I deeply envied her imperturbable composure.
Perhaps Ming sensed she was being watched, because her eyes sprang open and she turned her head slowly in my direction. Her look was intense, yet inscrutable, conveying neither hostility nor warmth, but in my grieving state, her blue-eyed stare was more than I could bear. With my tail held as high as I could muster, I walked shakily across the café and climbed the stairs to the flat.
Upstairs, I heard Debbie humming softly over the splash of water from the kitchen sink. ‘There you are, Molls!’ she said fondly, catching sight of me as I peered round the doorframe. ‘Where’ve you been? I was starting to worry about you.’ She crouched down and began to rub my ears. ‘You poor thing, you must be missing Margery,’ she sighed.
Feeling my throat constrict, I nestled my head into her curved palm, savouring the familiar scent of her skin.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ she asked, as if eating would help to assuage my grief. She stood up and reached inside one of the cabinets for a pouch of cat food, squeezing its contents into the bowl on the floor.
I stared at the mound of chunks dolefully, unable to summon up the energy to eat.
‘Not feeling hungry?’ Debbie asked, as I stood listlessly by the bowl. ‘That’s all right, Molly. It’s there if you want it, okay?’ she said, dropping to her haunches and pressing my nose gently with her fingertip.
Her attentiveness comforted me and I began to purr, tentatively at first, but louder as she continued to stroke me. I pressed sideways against her leg, nuzzling her hands gratefully and curling my tail over the top of her thigh. I realized with a pang how little time Debbie and I had spent alone together since Linda and Beau’s arrival. We had lost the precious moments we used to share on a daily basis: the evenings spent cuddling on the sofa, or the lazy Sunday mornings dozing in bed. It was only now, as Debbie crouched over me on the kitchen floor, that I became aware of how desperately I missed being held by her.
As if on cue, the living-room door swung open and out strode Linda, with the fragrantly fluffy Beau trotting jauntily at her heels. I leapt up onto the worktop, so as not to get trodden on. Stepping awkwardly around the clutter, I found a space to sit down, between the dusty NutriBullet and the kettle.
‘Cuppa?’ Linda asked brightly, reaching for the kettle beside me, without acknowledging my presence.
‘No thanks, I’ve just had one,’ answered Debbie.
On the floor, Beau eyed the bowl of cat food greedily, drops of slobber forming at the sides of his mouth. Linda, oblivious to his nefarious intentions, squeezed past Debbie to reach the sink, and it was Debbie who deftly lifted the bowl from underneath Beau’s salivating mouth and placed it out of his reach on the windowsill.
‘I’m going to pop over to Cotswold Organic after I’ve taken Beau for a walk. Shall I pick up something nice for dinner?’ Linda asked, thrusting the spout of the kettle under the gushing tap.
‘That would be lovely, thanks,’ Debbie replied half-heartedly.
Linda rammed the kettle back onto its base and bustled back to the living room, a disappointed Beau trailing after her.
Judging by Linda’s cheerful demeanour and Debbie’s wan look, I deduced that the subject of Linda moving out had not, in the end, been broached. I was not especially surprised. I could picture the scene from the previous evening, after I had fled to the alley: in the wake of the news about Margery, Debbie would have been too upset to risk Linda’s histrionics upon being told that she was no longer welcome. I felt a dull pang of disappointment; but, given how low I was already feeling, the realization that Linda and Beau were as firmly ensconced in the flat as ever made little material difference to my emotional state.
In the days that followed the news of Margery’s death I was plagued by persistent lethargy. I lacked the energy for anything beyond the basic demands of grooming, eating and sleeping. The thought of continuing to search for Eddie and Jasper seemed futile; I had looked everywhere, to no avail. Instead, I passed the daylight hours sitting on the window cushion, looking vainly for any sign of them on the parade, and every evening after closing time I slunk behind the café to the alleyway.
The gap under the fire escape became my private sanctuary, a space in which to think about Jasper and Eddie, and to remember Margery. Sometimes I could hear the high-pitched shrieks of alley-cats squaring up for a fight in a distant street. I shuddered at the sound, which instantly called to mind thoughts of Eddie’s ordeal on the day he disappeared. I tortured myself by playing out the scenario in my mind: Eddie’s guileless foray into an unfamiliar part of town, and his sudden realization that the alley-cat stalking towards him was no friend. Imagining his fear was almost harder to bear than my own feelings of loss – how he must have wished I had been there to protect him . . .