As Margery cradled me on her lap in the café, I felt transported back to my kittenhood, believing that nothing could hurt me while I was in her arms. My unhappy time at Rob’s house, the lonely journey to Stourton, my bittersweet memories of life in the alley, even my joy at having the kittens – all fell away, and for a few blissful moments it was just me and Margery, and our love for each other. Just as it had been in the beginning.
I have no idea how long we remained like that, utterly absorbed in each other, feeling as if the world had shrunk to the chair that held us both.
Eventually, unwillingly, I started to become aware of the café around us. I heard hushed voices nearby, the sound of the kittens playing and somebody sniffing above my head. When at last I opened my eyes, I saw Debbie standing next to Margery’s wheelchair, dabbing her cheek with a tissue.
‘She moved into the care home last year. I knew she loved cats, so when I heard about this place I decided to bring her,’ Margery’s companion said quietly.
‘Do you think Molly could really have been her cat?’ Debbie whispered.
‘She’s got advanced dementia and gets confused by a lot of things, but she seems pretty certain about this,’ the carer replied.
‘Molly does too,’ Debbie agreed. ‘I’ve never seen her react like this to a stranger before.’
Debbie brought Margery a pot of tea and a Cat’s Whiskers cookie, pulling up a stool beside her wheelchair.
Margery took her hand. ‘This is my cat Molly, you know,’ she said, beaming at Debbie.
‘I know, Margery. Isn’t it lovely that you’ve found each other again?’
Margery’s smile lit up her face.
‘I wonder how she managed to find her way to Stourton,’ Debbie prompted, at which Margery’s brow furrowed. ‘She’s Molly, my cat,’ she repeated.
I sensed her agitation, and knew that confusion was beginning to descend. I rubbed my head against her hand, trying to reassure her that we were together again, and that nothing else mattered.
All too soon it was time for Margery to leave. Debbie took a photograph of the two of us, before lifting me gently from Margery’s lap. ‘You will come back, I hope?’ Debbie asked, as she walked them to the door.
The carer promised they would return soon. ‘It’s done her the world of good,’ she smiled.
As Margery was wheeled past, she reached out and took Debbie’s hand, grasping it tightly. ‘She’s my cat, you know,’ she said, looking up into Debbie’s face intently.
Debbie squeezed her hand and nodded. ‘I know, Margery. Come back and see her soon.’
Over dinner that evening Debbie told Sophie about what had happened, her eyes filling with tears as she described our reunion. She passed her phone to Sophie, its screen displaying the photo of the two of us.
‘Wow!’ Sophie said, her eyes reddening. She was studying the photo closely when the phone beeped. ‘It’s a text from John, Mum,’ Sophie said, handing the phone back to Debbie. ‘He says you need to talk.’
33
Debbie unlocked the door and stood aside to let John in, gesturing towards the nearest table. Outside, the evening sky was heavy with low cloud, and a sharp wind whipped through the trees, heralding the arrival of a storm. In the dusky half-light of the café I crouched inside the cardboard box by the stove, trying to quell a feeling of foreboding in my stomach.
John smiled tensely at Debbie as he walked past her, but she remained resolutely aloof. Although I didn’t understand what had caused this sudden coolness between them, I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew I had played a part in bringing them together, and I had done everything I could to encourage Debbie to trust John. If he had done something to betray her trust, would I have to bear some of the responsibility for that too?
He slung his jacket over a chair and sat down with his back to me. Debbie sat opposite him across a small table, her face pale but composed as she waited for him to speak.
‘Thanks for letting me come at such short notice,’ John began, sounding polite to the point of formality.
‘So, what do we need to talk about?’ Debbie replied briskly. She looked him in the eye, her gaze challenging him.
John sighed and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding it across the table towards her. ‘This came through my letterbox this morning,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought it was only fair to show you.’
Debbie took the single sheet of paper from the envelope. Her face remained impassive as she read, but I could see the page quiver with the trembling of her hands. When she had finished, she folded the letter up and slotted it back inside its envelope.
‘Quite a read, isn’t it?’ she said coldly, placing the letter on the table between them. ‘I notice that whoever wrote it was too much of a coward to sign it. But then, I suppose, poison-pen letters are always anonymous.’ Her voice caught as she spoke and her eyes looked glassy.
I longed to comfort her, to jump into her lap and soothe her with my purr, but I knew this situation was beyond my power to fix. John’s posture suggested that he was looking at her, waiting for her to continue.
‘So I guess you’re here to tell me that you don’t want anything more to do with me?’ Debbie asked matter-of-factly. ‘According to this’ – she waved her hand dismissively at the letter – ‘I’m planning to fleece you for your money, then do a runner. Because that’s what I’ve done before, apparently.’ She took a sharp intake of breath as if, by saying the words out loud, their meaning had hit her for the first time. Her eyes were defiant, but I could see what an effort it was taking for her to stay calm.
‘I never said I believed it,’ John replied quietly. ‘I considered throwing it away and saying nothing about it. But I thought it was better to deal with . . . something like this . . . out in the open. I don’t know who wrote it, but—’
‘Oh, I know who wrote it,’ Debbie cut in, her composure suddenly faltering. ‘The same vicious old woman who tried to have us closed down by Environmental Health.’ Her eyes had narrowed and her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. John remained motionless, looking at her across the table, and for a moment the room was silent but for the sound of the café awning flapping in the wind outside.
‘Vicious old woman?’ he repeated.
Debbie’s eyes flashed at him. ‘The wretched battleaxe who’s always going up and down the parade, shooting me filthy looks, saying nasty things to Sophie in the street. The old bat has had it in for me since the moment we moved in. She even tried to run Molly down with her shopping trolley once.’ She laughed mirthlessly, acknowledging the apparent absurdity of what she was saying. ‘She said it was an accident and scurried away, but Sophie saw what happened, and it was deliberate. I knew the woman was crazy, but I didn’t think she’d go this far.’ The words poured out of her, betraying the resentment that she had kept pent up for so long. When she had finished speaking, her shoulders drooped and she looked down at her hands, avoiding John’s gaze.
I wished I could see his face to gauge his reaction, but his back was squarely to me. He remained silent while he considered her words. ‘An old woman with a shopping trolley?’ he asked at last. Debbie nodded, still staring sadly at her hands. ‘Red hair?’