Debbie ignored her, however, as she knelt on the floor to check me all over. Reassured that I was unharmed, she turned to face the old woman. ‘Well, she seems to be all right now.’
‘I – er . . . I thought . . .’ The old woman was beginning to blush, aware that Debbie was scrutinizing her distrustfully. ‘Well, if she’s okay, I suppose I’ll be getting on.’ She began to fiddle with the zip on her trolley, unable to bear Debbie’s gaze any longer.
Debbie watched as the old lady busied herself with her trolley, her face turning a shade of red that almost matched the colour of her hair. I sensed that Debbie was beginning to feel sorry for the woman, whose mortification and discomfort were plain to see. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she offered, politely. The old lady looked startled and, although she opened her mouth to reply, no sound came out. ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’ Debbie suggested.
The woman closed her mouth and glanced down at her feet. ‘I don’t think . . . I’m not . . . ’
Debbie smiled, aware that her friendliness had caught the old woman off-guard, and allowing her time to reply.
‘Well, I suppose, since I’m here, a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt,’ the old woman said at last, casting a nervous look at Debbie, who smiled and grabbed a menu, before leading the woman across the café to a table near the fireplace.
As soon as she had sat down, the old lady was surrounded by the kittens, who were drawn across the café by the smell of mackerel drifting from her shopping trolley. They crawled underneath it and sniffed her shoes and skirt, while I loitered nearby, watching her reactions closely. At first she seemed alarmed by the kittens’ inquisitiveness, nervously trying to move her bag and trolley away from them as they scampered around her, but after a few moments she seemed to relax, accepting that their curiosity was playful rather than menacing.
Debbie brought a pot of tea across the café, and placed a Feline Fancy next to it on the table. The woman stared at the cake, which was decorated with a pink nose and whiskers, then looked up at Debbie in confusion. ‘It’s on the house,’ Debbie explained. ‘Thank you for bringing Molly home.’
The old lady’s face softened. ‘That’s very kind,’ she replied quietly, smiling at the cake. I padded towards her and, as she took her first sip of tea, pressed my body gently into the side of her leg. Instinctively, and without saying a word, she lowered her hand to stroke my back.
‘I can’t believe you gave her a Feline Fancy, Mum.’ Sophie sounded affronted by her mother’s willingness to forgive the old woman’s transgressions. John had come over and the three of them were eating dinner at the dining table. Sophie dropped her cutlery, to emphasize her indignation. ‘After everything she’s done to us! Did she even say sorry for any of it?’
Debbie sighed. ‘Well, she didn’t apologize as such, but we had a chat before she left, and she was very complimentary about the café. I got the feeling she really is sorry.’ She smiled hopefully at Sophie, whose face remained defiantly sceptical. ‘And besides,’ Debbie went on, ‘I think the old dear must have a screw loose somewhere – why else would she zip a perfectly healthy cat inside her shopping trolley and invent some story about her being half-dead?’
I was having a wash on the sofa, but I smiled inwardly, congratulating myself on my acting skills.
John had remained silent throughout Debbie’s account of the day’s drama but, at this, he started to chuckle softly.
‘What’s so funny?’ Debbie asked, sensing mockery in the air.
‘Nothing,’ he replied with a placatory smile. Now it was Debbie’s turn to put her cutlery down as she looked at John to explain. He took the hint. ‘It’s just that . . . has it occurred to you that she might have been telling the truth? That she really did find Molly lying in her garden, playing dead?’
‘Playing dead?’ Debbie snorted derisively. ‘I hardly think so, John. Why would Molly do that? You can see for yourself that she’s as fit as a fiddle.’
All three of them looked at me, but I carried on with my wash, feigning ignorance.
‘Well,’ John said, spreading his palms upwards in a ‘who knows’ gesture, ‘maybe it is just a coincidence. The old woman happened to find Molly in her garden, thought she was injured when in fact she wasn’t, and decided to bring her back to the café. It could be that simple. But I think you’re underestimating that cat, Debbie. I think she knows more than she’s letting on.’
I flicked a glance towards the table, and caught sight of John smiling at me. Blushing, I turned away and busied myself with grooming the base of my spine. John was right of course; I knew much more than I was letting on, and not just about what had happened that day with the battleaxe.
I knew how many challenges Debbie had faced since taking me in, both personally and professionally. I knew how she had been pushed to breaking point by the demands of a failing business and a struggling teenager, and yet still found room, in her home and her heart, for a stray cat and a litter of kittens. I knew there was a time when it had seemed that we might cost her her livelihood, yet she never once sought to blame us. She had held onto us when our very existence must have been a burden, and I had repaid her the only way I could: by comforting her when she was in despair, and by using every power at my disposal to make sure she found the happiness she deserved. Whether she underestimated what I had done for her was irrelevant. She was my owner, after all, and taking care of her was my job.
Epilogue
It is Christmas morning. A full year has passed since my arrival in Stourton, and I am on the dining table watching Sophie and Debbie unwrap their presents on the living-room floor. There is a small stocking of cat treats under the tree, a gift to us all from Margery, but the kittens are more interested in shredding the discarded wrapping paper strewn across the floor. They are lithe young cats now; their limbs are long and muscular and their fluffy fur has been replaced by sleek pelts. But the excitement of Christmas has brought out their playful exuberance, reminding me fondly of their younger selves.
Debbie gets up to go into the kitchen, and Sophie leans against the sofa, engrossed in her new mobile phone, a gift from her mother. Sophie isn’t looking at me, but I blink at her anyway. I am fond of Sophie, and I know she is of me. She no longer exudes pent-up anger whenever I am around, and I can’t remember the last time she called me a fleabag, or complained about my hair on her clothes. Sometimes I even sleep on her bed.
Downstairs, the bell above the café door tinkles.
‘That you, John?’ Debbie calls, over the noise of the kitchen radio.
‘No, it’s Father Christmas,’ John replies.
‘Even better!’ Debbie laughs. ‘Come on up. I hope you’ve remembered the orange juice – I could murder a Buck’s Fizz right now!’
There is a pause. ‘You might just want to come down here first,’ John says.
Debbie steps into the hallway, perplexed. ‘Why – what is it? Please don’t tell me it’s the boiler again . . .’
‘No, it’s not the boiler. It’s just that there’s someone here who seems to want to come in.’
Alarm flickers across Debbie’s face. She takes off her apron and heads downstairs to the café. Intrigued, I jump off the dining table and follow her.
John is standing by the door in the empty café, loosening the scarf around his neck. I register the bag of wrapped gifts on the floor by his feet, and I am aware that he steps towards Debbie and kisses her. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I hear him say.