In Debbie, I had found everything I ever wanted, but my joy was tempered by the suspicion that, although I had undoubtedly gained much, I might have lost more than I realized.
17
It was Friday evening, one week exactly since I had moved into the café. Debbie was busy tidying the kitchen and I was in my box on the windowsill. I sat facing the street, but my eyes were closed as I reflected on the events of the past week, and how my life had been transformed by the simple act of crossing the café’s threshold.
My meditations were interrupted by an insistent tapping above me. I jolted into alertness, quickly registering that a woman was standing in front of the window, rapping her knuckles on the glass. I looked up and immediately recognized the woman’s unruly shoulder-length curls as belonging to Jo from the hardware shop. She was clutching a brown paper bag from the local takeaway in one hand, waving with the other to catch Debbie’s attention. Debbie ran to the door and let her in.
‘Evening, Debs. You took your time. I thought I was going to have to eat on the street!’ She handed the bag to Debbie and unzipped her jacket.
I jumped down from the windowsill and trotted towards her. I had often seen Jo in the alley, but we had not yet been introduced. She lived in the flat upstairs from her shop with her ageing golden retriever, which spent its days dozing by her feet in the shop. In spite of the fact that she was a dog-owner, I liked Jo. She had a no-nonsense, practical air about her, and a humorous twinkle to her eye.
‘So, this must be Molly from the alley,’ Jo said, catching sight of me as I padded across the lino. She crouched down to greet me, giving me a cheerful rub on the back as I pressed against her leg. It was the kind of rub better suited to a dog than a cat, a little on the rough side, leaving my fur ruffled and messy, but I knew her intention was friendly, so I made no protest. I sniffed at her jeans, which smelt of dog, while she continued to scrutinize my appearance. Debbie had taken the bag of food into the kitchen and was retrieving plates and cutlery from the cupboards. ‘You’re right, Debs,’ Jo called after her. ‘She is a pretty little thing. Friendly, too.’
Debbie poked her head through the door, smiling at me indulgently, and I preened, basking in their attention.
‘And you knew a big-hearted softy when you saw one, didn’t you, Molly?’ Jo whispered conspiratorially to me. ‘A cute little face like yours – Debbie didn’t stand a chance, did she?’
I purred, assuming the most innocent expression I could muster in defiance of Jo’s knowing smile.
Jo stood up and walked over to the table where Debbie had begun to unpack their meal. Debbie placed the steaming foil trays side by side while Jo carefully removed their cardboard lids. The delicious smell of spicy meat began to fill the café, making my mouth water. Debbie returned to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses, and at last they were ready to eat. As they sat down at the table, I returned to my position on the windowsill, tummy rumbling, to watch them.
‘So how’s Sophie?’ Jo asked, while Debbie divided up the food onto their plates.
Debbie sighed. ‘Not great. I know it’s not easy for her, what with a new school, new people, a new home . . .’ Her eyes started to well up.
Jo made a sympathetic noise and filled Debbie’s wine glass. ‘Has she heard from her dad?’ Jo probed gently.
Debbie’s face tightened. I had never heard her talk about Sophie’s father. ‘Not for a couple of weeks. He texted her to say he was going travelling with his girlfriend, and did she want anything from Duty Free?’
Jo winced, but Debbie’s face remained a study of neutrality. She took a sip of wine, beginning to relax under Jo’s supportive gaze.
‘I know Sophie blames me for what happened,’ Debbie said sadly. ‘She thinks I decided to up sticks and move here just because I fancied it. But how can I explain it to her? He’s her father – I’ve got to let her have the best relationship she can with him.’
‘It’s a tough one,’ Jo agreed. ‘It seems unfair, but . . . I guess you just have to let her work things out in her own time.’ They ate in silence, Debbie’s unhappiness almost tangible in the air. As she ate, Jo glanced at Debbie, registering her melancholy expression. ‘So, do you want to hear about my latest romantic adventure?’ she grinned, tilting her head coquettishly.
Debbie’s face broke into a smile. ‘Always!’ she answered, leaning forward attentively in her chair.
‘Well, I’m continuing to cut a swathe through Stourton’s population of single men,’ Jo began in mock-grandiosity, to Debbie’s delighted giggling. She went on to describe a recent dinner date with a member of the Stourton Amateur Dramatic Society – ‘SADS by name, sad by nature,’ she said with a wink. The evening had started well; her date seemed rather pleased with himself, but other than that he was perfectly pleasant. Jo paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip from her wine glass, as Debbie waited for the inevitable punchline. That was until pudding arrived, Jo went on, when her date had launched into an impromptu performance of a song from SADS’ latest production. ‘And let me tell you, Debbie,’ she wagged a finger decisively, ‘until you’ve been serenaded in a restaurant by a middle-aged man singing “A Modern Major General” – badly, I might add – you haven’t lived!’
Debbie raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, while Jo helped herself to more wine. The alcohol in their drinks had begun to take effect; their facial expressions were becoming more exaggerated, their voices louder. ‘There must be some eligible men in Stourton? Surely there’s hope for us both?’ Debbie asked, in half-sincere desperation.
‘Oh, of course there are plenty,’ Jo replied gravely. ‘If it’s a recently-retired member of the Lawn Bowls Society you’re after, then you’ll be spoilt for choice!’
Debbie snorted, then held up her glass in a toast. ‘To the Lawn Bowls Society! I’ll be signing up first thing tomorrow.’
Jo raised her glass and they both took a gulp of wine, their eyes glassy.
‘In all seriousness, though, I doubt the Lawn Bowls Society would have me,’ Debbie said morosely, slumping back in her chair. ‘The good people of Stourton have made it very clear that I’m most definitely not one of them.’
Jo smiled sympathetically.
‘We’ve been here six months, Jo, and apart from you I haven’t made a single friend,’ Debbie went on. ‘It’s like people don’t trust us. There’s one old crone who walks past here every day, and no matter how friendly I am, she doesn’t say a word. Won’t even smile.’
‘I know,’ Jo agreed, in a tone of resignation. ‘The Stourton old guard will only grace your business with their custom if you’ve lived here for at least forty years. I’ve run the hardware shop since 1998 and some of them still won’t step foot in it.’ She was doing her best to reassure her friend but, judging from the doleful look on Debbie’s face, it didn’t seem to be working.
‘But if I can’t win round the locals, then I really am doomed,’ Debbie despaired. ‘I can’t compete with all the foodie places round here, with their artisan this and locally sourced that. Don’t Stourton people ever want a nice simple sandwich or baked potato for their lunch?’