“Back again to torment my soul, have you? Look at this, a proper little lordling weve got here! Fancy, isnt he, demanding his fifty grams!” boomed the shopkeeper.
The boy lifted a ginger kitten, bright as sunshine. Oddly, the little thing didnt flinch at the womans fearsome glare. Instead, it wriggled free, leapt onto the counter, darted across, and nuzzled into Auntie Claras grubby white apron, rubbing its tiny ginger head against her.
Now, Auntie Clara was well, you know those women built like theyre carved from stone? Face like thunder?
No one ever dared look Auntie Clara in the eye. Not once. Because that face only ever showed one thinga storm of fury, scorn, and sheer aggression. Like she might tilt her head back any second and shout at the heavens,
“Oh, Lord above! Why must I serve this rabble?”
Clara was a shopkeeper. Not just by tradeby nature. She served customers with her fists planted where her waist shouldve been, drilling troublemakers with a glare that made even the burliest blokes shrink back, mumbling apologies as they meekly asked for their bit of sausage. Shed slice it with a huff, as if doing them a favour.
The brave souls who dared raise their voices got the full spectacle.
Auntie Clara would lift those brick-heavy fists off her hips, slam them onto the counter, her face flushing beetroot, eyes turning to gun barrels. A roarlike a lionswould erupt from her throat. The queue would duck, as if a fighter jet had just torn through the shop. The offender?
Pale as milk, stammering, ready to confess every sin hed ever committedor might one day commitjust to escape. No one ever dared check their change after that.
But what really got her blood boiling?
That boy.
Cheeky little bugger, no older than ten, marching in with infuriating regularity, slapping a handful of coins on the counter, and piping up in that tiny voice:
“Auntie Clara, please, could I have fifty grams of bangers?”
Auntie Clara would turn red, white, then grey all at once.
“Back again, are ya?” shed thunder, rattling the windows. “Another fifty grams for his lordship!”
Shed glare triumphantly at the queue. The crowd, usually quick to protest elsewhere, would suddenly find the floor fascinating.
“Here to torment my soul again? Think youre royalty, do you? Fifty whole grams, what a treat!”
But the boy, strangely, never flinched. Hed just blink up at her with those sky-blue eyes and say,
“Please, Auntie Clara. I really need it.”
Her mouth would open, ready to unleash hellfirebut then, for some reason, shed stop. Stare at those eyes. Cut him his sausage without another word. The queue would exhale. The boy would leave, clutching his parcel.
That day, though, Auntie Clara was in rare form. The queue stood in terrified silence. Even the other shopkeepers avoided looking her way. She tossed out packets of sausage, snapping at customers, when
Right on cuea tousled head popped up from behind the counter, blue eyes wide.
“Auntie Clara,” the boy whispered, clear as a bell in the quiet, “Ive no money today. But I really need some. Could you spare fifty grams? Ill pay you back.”
The audacity. The sheer disrespect for commerce itself.
Auntie Clara turned crimson, then ghostly pale, then let loose a roar that sent everyone crouching. A drunk fumbling with a smuggled bottle of gin dropped itshattering on the concretebut no one even noticed.
“Youyouyou rotten little toff! Come to give me a heart attack, have you?” Her fist rose, knuckles like anvils.
Eyes squeezed shut. Hands clutched at chests.
But the boy didnt flinch. Not even a tremble. Just those steady blue eyes.
“Hes hungry,” he said softly. “Mum forgot breakfast money today.” Then he lifted the ginger kitten again.
The little creature, faced with Auntie Claras glare, didnt cower. It squirmed free, leapt onto the counter, scampered over, and pressed against her apron, purring.
A collective groan of horror filled the shop. That fist was surely about to crush the kitten like a bug.
The drunk on the floor curled into a ball, hands over his head.
Auntie Clara turned grey, then white, then red. A strangled noise escaped her. She lowered her fist, snatched up the kitten, and held it nose-to-nose. The kitten mewed and booped her nose.
“So,” she growled, “youve been spending your breakfast money on this rascal? Pestering me daily for fifty grams of sausage?”
“Yep,” the boy admitted cheerfully. “But dont worry, Ill pay you back when Mum gives me the cash.”
The sweetshop clerk gasped, dashed out, and pressed a fiver into the boys hand.
“Dont you dare!” Auntie Clara bellowed, rattling the windows. The drunk whimpered. “Take that back,” she hissed at the sweetshop clerk, who retreated hastily.
Then, to the boy: “Come here.”
She sliced off not fifty grams, but a full quarter-pound of sausage. Plopped it in a bag.
“And this,” she added, tossing in an entire ring of smoked Cumberland, “is for your mum.”
The queue gaped. The sweetshop clerk fumbled her change. The drunk staggered up, stuffed his gin bottle back into his trousers, and shuffled out.
“That cheeky kitten,” Auntie Clara grunted, “youre leaving it with me. Need a mouser in the stockroom.”
“Hell be a proper hunter!”
The queue chuckled. Even the other shopkeepers smiled.
The ginger kitten purred, rubbing against her. She scooped it up, vanished into the back, then returned, stern as ever.
“Right. Whos next?”
Oddly, customers now smiled at hereven through her glower. They spoke softly, respectfully. And she
Answered in kind. Sometimesthough you mightnt believe itsomething almost like a smile flickered on that stone-carved face.
Now, that shop has two cats. One ginger, one grey. The blue-eyed “lordling” brought in another stray. All the shopkeepers feed them, but the cats?
They always favour Auntie Clara, weaving round her ankles as she grumbles, curses, and pretends not to stroke their fluffy backs.
And the queue?
The queue smiles.
So thats the taleof a cheeky lad, a sunshine-colored kitten, some sausage, and a shopkeeper with fists of iron, a glare of steel
And a heart softer than shed ever admit.
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