The shop door creaked open, and a familiar voice boomed across the counter.
“Back again, are ya? Come to give me more grey hairs? Look at im, Lord Muck himself! Thinks he can swan in here for fifty grams of sausage!” The shopkeeper, Auntie Marge, glared down at the boy.
He lifted a tiny ginger kitten, bright as a sunset. Oddly, the little creature didnt flinch at her scowling face. Instead, it wriggled free, leaped onto the counter, and rubbed its small head against Auntie Marges flour-dusted apron.
Auntie Marge was well, you know the type. Built like a brick outhouse, face like thunder. No one dared meet her eyenot unless they fancied a tongue-lashing sharp enough to strip paint. Her expression was always the same: a storm of annoyance, contempt, and a simmering rage at the world.
She was a shopkeeper by tradeand by nature. She served customers with two meaty fists planted where her waist shouldve been, drilling holes into anyone foolish enough to argue. Even the burliest blokes shrank under her glare, whispering their orders like schoolboys.
But this boythis cheeky little lad of tenwas different. He turned up like clockwork, plonked a handful of coins on the counter, and chirped, “Auntie Marge, please, fifty grams of milky sausage?”
Shed turn beetroot, then pale, then grey. “Again?!” shed thunder, rattling the jars on the shelves. “Fifty grams, is it? Like some posh little lord!”
The queue would stiffen, bracing for the explosion. But the boy never flinched. Hed just blink up at her with sky-blue eyes and say, “Please, Auntie Marge. Its important.”
And somehowthough her mouth twisted like shed swallowed vinegarshed slice the sausage and shove it into a bag. The queue would exhale, and off hed go, clutching his prize.
Today, though, Auntie Marge was in rare form. The air was thick with tension. Even the other shopkeepers avoided her glare. Thenright on cuethe boys tousled head popped up from behind the counter.
“Auntie Marge,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Ive no money today. But I really need it. Just fifty grams? Ill pay you back, promise!”
Gasps rippled through the shop. This wasnt just cheekit was sacrilege.
Auntie Marge went purple. A roar ripped from her throat, shaking the windows. A drunk fumbling with a bottle of gin dropped it, glass shattering everywhere. No one even noticed.
“You little toe-rag!” she bellowed, raising a fist like a sledgehammer. The crowd winced, certain the kitten would meet its end.
But the boy didnt flinch. “Hes hungry,” he said softly, lifting the ginger ball. “Mum forgot my lunch money.”
The kitten, bold as brass, squirmed free, leapt onto the counter, and nuzzled Auntie Marges apron.
For a heartbeat, the shop held its breath. Then
A strangled noise escaped Auntie Marge. She lowered her fist, scooped up the kitten, and held it to her face. It mewed and booped her nose.
“So,” she growled. “All this time, its been for this little freeloader? My time, my patiencejust so you could feed him sausage?”
The boy nodded. “But Ill pay you back! Soon as Mum gives me the money.”
The sweet counter lady sniffled, darting out to press a fiver into his hand.
“Dont you dare!” Auntie Marge barked, making the drunk whimper. She snatched the money back, then turned to the boy. “Here.” She hacked off a thick slice of milky sausage, then added a whole ring of smoked. “For you and your mum.”
The queue gaped. The sweet lady dropped her money. The drunk scrambled up and slunk out.
“And this cheeky mite?” Auntie Marge said, cradling the kitten. “He stays. Need a mouser in the stockroom.”
The ginger fluff purred, kneading her apron. She vanished into the back, reappearing moments later, stern as ever. “Right. Whos next?”
Oddly, the customers smiled noweven as she glowered. They spoke softly, respectfully. And sometimes
Well, you might not believe it. But that stone-carved face? It almost looked like it could smile.
Now, the shop has two catsone ginger, one grey. That blue-eyed “Lord” brought another stray. The staff feed them, but the pair? Theyre Auntie Marges shadows, weaving round her ankles as she grumbles and swearsand strokes their soft little heads.
And the queue? The queue smiles.
A story about a boy, a ginger sunbeam, some sausage, and a shopkeeper with fists of ironand a heart, it turns out, just as warm.
Kindness, even hidden beneath the gruffest exterior, has a way of shining through.
