“Back again to pester me, are you? Look at him, the little lordling! Fancies himself posh, demanding fifty grams of cured meat!” bellowed the shopkeeper.
The boy lifted a ginger kitten, bright as sunshine, into the air. Instead of cowering at the sight of the fearsome woman before it, the tiny creature squirmed free, leapt onto the counter, and nuzzled its little head against Auntie Claras dingy white apron.
Auntie Clara was well, you know the typewomen cut from stone, solid as a boulder, with a face that told a story of its own.
No one ever dared meet her gaze. There was no point. Her expression never changedetched with menace, scorn, and a simmering fury at the world. She might as well have thrown her head back and howled at the sky:
“Lord above! Why must I serve these wretched people?”
Clara was a shopkeeper by trade and by nature. She served customers with two meaty fists planted where her waist should have been, drilling them with a glare that made even the boldest men falter. Theyd shrink back, mumble their orders in timid voices, and thank her when she deigned to slice them their measly portions.
But the boyoh, that boy.
Ten years old and brazen as they come. He turned up with infuriating regularity, plunking down a handful of coppers and piping up in that thin, hopeful voice:
“Auntie Clara, please, could I have fifty grams of the milky sausage?”
Her face would turn beetroot-red, then ghostly pale, then an ominous grey.
“Back again!” shed roar, rattling the shop windows. “Fifty grams, is it?” Shed glower at the queue, daring anyone to object. The crowd, usually quick to protest elsewhere, would avert their eyes.
“Back to torment me, are you? Think youre some fancy little lord? Fifty grams, as if hes dining at the Ritz!”
Yet the boy never flinched. Hed just fix her with his sky-blue eyes and say, “Please, Auntie Clara. I really need it.”
Every time, shed open her mouth, ready to unleash hellfirebut then shed pause. Something in those eyes made her cut the sausage in silence while the queue exhaled in relief.
Today, however, Auntie Clara was in an especially foul mood. The air was thick with tension. Even the other shopkeepers avoided looking her way.
And thenof all momentsthe boy reappeared, peeking over the counter with those same blue eyes.
“Auntie Clara,” he whispered, cutting through the silence. “I havent any money today but I really need it. Could you spare fifty grams? Ill pay you back, I promise.”
The audacity. The sheer blasphemyagainst commerce itself!
Auntie Clara turned purple, then white, then unleashed a roar that sent the entire shop ducking for cover. A drunk fumbling with a hidden bottle of gin dropped it in terror, glass shattering everywhere.
But the boy didnt even blink.
“Hes really hungry,” he said calmly. “Mum forgot my lunch money.”
Then he lifted the ginger kitten again. This time, it wriggled free, darted across the counter, and rubbed its little head against Auntie Claras apron.
The shop held its breath. Surely that raised fist would come crashing down
Instead, she seized the kitten, lifted it to her face, and froze when it nuzzled her nose.
“So,” she growled, “youve been spending your mums lunch money on this scoundrel?”
The boy nodded. “But Ill pay you back tomorrow!”
The sweet counters shopkeeper stifled a sob and tried to slip him a fiver.
“Dont you dare!” Auntie Clara thundered, making the windows shake. She turned back to the boy. “Come here.”
Thenagainst all oddsshe sliced not just fifty grams, but a whole ring of smoked sausage. “For you and your mum,” she muttered.
The queue gaped. The drunk scrambled up and slunk out.
“And as for this cheeky beast,” Auntie Clara said, nodding at the kitten, “leave him here. I need a mouser for the stockroom.”
“Hell be a proper hunter!”
The queue chuckled. Even the other shopkeepers smiled.
The ginger kitten purred, kneading her apron. She vanished into the back room with it, then returned, scowling as ever. “Next!”
Strangely, the customers now smiled backand sometimes, if you looked close enough, you mightve spotted the ghost of a grin on her stony face.
Now, the shop has two catsone ginger, one grey. The blue-eyed “lordling” brought the second one later. All the shopkeepers feed them, but the cats?
They always prefer Auntie Clara, winding around her legs as she grumbles and swearsall while stroking their soft fur.
And the queue?
They leave with smiles.
A tale of a cheeky boy, a sunshine-coloured kitten, a fearsome shopkeeper with fists of ironand a heart, buried deep, but golden all the same.
Sometimes, kindness wears the fiercest mask.
