“Back again to torment me, are you? Look at this, thinks hes some posh lord! Demands his fifty grams like he owns the place!” bellowed the shopkeeper, her voice shaking the shelves.
The boy lifted up a ginger kitten, bright as a summer sun. The little creature, faced with the shopkeepers fearsome scowl, didnt flinch. Instead, it wriggled free, leapt onto the counter, dashed across it, and pressed itself against the stained white apron of Auntie Clara, rubbing its tiny orange head against her.
Auntie Clara was well, you know the type. Built like a stone pillar, solid and unyielding. And her face
No one ever dared look Auntie Clara in the eye. Not properly. Because that face always showed the same thing: menace, contempt, and simmering rage. As if at any moment, she might tilt her head back and yell at the heavens,
*”Lord above! Why must I serve these lot?”*
Clara was a shopkeeperby trade and by nature. She served customers with two meaty fists planted where her waist should have been, drilling holes into anyone foolish enough to meet her glare. Even the burliest blokes would shrink, muttering their orders in a sheepish squeak. Shed do them the *favour* of slicing the salami.
Those bold enough to raise their voices saw this unfold:
Auntie Clara would lift those fists off her hips and slam them onto the counter. Her face would turn beetroot red, her eyes narrowing into gun barrels. Then came the roara sound like a lions, sending the queue ducking as if a fighter jet had just screamed overhead. The offending man would pale, stutter apologies, and practically offer to confess to every crime hed ever committed. No one *ever* dared question the weight of their goods.
But the one who riled her most was *him*.
A cheeky little lad, barely ten years old, who had the nerve to show up with maddening regularity. Hed plonk a handful of coins onto the counter and say, in a voice like a mouses squeak,
“Auntie Clara, please, could I have fifty grams of the milky salami?”
Auntie Clara would turn red, white, then grey all at once.
“Back again!” shed thunder, rattling the windows. “Another fifty grams for his highness!” Shed glare at the queue, daring anyone to object. The crowd, usually so quick to argue elsewhere, would suddenly find the floor fascinating.
“Back to torment my soul, are you? Look at him, like some fancy lord! Thinks he can just waltz in for his measly fifty grams!”
Yet, oddly, the boy never flinched. Hed look up at her with sky-blue eyes and say,
“Please, Auntie Clara. Its important.”
Auntie Clara would open her mouth, ready to breathe fire
But then shed stop. Stare at those blue eyes. And, without another word, slice the salami. The queue would exhale in relief as the boy scurried off, clutching his little packet.
Today, Auntie Clara was in an especially foul mood. The queue stood in tense silence. The other shopkeepers avoided her direction. Every so often, shed hurl packets of salami at customers with a snarluntil
Until *he* appeared again, right on cue.
From beneath the counter popped that tousled head, those same blue eyes.
“Auntie Clara,” he whispered in the dead silence. “I dont have any money today. But I *really* need it. Could you cut me fifty grams? Ill pay you back later.”
The sheer audacity. It was an affront to commerce itself.
Auntie Clara turned red, then white, then unleashed a roar that sent everyone crouching. A drunk fumbling with a bottle of gin dropped it, hands shooting up in surrender. The bottle shattered on the concretebut no one cared.
“Youyouyou rotten little lord! Back to give me a heart attack, are you?” She raised a fist like a sledgehammer.
Eyes squeezed shut. Hearts clutched.
But the Little Lord didnt tremble. His voice stayed steady.
“Hes really hungry,” the boy said calmly. “Ive got no money. Mum forgot breakfast today.” Then he lifted the ginger kittenbright as the suntoward her.
The kitten, faced with Auntie Claras terrifying scowl, didnt cower. It wriggled free, leapt onto the counter, dashed across, and nuzzled into her apron.
A groan of horror rippled through the shop. Everyone braced for the fist to come crashing down, crushing the little creature like a fly.
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 throat. She lowered her fistthen grabbed the kitten, holding it up to her face. The kitten mewed and booped her nose.
“So *this* is it?” she growled. “All this time, your mums breakfast moneyspent on this mangy thing? And youve been winding me up daily for fifty grams?”
“Yep,” confessed the tiny criminal. “But dont worry, Ill pay you back tomorrow. Soon as Mum gives me the money.”
The sweets-shop clerk sniffled, rushing over to shove a fiver into the Little Lords hand.
“Dont you *dare*!” Auntie Clara roared, shaking the windows. The drunk on the floor whimpered. “Dont you *dare*,” she hissed like a snake. “Take your money back!” she snapped at the sweets clerk, who sheepishly retreated.
“Here, boy,” she muttered to the Little Lord. She sliced a thick chunk of milky salami into a bag. “And thisfor you and your mum.” She added a whole ring of smoked sausage.
The queue gaped. The sweets clerk fumbled her change. The drunk staggered up, tucked his gin into his trousers, and shuffled out.
“And this cheeky kitten,” Auntie Clara grunted, “youre leaving with me. Need a mouser for the stockroom.”
“Hell grow up a proper hunter!”
The queue chuckled. Even the other shopkeepers smiled.
The ginger kitten purred, rubbing against Auntie Clara. She carried it to the back, vanishing for a minute before reappearing, scowling as ever.
“Next!” she barked.
Strangely, customers now smiled at her. Spoke gently. And sometimes
(You might not believe me.)
Sometimes, that stone-carved face *almost* twitched into something like a smile.
Now, there are two cats in that shop. One ginger, one grey. The blue-eyed Little Lord eventually brought in another stray. The shopkeepers all feed them, but the cats?
They *always* prefer Auntie Clara, no matter how much she grumbles and swears, swatting them awayeven as her hands stroke their furry backs.
And the queue?
The queue smiles.
Thats the tale of the Little Lord, the ginger sunbeam, the salami, and the shopkeeper with fists of stone, a glare like thunderand a heart softer than shed ever admit.
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