The shop door creaked open, and there he was againthat infuriating little boy.
“Back again to torment me, are you?” bellowed the shopkeeper, her voice rattling the jars on the shelves. “Oh, look at Lord Fancy-Pants here, demanding his fifty grams like some kind of duke!”
The boy lifted a ginger kitten, its fur bright as sunset. Strangely, the tiny creature didnt flinch at the womans thunderous scowl. Instead, it wriggled free, leapt onto the counter, andbefore anyone could reactrubbed its little orange head against the shopkeepers stained white apron.
Auntie Clara was well, formidable. Built like a stone wall, with a face that could curdle milk. No one ever dared meet her glare for long. It wasnt just angerit was the kind of bitterness that made you wonder if shed shake her fist at the heavens and demand, *Why must I serve these wretches?*
She was a shopkeeper, through and through. Not just by trade, but by nature. Her meaty fists planted on her hips, shed stare down any customer bold enough to complain. The bravest men would shrink, mumbling apologies in voices suddenly thin as thread. And then, with a huff, shed slice their sausages.
But this boythis *boy*was different.
Ten years old, with cheeks still round with youth, hed march right up, drop a handful of coins on the counter, and chirp, “Auntie Clara, please, fifty grams of the milky sausage?”
Her face would turn beetroot red. “Here again!” shed boom, rattling the windows. “Another fifty grams for his lordship!” Shed glare at the queue, daring anyone to arguebut the shop fell silent, eyes darting away.
Yet the boy never cowered. Hed just blink up at her with those sky-blue eyes and repeat, “Please, Auntie Clara. Its important.”
And somehow, every time, shed shut her mouth, slice the sausage, and shove it into a bag. The queue would exhale. The boy would leave, clutching his prize.
Today, though, Auntie Clara was in a mood. The air was thick with tension. Even the other shopkeepers avoided looking her way. Thenright at the worst momentthat scruffy head popped up from behind the counter.
“Auntie Clara,” he whispered, voice clear as a bell. “I dont have any money today. But I *need* it. Please? Ill pay you back.”
The shop froze. This wasnt just cheekthis was sacrilege.
Auntie Clara turned purple. A roar tore from her throat, shaking the floor. A drunk clutching a bottle of gin dropped it in terror, glass shattering. The boy didnt even flinch.
“Hes hungry,” he said simply, lifting the kitten again. “Mum forgot breakfast money.”
The ginger kitten, fearless, squirmed free and trotted right up to Auntie Clara, nuzzling her apron. A collective gasp filled the shop. The drunk curled into a ball, covering his head.
Auntie Claras face cycled through shades of fury before she grabbed the kittenholding it up to her nose. It mewed and booped her with its tiny pink nose.
“So *this* is where your breakfast moneys been going?” she growled. “Feeding this little freeloader?”
The boy nodded. “But Ill pay you back when Mum remembers.”
The sweet-counter cashier sniffled, rushing forward to shove a fiver into his hand.
“*Dont you dare!*” Auntie Claras shout rattled the windows again. The drunk whimpered.
She snatched the money back, then sliced not fifty gramsbut a thick portion of milky sausage, adding an entire ring of smoked premium. “For you *and* your mum.”
The queue gaped. The cashier dropped her money. The drunk scrambled up, shoved his gin into his trousers, and fled.
“And this cheeky little thief,” Auntie Clara grunted, cradling the kitten, “stays with me. Need a mouser for the stockroom.”
The shop softened. Smiles crept in, even as Auntie Clara barked, “Next!”
Now, there are two cats in that shopone ginger, one grey. The blue-eyed “Lord” brought the second. The staff all feed them, but the cats?
They follow Auntie Clara.
She grumbles. She scowls. She swears like a sailorwhile stroking two purring, woolly backs.
And the queue?
The queue smiles.
Thats the story of the “Lord,” a ginger sunbeam, some sausages, and a shopkeeper with fists of ironand a heart hidden just beneath.
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