Back again to ruin my day, are you? Look at this little lordling, demanding his fifty grams like he owns the place! The shopkeepers voice boomed through the store.
The boy lifted a tiny ginger kitten, bright as a sunset. Oddly, the kitten didnt flinch at the womans fierce glare. Instead, it wriggled free, leapt onto the counter, dashed across it, and nestled against Auntie Mabels stained white apron, rubbing its little head against her.
Auntie Mabel was well, you know the type. Built like a brick wall, face like a storm cloud. No one ever dared meet her eyes. Not once. Because those eyes held nothing but scorn, aggression, and a simmering rage at the world. You could almost hear her silent scream: *Why must I serve these people?*
Mabel was a shopkeeper by tradeand by nature. She served customers with two meaty fists planted where her waist shouldve been, drilling holes into anyone bold enough to speak up. Most men shrank under her glare, muttering meek requests. Shed sigh, slice the sausage, and shove it across the counter.
But the bold ones? The ones who dared raise their voice? They saw this:
Auntie Mabel lifted her fists, slammed them onto the counter, her face turning beetroot-red, eyes narrowing like gun barrels. A roar erupted from her throatlion-like, deafening. The queue flinched as if a fighter jet had just buzzed past. The offender? Hed pale, stammer apologies, and nearly confess to every sin hed ever committed. No one ever dared check their change.
And yetmost infuriating of allwas the boy.
Cheeky little thing, no older than ten. Had the nerve to show up with alarming regularity, plonking a handful of coins on the counter and piping up in his tiny voice:
*”Auntie Mabel, please, could I have fifty grams of milk sausage?”*
Shed turn red, white, then grey all at once.
*”You again!”* shed bellow, rattling the windows. *”Fifty grams, he says! Who does he think he issome posh little earl?”*
But the boy never flinched. Hed just blink up at her with sky-blue eyes and repeat, *”Please, Auntie Mabel. I really need it.”*
And somehow, every time, shed pause. Glare. Thengrudginglyslice the sausage. The queue would exhale. The boy would leave, clutching his little parcel.
Today, though, Auntie Mabel was in rare form. The queue was silent. The other shopkeepers avoided looking her way. She barked orders, flung packages of sausage, and then
Then *he* appeared. Right on cue.
*”Auntie Mabel,”* the boy whispered into the tense quiet. *”I dont have any money today. But I really need it. Could you give me fifty grams? Ill pay you back, promise.”*
The audacity. The *blasphemy*.
Auntie Mabel turned purple. A sound erupted from herhalf roar, half steam engineand everyone in the shop ducked. A drunk fumbling a bottle of whiskey dropped it, glass shattering. No one even noticed.
*”Youyou!”* She raised a fist the size of a ham.
The crowd winced. Hearts pounded.
But the boy didnt even blink. *”Hes hungry,”* he said simply, nodding to the kitten. *”Mum forgot my lunch money.”*
Then he lifted the ginger kitten.
The kittenfaced with Auntie Mabels thunderous scowldidnt cower. It squirmed free, leapt onto the counter, and nuzzled her apron.
A collective gasp. The drunk curled into a ball.
Auntie Mabel turned grey, then white, then red. A strangled noise escaped her. She lowered her fist, scooped up the kitten, and held it nose-to-nose. It mewed and booped her nose.
*”So,”* she hissed. *”All this timeyour mums lunch moneyyouve been feeding this little rogue?”*
The boy nodded. *”But Ill pay you back. Soon as Mum remembers.”*
The sweet shop clerk sniffled, rushed over, and tried to press a fiver into the boys hand.
*”Dont you dare!”* Auntie Mabel roared. The drunk whimpered.
She shoved the money back, then turned to the boy. *”Come here.”*
She sliced not fifty grams, but a thick chunk of milk sausage. Then*”This is for your mum,”*she added a whole ring of smoked.
The queue gaped. The sweet shop clerk fumbled her change. The drunk wobbled to his feet, tucked his whiskey into his trousers, and shuffled out.
*”And this cheeky little thing?”* Auntie Mabel growled, scratching the kittens ears. *”Stays with me. Need a mouser in the stockroom.”*
*”Hell be a proper hunter!”*
The queue chuckled. The other shopkeepers smiled.
The ginger kitten purred, nuzzling Auntie Mabel as she vanished into the back room. When she returned, she barked, *”Next!”*
Oddly, the next customers *smiled* at her. Spoke softly. Andwould you believe it?sometimes, just sometimes, her 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 “earl” brought another stray. The staff feed them, but the cats?
They always prefer Auntie Mabel. They weave around her ankles, “helping” as she grumbles, swears, andyes*strokes* their fluffy backs.
And the queue?
The queue smiles.
So there you have ita tale of a cheeky “earl,” a ginger sunbeam, some sausage, and a shopkeeper with fists of steel, a glare like thunder and a heart softer than shed ever admit.
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