The air in the shop trembled as Auntie Mabels voice boomed like a foghorn. “Back again, are ye? Come to plague me, have ye? Look at im, proper little lordling, aint he? Fancies is two ounces o sausage like hes dining at the Ritz!”
The boy lifted a ginger kitten, bright as a copper penny, into the air. The creature, faced with Auntie Mabels thunderous scowl, didnt flinch. Instead, it wriggled free, leaped onto the counter, dashed across, and nestled against her grubby white apron, rubbing its little tawny head against her.
Auntie Mabel was well, you know the sort. Women carved from granite, faces like storm clouds. No one dared look her full in the facenot if they valued their peace. That face bore a perpetual snarl, as though she might at any moment tilt her chin to the heavens and bellow, “Lord above! Why must I serve this rabble?”
She was a shopkeeper, through and through. Profession and temperament both. She served customers with her meaty fists planted where her waist ought to be, drilling the boldest blokes with a glare that sent even the cheekiest lads shuffling their feet, suddenly meek as mice. Theyd whisper their orders like sorry schoolboys, and shed sigh, hack off a sliver of sausage, and slap it down as if doing them a great favour.
Those fool enough to meet her eye saw it comingher knuckles thudding onto the counter, her face purpling like a beetroot, eyes narrowing to gun barrels. A roar erupted from her that couldve shaken the Towers foundations. The queue would flinch as if a Spitfire had just roared overhead, and the offenderpale as milkwould start babbling apologies, ready to confess every sin from childhood onward. Not a soul dared question the weight of their goods.
But worst of all, the boy vexed her.
A proper little scamp, no more than ten, bold as brass, turning up with maddening regularity to plonk his coppers on the counter and pipe up in that reedy voice:
“Auntie Mabel, could I ave two ounces o sausage, please?”
Shed flush, pale, then turn grey all at once. “Back again!” shed thunder, rattling the jars on the shelves. “Two ounces for the young master!” Shed gloat over the cowed queue, and the crowdusually quick to grumble elsewherewould avert their eyes.
“Come to torment me, ave ye? Think youre some posh toff, do ye? Two ounces, like its nothing!”
But the boy, oddly, never faltered. Hed just fix her with his big blue eyesclear as a June skyand say, “Please, Auntie Mabel. I really need it.”
Her jaw would unhinge, hellfire brewing in her throatbut then, somehow, shed stop. Peer at him. And without another word, shed saw off the sausage. The queue would exhale, and off hed trot, clutching his little parcel.
Today, though, Auntie Mabel was in rare form. The shop held its breath. Even the other shopgirls kept their gazes firmly elsewhere. She barked orders, flung packets of meat, and then
Then, of course, the boys tousled head popped up from behind the counter, those blue eyes blinking up at her in the dead silence.
“Auntie Mabel,” he whispered, clear as a bell. “I aint got no money today. But I really need it. Could I ave two ounces, and Ill bring the pennies later?”
The audacity. The sheer violation of commerce itself.
Auntie Mabel turned crimson, then white, then let loose a roar that sent the whole shop ducking for cover. A drunk fumbling a bottle of gin dropped itglass shattered, spirits pooled on the floorbut no one cared.
“Youyouyou!” she spluttered, hefting a fist like a ham. “Come to send me to an early grave, ave ye?”
Eyes squeezed shut. Hands clutched at chests.
But the boy didnt flinch. His voice didnt waver. He just looked at her, steady as you please, and said, “Hes proper hungry. I aint got no money. Mum forgot me breakfast.” And he held up the ginger kitten.
The creature, faced with Auntie Mabels wrath, didnt so much as tremble. It squirmed free, bounded onto the counter, and nestled into her apron, purring like a motor.
A groan of horror rippled through the shop. That fist would come down, surelycrush the little thing like a bug.
The drunk on the floor curled into a ball, hands over his head.
Auntie Mabel greyed, whitened, then flushed scarlet. A strangled noise escaped her. Her fist unclenched. She snatched up the kitten, brought it nose-to-nose with her, and
It mewled and booped her nose.
“This yours, then?” she growled. “All this time, your mums breakfast moneyspent on this flea-bitten mongrel? Two ounces every day for im?”
“Yeah,” the boy admitted. “But Ill bring the money tomorrow. When Mum gives it.”
The sweetshop girl choked back a sob, dashed out, and pressed a fiver into his hand.
“Dont you dare!” Auntie Mabel roared. The windows trembled. The drunk whimpered. “Dont you dare,” she hissed, viper-quiet.
“Take that back,” she snapped at the sweetshop girl, who scurried off, chastened.
Then, softer: “Come ere, lad.”
She sawed off not two ounces, but a great hunk of sausage, bagged it, then added a whole ring of smoked for good measure.
“For you and your mum,” she muttered.
The queue gawped. The sweetshop girls fiver fluttered to the floor. The drunk staggered up, tucked his bottle into his trousers, and slunk out.
“And this cheeky mite,” Auntie Mabel grunted, “stays with me. Need a mouser in the stockroom.”
“Hell be a proper hunter!”
The queue chuckled. The shopgirls hid smiles.
The ginger kitten purred, kneading her apron. She vanished into the back with it, reappeared moments later, and barked, “Whos next?”
Oddly, the customers grinned as they stepped forward. They spoke softly, respectfullyand she answered in kind. And once or twice
Well, you mightnt believe it. But something like a smile flickered across that stone-carved face.
Now, there are two cats in that shop. One ginger, one grey. That blue-eyed lad fetched another stray. The shopgirls feed them, but the cats
They flock to Auntie Mabel, of course, weaving round her ankles as she grumbles and swears and huffs, all while scritching two woolly backs.
And the queue?
The queue smiles.
So there you have ita tale of a cheeky lad, a ginger sunbeam, some sausages, and a shopkeeper with fists like hams, a glare like thunder
And a heart soft as butter.
What dyou make of that, then? Leave your thoughts below. And dont forget to like.
