Here he comes again, testing my patience! the shopkeeper bellows, slamming the glass door shut. Look at him, the English lord! Hell have his fiftypence portion of sausage, wont he?
She lifts a ginger kitten, bright as a sunrise, from the counter. The little animal, seeing the shopkeepers fierce face, does not shy away.
The kitten darts from the boys grip, leaps onto the counter and, after a quick sprint, presses its tiny, orange head against the grimywhite apron of Aunt Clara, rubbing itself against her.
Aunt Clara is a formidable womanbroadshouldered, as solid as a stone block. Her face is never seen by anyone who dares to glance; it always wears the same expression: threat, contempt, aggression, a lifetime of resentment. It seems as if she could raise her voice to the heavens at any moment:
Lord! Why must I serve these people?
Clara is a shop assistant, through and through. She tends the customers, pushing her hefty fistseach the size of a stoneagainst the waistline that should be there. She eyes the rascals with such a glare that even the bravest men look away, whispering politely, Excuse me She serves the sausages with a smile, then slices them.
Those who dare lift their gaze and speak watch a strange scene unfold. Aunt Clara pulls her stonelike fists away from her waist and places them on the counter. Her face turns beetred, her eyes become twin pistols. A roar, like that of a lion, rumbles from her throat. The queue shudders, as if a fighter jet had swooped overhead.
A man, pale and trembling, immediately apologises, ready to confess every past and future sin, prepared to hand over a confession form. No one has ever dared to inspect the goods or check the till.
But what irritates Aunt Clara the most is a cheeky lad.
A brash tenyearold who appears at her counter with regular, annoying frequency, tossing a handful of coins onto the surface and asking in a thin voice:
Aunt Clara, please cut me a piece of the milksausage.
Clara flushes, turns white, then turns grey all at once.
Here he comes again! she roars, making the shop windows rattle. Cut him his fiftypence worth again! She watches the line triumphantly, while the crowd, ever ready to protest elsewhere, looks away.
Again youre at my nerves, you English lord! See, hell have his fiftypence worth of meat!
The boy, oddly unflustered, looks up at Clara with skyblue eyes and says:
Please cut it, Aunt Clara. I really need it.
Clara opens her mouth, from which a flame seems ready to burst, butlooking into his blue eyesshe falls silent and slices a tidy piece of sausage. A sigh of relief spreads through the queue, and the boy walks away, clutching a small packet in his fist.
That day, Aunt Claras mood is especially grim. The line is silent, the shop assistants from neighboring aisles avoid looking her way. Occasionally, she hurls sausage packets at customers, and
Just then, from beneath the counter at the most inconvenient moment, a head pops upblueeyed, skyblue like the morning. The child looks at Clara and, in absolute, ringing silence, says:
Aunt Clara, Aunt Clara! I have no money today, but I really need it! Cut me fifty pence worth and Ill bring the cash later.
Such impudence is unheard of; it feels like an attack on the very sanctity of trade.
Clara turns beetred, then pale, and lets out a shriek that makes everyone in the shop slump. A drunk, trying to hide a bottle in his trousers, lets it slip, raising his hands. The bottle hits the concrete floor and shatters into a thousand pieces, but no one pays any attention.
You, you, you! Sir scoundrel! Back here again to give me a heart attack?! she shouts, thrusting her stonelike fist upward.
Everyone closes their eyes. Those with hearts clutch them tighter.
The little lord does not flinch. His voice stays steady. He looks again at Aunt Clara with his blue eyes and says calmly:
Im really hungry. I have no money. Mum forgot my breakfast. He lifts the ginger kitten high.
The kitten, seeing Claras terrifying face, is oddly unfazed. It jumps from the boys hands, lands on the counter, scurries across, and presses its tiny orange head against Aunt Claras grimywhite apron, rubbing itself affectionately.
A howl of terror and pain sweeps through the shop. Everyone thinks the raised stone fist will crush the orange kitten like a fly. The trembling boy collapses onto the floor, curls up, and covers his head with his hands.
Clara turns grey, then white, then beetred. A hoarse rasp escapes her throat. She lowers the fist, scoops up the ginger kitten, and holds it to her face. The kitten mews and bumps its nose against her nostril.
Whats this? she snarls. All this time Mums money for breakfast has gone to this scoundrel? And you keep buying him fiftypence sausages every day?
The boy grins, a tiny criminal. Right, but dont worryIll bring the money tomorrow. When Mum gives it, Ill pay you.
The candysection assistant sobs, darts out from behind the counter, and hands the lord a tenpound note.
Dont you dare! Aunt Clara screams, making the shop windows tremble, while the trembling boy on the floor starts to stir. Dont you dare, she hisses like a snake.
Take your money! she tells the candysection girl, who grabs the note and steps aside.
Come here, lad, she says to the Lord.
She slices a generous chunk of the milksausage, places it in a bag.
And this is from me to you and your mother, she adds, tucking a whole ring of smoked, expensive sausage into the same bag.
The line watches, mouths agape. The candysection girl slips a paper note into the bag. The trembling boy gets to his feet, hides a litre of white bottle in his trousers, and calmly walks out of the shop.
The kitten belongs to you, you cheeky one, Clara says. I need a worker for the storeroomcatching mice.
Itll grow into a hunting cat! the boy replies.
The line smiles, as do the assistants from the other aisles.
The ginger kitten purrs, rubbing against Aunt Clara. She lifts it, disappears into the back room for a few minutes, then returns to the counter and, in a stern voice, asks:
Now? Whos next?
The next customers oddly smile despite Claras fierce look. They speak quietly and respectfully to her, and she answers in kind. Sometimes, a faint smile appears on her stonelike face.
Now the shop has two cats: a sunriseorange one and a grey one. The blueeyed Lord has even brought another kitten. All the shop assistants feed the cats, but the cats always favour Aunt Clara, constantly nudging her work, while she
growls, flings thunderous threats, and strokes the two fluffy backs.
The queue smiles.
Thats the tale of the Lord, the sunrise kitten, the sausage, and the shopassistant with stone fists, a fierce gaze, and a surprisingly soft heart.
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