– Here comes the soul collector again, here to rattle my nerves, eh? Look at this fine English lord! Oh, he fancies his fifty grams, does he? – Roared the shopkeeper

“Here again to torment me, are you? Look at this little lordling, acting all high and mighty! Thinks he can just waltz in for fifty grams of sausage!” bellowed the shopkeeper, Mrs. Clara.

The boy held up a ginger kitten, bright as a summer sun. The tiny creature, faced with Mrs. Claras fearsome scowl, didnt flinch. Instead, it wriggled free of his grasp, leaped onto the counter, scampered across, and pressed itself against her grubby white apron, nuzzling her with its little russet head.

Mrs. Clara was well, you know the type. A woman built like a brick wall, carved from stone. And her face

No one ever dared look Mrs. Clara in the eye. They wouldnt risk it. Her expression was always the same: menace, scorn, and a simmering rage at the world. She seemed one wrong word away from lifting her head and shouting at the heavens, *”Why must I serve these people?”*

She was a shopkeepernot just by trade, but by nature. She served customers with two massive fists planted where her waist should be, drilling holes into anyone foolish enough to meet her gaze. Even the burliest men would shrink back, mumbling apologies before timidly asking for their goods. Shed do them the *favour* of slicing a bit of sausage.

Those braveor foolishenough to raise their voices saw this: Mrs. Clara lifting her fists from her hips, slamming them onto the counter, her face turning beet red, her eyes narrowing into gun barrels. A roar erupted from her throat, loud enough to rattle the windows. The queue would flinch as if a fighter jet had just buzzed overhead, and the offending man would pale, stammering apologies as if confessing to every sin hed ever committed.

But nothing annoyed Mrs. Clara more than the boy.

Ten years old and brazen as they come. Hed appear with infuriating regularity, plunk down a handful of coins, and chirp in his thin little voice, *”Mrs. Clara, could I have fifty grams of milk sausage, please?”*

Mrs. Clara would turn red, then white, then grey all at once.

*”Here again!”* shed thunder, making the windows tremble. *”Another fifty grams for his highness!”* Shed glare triumphantly at the queue, and the crowdalways ready to protest anywhere elsewould look away.

*”Here to plague me, are you? Nerves in tatters, and he expects fifty grams like its nothing!”*

But the boy, oddly enough, never cowered. Hed just gaze up at her with sky-blue eyes and say, *”Please, Mrs. Clara. I really need it.”*

Shed open her mouth, ready to unleash hellfirethen stop. Something in those blue eyes made her pause. Shed slice the sausage in silence, hand it over, and the queue would exhale in relief.

That day, Mrs. Clara was in an especially foul mood. The queue stood tense and silent. Cashiers from other aisles avoided looking her way. She barked orders, flung packets of sausage at customersand then, at the worst possible moment, the boys tousled head popped up from behind the counter.

*”Mrs. Clara,”* he said in a voice clear as a bell, *”I dont have any money today. But I really need it. Could you give me fifty grams, and Ill pay you back later?”*

The audacity was unheard of. An assault on the very concept of commerce.

Mrs. Clara turned crimson, then ghostly pale, then roared so loud everyone in the shop ducked. A drunkard trying to hide a bottle of gin in his trousers dropped it, hands shooting up in surrender. The bottle shattered on the concrete floor, but no one cared.

*”Youyouyou! Little wretch! Here to give me a heart attack, are you?”* She raised a fist the size of a ham.

Everyone shut their eyes. Those with hearts clutched them.

But the boy didnt flinch. His voice didnt waver. He just looked at her with those blue eyes and said, *”Hes really hungry. I dont have any money. Mum forgot to give me breakfast.”* And he held up the ginger kitten.

The kitten, faced with Mrs. Claras terrifying glare, didnt cower. It wriggled free, leaped onto the counter, and rubbed against her apron.

A collective groan of horror rippled through the shop. Surely that raised fist would come crashing down

But instead, Mrs. Clara turned grey, then white, then red. A strangled noise escaped her throat. She lowered her fist, snatched up the kitten, and held it to her face. The kitten mewed and booped her nose.

*”So this is it?”* she growled. *”All this time, spending your mums breakfast money on this little rascal? Fifty grams a day for him?”*

*”Yeah,”* the boy admitted. *”But dont worry, Ill pay you back when Mum gives me the money.”*

The confectionery cashier burst into tears, rushed over, and tried to press a fiver into the boys hand.

*”Dont you dare!”* Mrs. Clara bellowed, making the windows rattle again. The drunkard on the floor whimpered.

*”Take your money back,”* she snapped at the confectioner, who sheepishly retreated. Then, to the boy: *”Come here.”*

She sliced a thick portion of milk sausage, then added an entire ring of smokedexpensivesausage.

*”This ones for you and your mum.”*

The queue stood dumbstruck. The confectioner dropped her five-pound note. The drunkard scrambled up, tucked his bottle away, and slunk out.

*”And this cheeky little thing,”* Mrs. Clara said, *”youre leaving with me. Need a mouser in the stockroom.”*

*”Hell grow up to be a fine hunter!”*

The queue chuckled. Even the other cashiers smiled.

The ginger kitten purred, nuzzling Mrs. Clara as she carried it into the back room. When she returned, she barked, *”Well? Whos next?”*

The customers, despite her thunderous expression, smiled back. They spoke gently, respectfullyand she answered in kind. And sometimes you might not believe it, but a flicker of something like a smile would cross her stone-carved face.

Now, there are two cats in that shopone ginger, one grey. The blue-eyed “lordling” brought another kitten later. The staff all feed them, but the cats?

They always prefer Mrs. Clara, getting underfoot while she grumbles and cursesstroking their fluffy backs all the while.

And the queue? The queue smiles.

So ends the tale of the little lordling, the ginger sunbeam, the sausages, and the shopkeeper with fists like hammers, a glare like thunderand a heart softer than shed ever admit.

Kindness, it seems, can be found in the unlikeliest placesif youre brave enough to look.