Lucy snapped the lock shut and let out a relieved breath. There—two days off ahead, no queues, no weighing goods, no loading and unloading.
“Lucy, love, are you working tomorrow?” came a familiar voice from behind.
She didn’t even need to turn around—she knew who it was. Mr. Nicholas. Always at the wrong moment.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said without looking back. “Day off.”
“Ah. Right. No matter, I’ll come Monday then.”
Lucy finally turned. The old man stood there with his worn string bag, in a faded jacket, looking at her with a kind of lost hope. As if he’d been expecting something.
“He’ll spend half an hour counting out pennies again,” she thought.
“Come Monday,” she said, and walked off towards her flat.
He was always like that—would show up right at closing time, pick two or three small items, then fumble in his wallet at the till, counting out coins. The queue would build behind him, people would sigh, and he’d seem not to notice. So slow. It just got on her nerves.
Sunday morning, passing the shop, Lucy stopped dead.
At the door sat a cat. Just a stray—grey, scruffy, terribly thin. But the odd thing was, it wasn’t just sitting. It darted from door to window, scratched at the threshold, peered through the crack, mewed. So pitiful, so desperate.
“Shoo!” Lucy waved her hand.
The cat didn’t even flinch. Just stared at the door.
“Homeless,” Lucy thought, and carried on.
Come Monday, Lucy approached the shop with a heavy feeling. The cat hadn’t moved. It lay curled at the threshold, exhausted.
The key turned in the lock. The door swung open.
And then Lucy heard it. A thin, barely audible squeak. Somewhere in the corner, behind the shelves.
She stepped inside, peered closer—and her heart sank.
A kitten.
Tiny, blind, helpless. Lying among cardboard boxes, squeaking faintly, pawing the air.
The cat burst in after Lucy, leapt to the kitten, began licking it, purring.
“Good Lord,” Lucy whispered. “So that’s why you were trying to get back in.”
Lucy stood over the cardboard box, not knowing what to do. The cat had settled beside the kitten, licking and purring—calm for the first time in a day.
But one thought kept running through Lucy’s head: “You can’t keep animals in a shop. Where am I supposed to put them?”
“Well, you’re something,” she muttered aloud. “How did you even get in here? When did you manage it?”
The cat only pressed closer to the kitten.
Lucy remembered: Friday evening, when she was closing up, customers were crowding at the entrance. Rush, hurry. That must have been when she slipped in. Unnoticed. And given birth during the night, when the shop stood empty.
And all Sunday she’d paced outside, trying to get back in.
“Right,” Lucy exhaled. “We’ll figure something out.”
She poured water into a plastic cup for the cat, broke off a piece of boiled ham from her own sandwich. The cat drank greedily, hurriedly, as if afraid it would be taken away.
Then Lucy opened the shop for customers.
The first in was a neighbour, Auntie Val. She saw the cat and kitten and clapped her hands:
“Oh, Lucy! Where did they come from?”
“Well…” Lucy waved a hand. “She got in somehow. Listen, Val, could you take them? Your grandchildren love animals.”
Auntie Val wrinkled her nose:
“We’ve already got a cat at home. Old and mean. He’d kill them. No, sorry, can’t.”
Next came Uncle Mike the plumber. He also refused:
“The wife won’t have it. She sneezes from the fur.”
Then a young mother came in with a child. The little one even reached out for the kitten, but his mother pulled him back:
“Don’t touch! It’s dirty! Full of diseases. Let’s go.”
Lucy stood behind the counter and felt something tightening inside. Each refusal hit her chest like a dull thud.
“Is no one going to take them?”
By lunchtime she’d lost hope.
Around three in the afternoon, the door swung open and Mr. Nicholas walked in.
As usual—slow, careful. String bag in hand. He greeted her quietly, nodded.
Lucy hadn’t even time to answer—he stopped at the entrance, crouched down beside the box.
“Oh,” he said softly. “And who do we have here?”
The cat lifted her head, eyed him warily.
Mr. Nicholas slowly reached out a hand, stroked the cat’s head. She closed her eyes, began to purr.
“Lucy,” he turned to her. “What’s going to happen to them?”
Lucy sighed:
“I don’t know, Mr. Nicholas. I can’t keep them here, and no one wants to take them.”
“I see.”
He paused, then stroked the cat again. The kitten squeaked faintly, stirred.
“Could I,” Mr. Nicholas began, then hesitated. “Could I take them?”
Lucy froze. She stared at the old man, hardly believing her ears.
“You?” she repeated. “Really?”
“Well, yes.” He smiled shyly. “I’m on my own, it gets lonely. This’ll be company. Only, I don’t know how to look after them. But I’ll learn. I’ll look it up online.”
Lucy suddenly felt a lump rise in her throat. This slow old man she’d so often hurried, rushed, been annoyed with.
He was the only one who hadn’t walked past.
“Mr. Nicholas,” she managed. “Thank you. Truly. Thank you.”
He waved his hands:
“Oh, no—my pleasure. The house is empty. My wife died three years ago. No children. So I come here every day, just to have a word with someone.”
Lucy felt ashamed. So ashamed she wanted the floor to swallow her up.
She’d always been irritated that he was slow. That he held up the queue.
And he was just lonely.
Mr. Nicholas carefully picked up the box with the cat and kitten. He held it steady underneath so it wouldn’t jolt. The cat watched him warily but didn’t resist. As if she understood—this man wouldn’t hurt her.
“Only, I don’t know how to carry them home,” he said thoughtfully. “The box is big, awkward. They’ll slide about.”
“Wait,” Lucy darted to the stockroom and came back with a sturdier, smaller cardboard box. “Here, this is better. And it has handles.”
She herself moved the cat and kitten, lining the bottom with a soft cloth. Her hands were trembling. She couldn’t tell if it was from worry or the shame that gnawed harder inside.
“Lucy, could you advise me,” Mr. Nicholas smiled uncertainly. “What should I buy for them? Some food, I suppose? A bowl?”
Lucy suddenly saw clearly: the old man was lost. He’d taken on the responsibility but had no idea what to do next. And still he’d taken them. Because he couldn’t walk past.
“Hold on,” she said firmly. “Now.”
She walked along the shelves, gathering what was needed: a tin of meat for the cat, a bag of dry food, two plastic bowls, a pack of litter.
“Here,” she handed him the bag.
“Oh no, let me pay.”
“No,” Lucy cut him off. “From me. Just because.”
He tried to argue, but she looked at him so sternly that he only nodded:
“Thank you. Very much.”
Mr. Nicholas picked up the box and the bag, headed for the door. At the threshold he turned:
“Lucy, do you think I should take them to the vet?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Go tomorrow. Have them checked.”
“All right. I will.”
He left. The door closed with a soft jingle.
Lucy was alone.
The shop was quiet. Empty. Only on the floor, in the corner, lay the old cardboard box—the one the kitten had been in.
She walked over, picked it up, meant to throw it out. But suddenly she couldn’t. She sat right down on the floor, pressed the box to her chest, and cried.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripped onto the cardboard.
She remembered how she’d been annoyed with Mr. Nicholas. How she’d hurried him. How she’d sighed when he came in. How she’d thought, “Here comes that old man again, counting his pennies.”
And look what he turned out to be.
Without a second thought, he’d taken the cat and kitten. Even though he barely scraped by—you could tell from his clothes, from how he counted out his change.
But he hadn’t walked past.
“Lord,” Lucy thought, “what a fool I’ve been. How hard-hearted.”
She wiped her tears with her palm, got up. Threw the box in the bin. Returned behind the counter.
Customers started coming in.
A normal working day.
But something inside Lucy had changed. She looked at the customers differently now. Not just as a queue to serve quickly. But as people, each with their own story. And you never knew what was in someone’s heart.
Tomorrow she would certainly ask Mr. Nicholas how the cat and kitten were doing. How they were settling. Whether they needed any help.
And she would never rush him again.
Two days passed.
Lucy kept waiting for Mr. Nicholas. She glanced at the door, listened for footsteps in the corridor. But he didn’t come.
And her worry only grew. “What if something’s happened? What if he’s ill? Or something’s wrong with the cat?”
On the third day she couldn’t stand it any longer.
She asked the neighbours for his address. It turned out Mr. Nicholas lived in the next block, on the third floor.
Lucy bought a bag of apples, a packet of biscuits—just for appearances, so as not to go empty-handed—and after work she went to see him.
The door didn’t open right away. Then came shuffling footsteps, and Mr. Nicholas appeared on the doorstep. Surprised, confused.
“Lucy? You… come to see me?”
“Yes,” she held out the bag. “I thought I’d visit. How are you? How are the cat and kitten?”
The old man’s face lit up with a smile. So warm, so genuine, that Lucy felt easier.
“Come in, come in!” He stepped aside. “They’ve settled beautifully!”
The flat was small, modest. Old furniture, worn carpet. But clean and cosy.
On the windowsill, on a folded blanket, the cat was dozing. Beside her, the kitten was fidgeting—already stronger, fluffy.
“Here they are,” Mr. Nicholas said proudly. “I called the cat Mittens. And the kitten—Whiskers. Because he’s so quiet.”
Lucy went over, gently stroked Mittens. She opened one eye, purred, and dozed off again.
“They’re lovely,” Lucy said softly.
“Yes.” Mr. Nicholas was beaming. “You know, I took them to the vet. Everything’s fine.”
He talked and talked—about how Mittens had hidden under the sofa the first night, dragging the kitten with her, how she’d finally settled, how she now greeted him at the door when he came home.
As she left, Lucy lingered at the threshold:
“Mr. Nicholas, do come to the shop. I’ll be waiting.”
He nodded:
“I will.”
And added softly:
“Thank you, Lucy. For everything.”
“No, thank you,” she replied. “You’re a true gentleman.”
The next day, Mr. Nicholas came to the shop again. As usual—slow, with his string bag.
But this time Lucy greeted him with a smile. She brought a stool from the stockroom and set it beside the counter:
“Sit down, Mr. Nicholas. Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
He nodded gratefully. Sat down. Began unhurriedly choosing his groceries.
And for the first time, Lucy didn’t rush the old man.