Our biggest rivals are the Chattox lot over at West Close in Higham. And their lass Anne’s a comely wench if ever there was one, though too much of a handful for poor Tom Redferne to manage. She’s quite a bit older than our Ali, and Jim used to follow her round like a dog chasing heat. Of course, being bonny as summer she’d not give the dim lad the slightest sniff, finally shooing him off with a bucket of pig shit ’til he finally got the message.
Anne was widowed at thirty, with naught to show for ten years of wedlock except one scrawny lass called Marie. Yet she kept her curves and rosy cheeks, and her coppery hair never grew tatty like our Lizzie’s. So whenever the cheeky whelp sets off doing business, her sister Bessie steps in. Bessie’s not much use for aught else really – not very wise at all.
Aye, Anne’s the one to watch now that Old Chattox stoops blind over her stick and can’t stop her toothless gob from jabbering. She’s dangerous, that crafty trollop is, and not the type to cross if you value your health. They say she put that young Nutter lad in hancke and I’ll warrant there might be some truth in that.
Right now though, Anne and her mum are locked up in the Well Tower with us. There’s a whisper she may be plotting her escape as folks believe she can shape-shift into a raven. But I don’t believe a word of that nonsense, for I taught those two foolish bitches everything they know!