Like I’ve said before, my lass and her three whelps live at Blacko with me. But I’ve another bairn too – a fine lad called Chris whose got his own family over at Hay Booth.
The first bad luck I had as a youngster ended up as our Lizzie. So my folks wed me off to an old mold-warp called Matt Southern, and gave us Malkin Tower as a dowry. Then they washed their hands of us, and left me to fend for myself when he died a few years later. And that’s when I became a wise woman. I did what needed doin’ to make ends meet.
The love of my life was a play actor called Christopher Holgate. But when I told him I’d got caught again he fled, leaving me with naught but a growing belly. I gave my lad his dad’s name – and that’s the only thing he ever got from that lousy vagabond.
Chris grew up handsome and strong. He made a good match marrying Isobel Shepherd, who got to stay at Hay Booth when her kinfolk died of the plague. And he took to sheep farming like he’d been doing it all his life, and turned out to be proper good at rearing the lambs and sheering.
Truth be told, I don’t much like my daughter-in-law. She thinks she’s grander than our lot, though I must admit she’s got a dead nice set-up with all that fancy spinning and dying. And the fleece she sends for working on our Great Wheel certainly keeps us going through the long winter months, so I shouldn’t grumble.
But Issy’s a bit too fond of church for my liking. Still, I pay that no mind as she’ll not say aught damaging to the vicar, because it’d be far too dangerous for her Gracie. Chris and her both dote on that plain little wench though I don’t for the life of me know why, even though I’m her Gran! But that’s a tale for another telling.
In the meantime mark well these words – keep a sharp eye out the otter down by the water and he’ll bring you good luck for the whole of this month.