The fallen madonna

Over a mug of caramel, Wangford introduced me to his wench: Tarbox Annie, erstwhile scholar, chorister and lady of *good* standing. When he first met Little Annie, as she was then known, she was the vicar’s darling, a vice-free cherub, lionised by squire and villager alike.

Crafty Wangford, however, had other plans for her. Sure enough, with his bon-bons and pictures of puppies, he did lead her into temptation. Nonetheless, by the time her corruption was absolute the poor sweet angel did not, as such, find herself delivered unto Evil – possibly because she was a reckless inebriate and worth less to Evil than a tinker’s cuss.

The Tarbox cast a slender silhouette, a fact she proudly attributed to her strict regimen of steak and gin. On close inspection, however, her sunken eyes and bleeding gums were a clear indication of scurvy, for the only fruit she’d touch was the occasional margarita.

Together, Annie and Wangford had become the Bonnie and Clyde of liquor-store hold-ups. Their unconventional technique of leaving the cash and making off with the Blue Nun had earned them notoriety, if not respect. Wangford clanked her boozy stash onboard and informed me there was a new sommelier in town.


Sommelier
Tarbox Annie
Likes: grog
Dislikes: fruit