The Family Firm

Chapter 22

Polly Evans was, like many in the Evans clan, a law unto herself. She was a tough Irish lass like the rest of them and knew how to hold her own. Even in her sixties she was doing all right on her own, ran an entire farm in Essex single-handed and had never been married once in her life. She wouldn't let a man or God or anything else define her; she was born her own woman and was set on dying that way.

She, unlike many a woman before her, hadn't left her family because of a man or because she sought something greater out of life. She knew what the world owed her—not a fucking thing. Unlike the rest of the Evanses, she didn't believe that life was for the taking if you were big enough (or really, if you were an Evans). Instead, all she really wanted was a modest living; fresh fruits, vegetables, and livestock to sustain herself on, a nice, well-kept little farm, and plenty of peace and quiet. It was something she would have never earned back in the number of caravan parks her family had lived in, or in Cork where they'd been born. Which was why she ended up on her Jack Jones.

Just the way she wanted it.

She made a decent living on selling produce; it was modest but more than enough to keep the farm up and running. She took a little bit of pride in the fact that she hadn't yet joined in on the family firm—unless you counted the stocks. That was her name for them; big trenches she'd dug out beneath the barn, lined with covered metal troughs and filled with money, weapons, and other things her nephew and his bunch needed hidden. It was as close to the business as she had gotten and was ever going to get, and that suited her right down to the ground.

That's where they were headed to, she and Frankie. Her niece was a lovely girl, always had been; bit of a spitfire, but then again so was she—that was a trait they'd both gotten from their Nan, the matriarch of the Evans family. They got along like a house on fire and it suited them both just fine.

Frankie handled the financials and the bookies, and so every so often—once a month, in fact—she stopped by to drop of the extras; that was, whatever they need stored away for safe keeping. It was never clean money, of course, but Polly didn't mind. In fact, she didn't want to know anything about it. The less she knew, the better, as far as she was concerned.

It was raining that morning—then again, when wasn't it—just a light drizzle, and both she and Frankie were suited up in rain ponchos and Wellington boots as they traversed the muddy landscape. Personally she didn't mind a little rain but she knew how fussy her niece could be in those days; ever since her brother was making the big time she'd been dressing nicer; expensive jewellery, trouser suits, the whole works. She was suited and booted no matter where she went and frankly, Polly had to admire the girl's dedication. She cleaned up nice, as the saying went.

The barn they were headed for was on top of a small hill, and as the years went on Polly could feel each step more and more in her joints every trek she made up the bleeding thing. But she was determined to keep that little bite of knowledge to herself, she had too much pride to admit her age and she would have rather topped herself with one of the rifles from the shed than hire someone to help her around the place.

'Well, girl,' she said once they'd opened the great, wooden barn door and slipped inside the temporary dryness the shelter provided. 'How's that mum o' yours? Last I heard she weren't doing too well.'

Frankie knew her dear old aunt was only asking out of courtesy. It wasn't a well-guarded secret that Beth Evans wasn't exactly the most popular member of the family. In fact, most of them didn't consider her family at all. Charlie had married an "outsider" and in their tight-knit pavee community, that was absolutely unforgivable.

Well, to an extent. It was also no secret that Charlie was easily Nan's favourite child, he was the youngest and the baby of the family, and she searched the ends of the earth to make excuses for him. Nan was a hard bitch at times but she loved her children and so they were never really ostracised completely, not really. That was the good thing about Evanses; nothing was ever really set in stone. Anyone that left the family had only done so because they wanted to.

'Well, to be honest, it's a bit grim,' answered Frankie, heaving both holdalls she was carrying onto the floor while Polly strode forward. '...She's good as gold, still effs and blinds with the best of 'em and thinks the sun shines out her Khyber Pass.'

Both women shared a hearty laugh as the older of the two opened up the floor boards. It was a tricky little device, Freddie himself had crafted it; from the top it looked inconspicuous as anything else, but if you opened it up in the right spot there was a working door latch on the underside, revealing the metal troughs underneath. Both were lidded and fitted with locks, the combination of which only Polly, Frankie, and Fred himself knew.

'Well, she is your mum,' said Polly as she opened up the right-hand trough. Frankie immediately brought the holdalls over and unzipped them as her aunt went on, 'The time we get with them is too short. Even if we hate them all the way through, we still miss 'em when they're gone.'

'Yeah,' Frankie agreed, but she wasn't really being honest. Most of the time she felt she wouldn't have cared if her mum fell over dead right in front of her. Sometimes she was certain she'd be the reason it happened!

They spent some time emptying out the contents of the bags along with the rest; there was already a significant amount of supplies in there but twice out of the year they sorted through it and sometimes when they needed funds for a new project they'd dip into the honey pot. For the most part, however, it remained untouched, as it should have been.

Once they'd finished, Polly took some time to stand up due to her arthritis, but Frankie knew better than to offer her help. She'd probably have her arm chopped off first!

'So, I heard you got all moved into yer new place then?'

Frankie perked up at this; this was much more up her alley than discussing the ailments of her mother. 'Yeah, that's right. It's real nice, and the kitchen's enormous. Even had a five-oven AGA put in. Fred's done us real good this time around, then again he always does, our Fred.'

Polly smiled, but internally her heart broke a little for the poor dear. It was frequently the topic of conversation, her and that Fred. They were like beans in a pod, the two of them, and to some extent Polly understood why. They had a hard life, and she knew more than anyone what a hard life did to people. She and her own brothers and sisters—all eleven of them—were closer than a nun's legs at night in an army barrack because of the struggles they'd endured as children. Their father was a hard bastard and their dear old mum could be worse even at the best of times, and it had made them grow as people, and form a bond that no one could take away from them.

But Fred was more than just her brother, more than just a hard man, and more than just a Face; he was ruthless and violent, and Polly had heard stories—everyone talked, she knew that because she hardly spoke to a soul and even she heard the rumours—that would make a grown man's skin crawl. Frankie was a good girl, Polly was especially close to her but she had never liked her brother. The man was bad news and so, naturally, she was concerned for her. Frankie thought the world revolved around him and, perhaps to her, it actually did. But the rest of them saw Fred for what he really was; a bully and a thug.

Nevertheless, old Polly forced a smile on her face that was convincing as anything else and rubbed her sore back subconsciously. 'Well, I'm real glad to hear that, love. It's about time you and that Junior had something to show for all that hard work.'

'Yeah, Junior,' began Frankie, snorting in annoyance, though there was some distress behind her eyes. 'Growing up too quick, that one. I know it won't be long before he's found himself a nice woman to settle down with and leave his poor mum on her tod.'

Polly shook her head and affectionately squeezed her niece's shoulder. 'Now, I may not be a mother meself, but I know enough about the world to know that a boy's mum is always the most important woman in his life. After all, it's her who gave him that life in the first place, innit?'

This comforted her, like most things her Aunt Polly said to her, and she relaxed into the touch, smiling fondly at the old woman. In many ways, she was more of a mother than her own had ever been. 'Suppose you're right, Poll. Dunno what I'd do without you keeping me nut straight all the time. I reckon I'd go mad as a hatter!'

'Well,' responded her aunt. 'You already must be a bit mad, Franks. You're an Evans, after all.'

The two women shared a laugh and leaned against each other lovingly; the few moments of affection tough birds like themselves would allow themselves to show. The world was a cold place and was especially hard for people like them, but it was moments like those that made things just a little bit easier.