by Mary Malone
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published 2013
by Poolbeg Press Ltd.
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,
Dublin 13, Ireland
Email: [email protected]
© Mary Malone 2013
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
1
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-84223-490-7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
About the Author
Mary Malone lives in Templemartin, Bandon, Co Cork with her husband Pat and sons David and Mark. As well as being a novelist and freelance journalist, she works fulltime in the Central Statistics Office.
Where There’s A Will is her fifth novel.
For more information, please email [email protected] or visit her website, www.marymalone.ie.
Also by Mary Malone
Love Match
All You Need Is Love
Never Tear Us Apart
Love Is The Reason
Acknowledgements
Where There’s A Will has been fermenting for over two years, originating as a ten-minute class assignment before taking wings and developing into a novel. Sincere thanks, Bernadette Leach, for setting us the task of writing about ‘The Street’ and sparking the idea for this story.
Huge thanks to Paula Campbell and the Poolbeg team for their support, patience and understanding – and for granting me extra time to reach The End!
‘The End’ for an author is only the beginning for Poolbeg’s magnificent editor, Gaye Shortland. Your patience was well tested on this one, Gaye, and Where There’s A Will has benefited from your expert insight and knowledge, particularly in the minefield of inheritance! Your dedication to this story has been unbelievable. Thank you.
As with my previous novels, I struggled with the direction Where There’s A Will was taking me. Needing an honest writer’s opinion, author Mary O’Sullivan was (as ever) delighted to help. Thanks for your honesty and time, Mary. God knows where the poor characters would have ended up without your input!
Sincere thanks to numerous relations, friends and work colleagues who enquire if ‘the book will be out soon’! Your nudges of encouragement keep me at the keyboard and play a huge part in getting a story from my head to the bookshops!
And speaking of bookshops, I’m looking forward to visiting as many around the country as I can. Huge thanks for your support – and of course for an eye-level spot on the shelf!
And finally, my heartfelt thanks (and apologies!) to my family. To Pat, David and Mark for putting up with my anti-social writing habits. I’m often in the room but generally in another world, regularly putting writing before other commitments and annoyingly pleading for an endless supply of coffee and chocolate. Thanks, lads.
Thanks to my mother for turning a blind eye when I produced the laptop on our weekend breaks to Kerry and also for her relentless advertising ability as she spreads the news about her daughter’s latest offering to the world of books.
Finally to my brother, Barry, and sister-in-law, Miriam. I’d like to dedicate this book to you both for endless support and true friendship. With only the two of us in the family, Barry has suffered a lifetime of having me as a sister. Yet I’ve heard he won’t have a word said against me – if what you say is true, Miriam! And as testament to his sibling loyalty, he actually reads my books! Thanks, Bar.
With love to Barry & Miriam
Chapter 1
Inheritance. The word held promise as it bounced around Kieran Dulhooly’s mind. Being named as a beneficiary was a first for him. What had Aunt Polly bequeathed to him? Bequeath – such an old-fashioned and stuffy term, now he thought about it – not a word he’d ever had cause to use. Until now.
He twisted his wristwatch around to see the time. Forty minutes he’d been waiting in the solicitor’s open-plan reception area on the second floor of the modern building on Lapp’s Quay in Cork city. So much for telling me this meeting wouldn’t take long, he thought, flicking idly through the morning paper, the print blurring out of focus as his concentration drifted.
Receiving a telephone call from Fitzgerald & Partners the previous afternoon had come as a shock to say the least. If the call hadn’t come through on his parents’ landline, he’d have assumed it was one of his wayward friends playing a practical joke and might well have ignored the instruction to attend the reading of his Aunt Polly’s will. But his father’s serious expression as he handed him the receiver had indicated that it was not a joking matter. What Kieran found particularly puzzling was the fact his father, as Polly’s next of kin, hadn’t been called to the reading too. But knowing little about these situations, he’d assumed it was all part of the legal process.
“She probably left me that rickety train set I spent hours playing with as a kid,” he had commented to his father who’d remained within earshot.
But despite his outward cynicism, Kieran had found it impossible to ignore the instant warmth spreading through him. It felt good to be remembered by someone he’d held so dear, even if he hadn’t always shown her how much he cared. Memories of long summers spent with Aunt Polly came flooding back. Endless days of undisturbed fun in her end-of-terrace house on Pier Road, Schull, in West Cork. No disapproval or constant correction from parents. No silent stares or stern frowns when Kieran lapsed into his over-imaginative world. And, best of all, no strict regime about chores and bedtime. Aunt Polly’s was the epitome of freedom, a place where he could be his true self without apology.
His mother, Marian, had immediately hurried to the phone when he’d explained about the will reading. “I need to call your sisters and see if they have been contacted,” she’d announced. “It’s only fair that all three of you should be included. And what about you, Frank? Of all people, you should be there.” She’d turned to her husband, expecting enlightenment from him, her eyes narrowing when he’d shrugged his shoulders, displaying an indifference that irritated his wife.
“What would I need an inheritance for? Don’t I pay enough to Revenue without adding inheritance tax to that? Polly never made a secret of her plans to pass it on to the next generation.” His tone was grave, the recent loss of his sister weighing heavily on him, a degree of guilt that he hadn’t brought her to stay with him for her final days mixed with his grief. Instead she’d spent the final few weeks of her life in the nursing home. But realistically, the animosity between his wife and sister had dispelled any chance of him ever inviting her to stay in their lavish Ballydehob home.
The sound of muffled conversation snapped Kieran back to the present. Glancing up from his newspaper, he saw several suited employees approach. Afternoon tea break must be over, he mused, watching with idle interest as each in turn collected folders and documents from the pretty raven-haired receptionist before proceeding along the corridor to their respective offi
ces.
Kieran shuddered in disgust at the thought of spending day after day working in an office environment. Being cooped up in an air-conditioned room for seven hours at a stretch was unimaginable, even with the odd break for court appearances.
Ten years before, his parents hadn’t hidden their fury when he’d explained his abhorrence of confinement. Since then the college qualification that had cost thousands of euro in extra tuition and repeated semesters lay unused. Bumming his way around Europe, America, Australia and Canada instead, surviving on casual employment and never worrying about tomorrow, Kieran let his gap year extend to almost a decade, visiting home only a few times in that period. And now, in his early thirties, life was equally precarious and tomorrow still didn’t feature in his calendar.
“Kieran Dulhooly?”
“Yes,” he responded, rolling up his newspaper and shoving it under his arm as he jumped to his feet.
“Ms Jacobs is ready for you now.”
He smothered a smile as the receptionist’s eyes travelled the length of his long lean body.
Running a hand over his stubble, he enjoyed her open admiration. His attention was drawn to her fire-engine-red nail polish, a stark contrast to the crisp white fitted shirt that emphasised her shapely curves. Allowing himself a brief fantasy about the red nails scrawling his tanned back, he ignored her fluttering eyelashes and parted lips, focusing his attention on the purpose of his visit instead.
“Eh, where can I find Ms Jacobs?” He glanced around him. From where he stood, he could see a number of doors leading to individual offices along the brightly lit corridor.
“Second door on the left,” she directed, resuming her professionalism and pointing the way. “You’ll see Ms Jacobs’ nameplate on the door.”
Kieran gave a gentle knock before entering the bright office.
“Mr Dulhooly, thank you for coming in at such short notice,” said the solicitor, her tone polite but curt. She stood up to welcome him, walking around her desk and shaking his hand. She gestured towards the chrome-and-leather chairs at the nearby round meeting-table. “Please take a seat.”
“Thank you, Ms Jacobs.” He chose a seat facing the window, watching her as she gathered some printed papers from her desk and came to sit opposite him.
“Tea? Coffee?”
This came as something of a surprise. He’d been expecting a strictly business approach. “Ah, there’s no need. Thanks all the same.” Kieran waited for her to continue, his eyes drawn to the view of the city’s dockland, the activity on the water a sharp reminder of Schull and the panoramic view he’d enjoyed from the bedroom Aunt Polly had devoted to him in Pier Road.
He was aware of the solicitor flicking through documents, a fresh bout of anticipation rising inside him. Without intending to, he held his breath, surprised by the loud thumping of his heart. Now the moment of truth had arrived, he couldn’t deny his unexpected excitement at the possibility of receiving something of value.
She pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, fixing her short dark hair behind her ears to reveal sapphire studs, the gesture instantly softening her look. Unlocking her briefcase, she removed a slim yellow file and placed it on the table between them. Then she got to her feet again and closed the Venetian blinds on the large window facing into the corridor. In that flick of her wrist, she shut out the rest of the office, making the reason for their meeting seem more serious.
Kieran let out the breath he’d been holding. “Surely there are more people attending, Ms Jacobs?”
He shuffled in his chair, self-conscious and out of his depth. Had he asked a stupid question, he wondered. After all, the extent of his will-reading knowledge was confined to bits of information snatched from television programmes. His mother’s insistence that Dad, Beth and Charlotte would have to be included too had made perfect sense but then she’d discovered that they weren’t. Perhaps the solicitor would be contacting them at a later date? Thinking about it now, he was surprised his father hadn’t enlightened him a little considering his years working in courtrooms. On the other hand, he hadn’t pressed his father for information – to tell the truth, he’d felt awkward about the whole thing.
“No, just you today.” The solicitor’s even tone gave nothing away.
Made sense to be dealt with individually, Kieran supposed. And it guaranteed confidentiality. At least then, if the train set was his only acquisition, he wouldn’t be a laughing stock. But somehow it didn’t satisfy his curiosity and he made a final attempt to find out more. “There are other beneficiaries, Ms Jacobs?” he said, rephrasing his question.
“Please call me Olivia,” she prompted, her gentle laughter lightening the mood.
He fiddled with the rip in his jeans, picking at the frayed material, aware that yet again she’d evaded his question.
“I’ll get directly to business then, shall I?”
He wished she would. “Please.”
“This is the last will and testament of Pauline Digby . . .”
Kieran’s concentration drifted, daring to hope that Polly had left him enough to buy that Yamaha motorbike he’d had his eye on for a while now. South America would be his next trip with a bit of luck and maybe from there he’d venture on to . . .
“Kieran, are you with me?” Olivia removed her glasses and waited for his full attention. “This is the most important bit coming up now.”
He felt like a naughty child being reprimanded by a stern teacher, and blushed as he met her eye.
“I do give and bequeath to my nephew, Kieran Dulhooly, all my personal effects and tangible personal property, including my home at Number 5 Pier Road, Schull, Co Cork and any cash on hand and in bank accounts in my own name . . .”
Olivia paused. She watched Kieran’s facial expression change, green eyes opening wide in initial shock, cheeks flushing seconds later as he contemplated the enormity of her announcement. She’d witnessed the instance of disbelief and shock on numerous occasions. It never ceased to intrigue.
“Looks like you were her favourite, Kieran?”
His voice croaked. “My God! Are you for real?” His normal easy-going disposition vanished, his words coming out in a rush. “How much is Number 5 worth? Have you any idea? And her bank accounts?” If he were anywhere other than a solicitor’s office, he’d be on his feet and punching the air. Or, even better, he’d be turning somersaults into the nearest pub and ordering a stiff one from the top shelf! But he put his celebrations on hold and maintained his composure.
Olivia put up a hand, bringing an air of caution to proceedings. “I don’t have a recent valuation of the property as yet, Kieran, but you must know that despite the current depression Schull retains its sought-after and desirable status. At a guess, the house could well be in the three-hundred-thousand region, if not more. And I see from my records that Pauline’s savings are sizeable, close on €100,000.”
Kieran’s mind was in overdrive, his imagination leaping to the surface. Over a quarter of a million? Actually nearer to half a million! Had he heard correctly? A weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying lifted from his shoulders. He’d be free to do as he wished, would be able to buy a few cheap apartments so he could spend his time living in different cities at various times of the year. He’d indulge in his desired lifestyle – wandering between favourite destinations, not worrying too much about a well-paying job. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans, a flurry of unaccustomed nervousness rippling through him. Aunt Polly had presented him with the gift of freedom, exactly as she’d done years before.
“How do I . . . what happens now . . . what should I –”
Olivia raised a hand again, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Kieran recognised her hesitancy, narrowing his eyes as he waited for her next announcement, his gut instinct yelling that something was amiss.
“There’s a clause, Kieran. Something that may dampen your excitement and delay your plans a little.”
“Too good to be true, it had t
o be,” he mumbled, dropping his elbows from the table and slouching back into the uncomfortable chair. Despondency nudged against his enthusiasm. “Are there debts outstanding or something?”
“Nothing like that,” Olivia hurried to assure him, remembering Pauline’s devilish grin and the way her wise eyes had crinkled at the corners when she’d sat in that very office and listed her wishes. Her throaty chuckle had echoed around the room as she’d added the crucial stipulation to her nephew’s inheritance, accurately anticipating his reaction.
“What then?” Kieran tapped his fingers repeatedly on the chrome arms, craving a relaxant – alcohol, weed, anything to help him relax – as he waited for her to continue.
The solicitor fixed her glasses yet again before reading once more from the document she held in her hand. “Your aunt’s final wishes stipulate that Number 5 Pier Road, Schull, must be your prime residence for a minimum of twelve months before ownership is transferred –”
“What! Is she, I mean, was she crazy?”
Olivia ignored his question. Pauline Digby had predicted this outburst. It was uncanny how well she appeared to know this young man.
“It also stipulates that both her bank accounts are locked down for the same duration. Withdrawals are to be prohibited. The funds have already been transferred to a high-yield account.”