by Mary Malone
His eyes opened wider, his heart sinking with every detail. Twelve months. Was she out of her mind?
Olivia continued reading. “She is, on the other hand, allowing you to spend any cash remaining in her house –”
“Big of her!” Kieran muttered ungraciously, overcome by guilt the moment the words had left his lips.
“It may sound unfair now but if you fulfil your aunt’s wishes – and a year isn’t a long time – full title and rightful ownership will be signed over to you. A substantial gain on your part.”
Kieran didn’t agree. “A year! It may as well be forever!” Live in the one spot for a whole year? In Ireland? A mere six miles from his family home in Ballydehob? The idea was outrageous. Kieran wasn’t sure he could. In fact, he was positive he couldn’t do it. What a cruel joke! Aunt Polly had certainly had the last laugh.
Olivia continued. “Polly collected her pension from the Post Office on a three-monthly basis.” She paused a moment and flicked through her files, finding what she was looking for and reading the details to him. “I’ve a letter here giving you authority to go and collect what’s due in the Post Office. As it stands there are ten weeks of payment waiting for you – a total of about €2,300 – so you will have something to tide you over until you find your feet in Schull – should you agree to the terms and conditions Polly laid down.”
Kieran nodded. “And if I don’t abide by these terms and conditions?” It was both a rebuke and a question. The slight note of sarcasm in his tone was a deliberate attempt to mask the hurt he felt inside.
“If you reject this offer, you’ll be disinherited. The entire estate will be divided equally between Pauline’s two nieces, Beth and Charlotte – your sisters, I believe?” She placed her silver pen on the file cover and waited for his response.
“What a load of baloney! Just my sisters. What about Dad? He’s been excluded entirely?” Kieran found it difficult to believe that Polly hadn’t left her brother anything. Their close, easy relationship had been evident, something Kieran couldn’t say he had emulated with his own sisters.
“He’s not mentioned in this document,” Olivia confirmed, withholding the confidential information Pauline had shared. She had explained to Olivia that her reason for not naming Frank in her will was one she’d discussed and agreed with her brother years before. After he had assured her that his Ballydehob home was more than enough for him and he had no desire to inherit her house, Polly had given her situation a lot of thought and decided that her ‘worldly goods’, as she’d laughingly referred to them, would go to the younger generation but preferably to Kieran who had genuinely cared for her and filled a huge void in her life at a time she had needed it most. Her distinct intention was to look after the one who’d been kind to her over the years, the one who hadn’t dismissed her as the whacky childless aunt, the only one who wouldn’t be like a vulture waiting for her to die so he could benefit from her spoils.
He stood up from the chair and took his newspaper from the table, disgust and disappointment emanating from every pore.
“A wasted journey for me, Olivia. And a wasted appointment for you. Nice to meet you all the same. Will I tell my sisters to get in touch?”
Olivia shook her head. “Take a bit of time to consider what’s on offer. I promised your aunt I’d do my best to coax you around. I also gave her my word that I wouldn’t rush your decision.”
“Wasting your time. It’s done and dusted as far as I’m concerned.”
“I’ll give you time to consider, nevertheless. I did promise your aunt.”
“No. There’s no point. I won’t come again.”
Olivia let out a sigh and pushed the document towards him, pointing at the end of the page. “I need your signature here, confirming firstly that you accept and understand the conditions associated with this inheritance and secondly that you’re happy to waive any rights you have to the property.”
Kieran felt defeated. Forcing him to settle down wasn’t a crime on Aunt Polly’s part. But it hurt that she’d put him in this position. Why had she bothered teasing him? Exclusion would have been kinder. Hell, the rickety train set would have been a precious gift by comparison.
Olivia’s silver pen cold in his hand, he scanned the document, the sight of Polly’s signature bringing a lump to his throat. Her large looped letters, though evidently written with an unsteady hand, were instantly recognisable. As a child, he’d sat watching her pen letters, amazed by the care she took with each word, her pride in producing a neat script evident. He made a mark on the page – almost got as far as writing the first letter in his name – but her legible loops stared mockingly at him, penetrating his resolve, daring him to defy her offer. He dropped the pen, watching as it rolled across the glass table.
Olivia’s eyes were on Kieran. “Think things over a while. It’s a lot to take in. Your aunt would have been disappointed if you refused her challenge without due consideration.”
Kieran rubbed a hand across his forehead, feeling the beginning of a headache taking hold. “Is that what she called it? A challenge?”
The pen rolled from the edge of the table. Olivia let it drop into the palm of her hand. “In a manner of speaking,” she confirmed. “She also mentioned your interest in the sea, the endless hours you’d spent watching the activity on the water before finally getting involved . . .”
The room closed in around him, his throat constricting as the powerful magnitude of past memories threatened to choke him. He strode to the door and pulled it open with more force than he intended, needing to escape the confines of the office and the intensity of the solicitor’s probing expression to get his thoughts in order. It felt as though Polly was speaking directly to him through Olivia. He grimaced as his headache pinched a little tighter.
An intuitive Olivia grabbed the opportunity to stall his final decision. “Take a while – a few weeks if you need them – to think things through properly. Weigh up your options. I’ll wait for your instruction before proceeding any further. But I strongly advise you to accept her offer – you’ll be surprised how quickly a year will fly by.”
Kieran’s newspaper was twisted into a tight roll. “It’s unlikely I’ll change my mind but I may as well sleep on it at least.”
Olivia took a tiny brown envelope from her briefcase and came to the door. She took a set of keys from it and handed them to him. “In case you decide to take a look around the house.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, giving a half salute before walking away from her.
As he retraced his steps to the lift doors, the receptionist was on her feet and tidying her desk. Her admiring glances and long red nails had lost their appeal, the two-storey, three-bedroom house on Pier Road filling up his mind and emptying his heart as he hurried to leave the building, shoving the keys into the inside zip pocket of his jacket.
Chapter 2
“Any update from Kieran?” Marian Dulhooly asked Frank when she returned from her afternoon walk.
“Not a word. He’s probably gadding about the city in my Merc,” Frank grumbled without looking up from his paper, unable to mask his disapproval of his only son’s wayward existence.
But that wasn’t the only reason he was cranky. The teeniest part of him, buried deep inside, was envious of Kieran’s joie de vivre and careless attitude to life. There were times, more frequently since he’d gone into semi-retirement, when Frank wished he had the guts to dispel caution and act irresponsibly instead of always following the expected route. His serious career choice had put further emphasis on taking responsibility over personal preference.
“I think I’ll give him a call,” he said.
Marian looked at the clock on the mantel. “I was hoping that for once he’d get in touch with us of his own accord! Honestly, he never thinks of anyone but himself.”
Watching the window for the sight of the car pulling into the driveway, the afternoon had crawled by. Perplexed that her daughters still hadn’t been invited to the will readi
ng, she was more anxious than ever to find out what Polly had left her son. She was unable to relax and had taken a longer walking circuit than usual in the hope there would be some definite news on her return. She hated being kept in the dark and, no less than when Polly was alive, her blood boiled at the thought of her sister-in-law having power over her family.
“The solicitor would hardly delay him this long. He must know the outcome by now.” She hovered near Frank’s chair, fiddling with her sapphire engagement ring while her husband dialled Kieran’s number.
“Went straight to voicemail.” Frank dropped his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose and turned to look at his wife. “Probably celebrating somewhere. He’ll arrive when it suits him and not a moment sooner. Until then, all we can do is sit tight and wait.”
The details of his sister’s will had never been of great interest to him while she was alive and, despite his working in the judicial system for years, progressing to judge by the end of his career, she had never come to him for advice. But – and he wouldn’t be admitting as much to Marian – he had taken it for granted that she’d treat all of his children equally, seeing as they were her only nieces and nephew. Yet there was a nagging doubt inside him. Kieran had undoubtedly been Polly’s favourite – that had never been up for debate. But surely with him being out of the country for a number of years that was immaterial now? Not in the mood for yet another tirade from his wife, Frank kept his suspicions to himself.
With a sigh he returned to reading the newspaper, hoping that Polly’s will wouldn’t cause any major upset in the house. If it did, no doubt he’d be the one acting as mediator as per usual.
Beth paced the drawing room in her partially restored Goleen farmhouse, a ten-minute drive from Schull. Marian had promised to contact her with an update as soon as she’d heard from Kieran – but so far nothing.
Relying so much on being a beneficiary in Polly’s will, Beth’s patience was wearing thin and her resolve to remain patient disintegrating. She couldn’t believe Kieran had been the only one called to the reading. What was going on?
“We’ll probably be contacted in turn,” she’d told her mother confidently the previous day, listening for the phone to ring for the remainder of the afternoon, its silence deafening. And now, though eaten up with curiosity, pride wouldn’t allow her to lift the phone and enquire how the reading had gone. But the more time passed, the more she felt she was playing a very bad game of chess – a skill her husband had tried but failed to teach her.
Looking at the room around her, she imagined how she’d like it to be: high ornate ceiling replastered and painted, a crystal chandelier glistening in the centre and casting bright light on linen-coloured walls, with magnificent drapes framing the arched windows and breathing colour into the magnificent room. But her transformation plan was little more than a dream now, the reality of affording it slipping further from her grasp each day.
She could still remember her excitement when she secured the early 20th century property at an auction almost a year before, a purchase made very much on a whim. Looking back on it now, she cringed at her naïvety and she’d had plenty of time to regret her spontaneity.
Not only had she paid over the odds for the supposed ‘magnificent structure’ and adjoining land, but, assuming the land could be separated from the dwelling, she’d neglected to research the possibility of reselling the twelve acres as a separate entity, believing the auctioneer’s sales pitch that it was an option. And so she’d bought it on the premise of relinquishing the land and using the cash to refurbish the house.
Glancing through the window now, she stared at the magnificent expanse of lush grass, empty fields stretching into the distance. Her hopes had been raised on a few occasions but any reasonable offer had become tied up in knots because of the historical ring fort existing on the property. Chasing potential sales, she’d plunged deeper in debt securing archaeological reports and council permissions.
Apparently the adjoining fields could only be sold as a separate lot with an assortment of ridiculous terms and conditions – something buyers were unprepared to accept. Securing planning permission and selling individual sites was another failed venture, leaving her with a very costly and debt-laden ornament on her hands. Eventually she’d stopped trying and had instructed the auctioneers to remove the For Sale sign.
Aunt Polly’s death had come at a perfect time – at least as far as Beth was concerned. Her head had spun on hearing the news. And though she’d never wished her aunt harm, the prospect of inheritance had been a godsend. She’d been praying for a miracle, preferably in the form of a lotto win or something equally instantaneous, to get her out of financial difficulty! But in the absence of miracles, the expected proceeds of Aunt Polly’s will were keeping her sane.
Moving through the funeral days on autopilot and playing the role of dutiful niece at the reception, she listened to tales from those who knew Polly best and was struck by her scant knowledge of her aunt’s colourful life. She’d been extremely popular with the locals, her warm friendly welcome something they’d all enjoyed.
As the last of the crowd left the Baltimore Inn at the top of Schull’s main street on the evening of Polly’s burial, Beth had barely acknowledged the array of relations and neighbours. She’d stood at the corner of the bar deep in thought. Mentally, she was planning a strategy on how best to stretch the gains from her inheritance once it came through. The farmhouse required an amount of work, a mixture of priority and cosmetic that Beth knew about and probably a whole lot more in the line of structural work that she couldn’t possibly identify.
In the taxi home that evening, she undid the buttons of her double-breasted blazer, relaxing her formal attire and feeling an overwhelming calm descend upon her. Yes, the windfall due to come her way couldn’t have been better timed. Leaning back against the headrest, she looked forward to a sound sleep that night, the first she’d had in quite some time.
Now, remembering her short-lived mood of relief and optimism, Beth peeled a fake nail from her index finger, absently chewing on her cuticle until the disgusting taste of glue brought her to her senses.
“Ugh!” she said, spitting to rid her mouth of the horrible taste. Why on earth was she resorting to biting her nails? Things were pathetic enough without ten stubby fingernails to add to the list! She’d go over to her mum’s to find out what the hell was going on.
Running up the stairs to change out of her comfortable but grubby leisure suit, she stopped on the landing and listened to Carl’s snoring coming from the master bedroom. Her husband was working night shifts in an electronics factory and for the most part was oblivious and unsympathetic to how frustrated she was with the state of the house and their bank balance.
“Bloody moron,” she mumbled, passing his bedroom door. “How the hell can he sleep soundly, despite everything going on?”
Another horrible few days behind them, hours of silence after a blinding row where he had shouted obscenities at her and she’d huffed and puffed and reacted to every accusation that came her way, her final argument being a tirade that he take some responsibility and find somebody to sort out their faulty plumbing.
Glancing at the bare ring-finger on her left hand, she realised it had been quite some time since Carl had behaved like anything remotely resembling a husband and even longer since she’d felt she merited the title of wife. Meeting him in Paris while she was on a six-month college-placement programme, her course work and assignments had become a poor substitute for his sultry charm and obsession with giddy adventure. Falling in love with a dilapidated old building in Goleen – not to mention borrowing beyond their means and moving into it in its current state of disrepair – had been as detrimental as giving her heart to Carl eight years before.
Pronounce you man and wife: the words rushed into her head at a similar pace to that of their hurried wedding ceremony. Twelve minutes in total, she remembered, from the officiator’s “We are gathered here today to join this m
an and woman” to “You may kiss the bride”.
She flicked absently through the wardrobe looking for something to wear, cringing at the memory of her return home to her parents’ house. Announcing her double-status of college dropout and newlywed had gone down like a lead balloon. Denying her parents – her mother in particular – the opportunity to throw a flamboyant reception in West Cork was a source of great disappointment but nowhere near as horrifying as the news Beth had married a man with few prospects. Carl’s status had been the furthest thing from Beth’s mind when their eyes locked on first meeting, the intensity of their physical attraction unlike anything she’d ever experienced previously. Enraptured by his spell, his passion for speed and risk transported her to a level of excitement that almost scared her.
It was difficult to recall her time in Paris without reliving the vibrancy and life bubbling inside her as she’d careered from one adventure to the next with Carl, a sharp contrast to the drab reflection staring back at her now. She pulled at her long, brown hair. Dull and lifeless, a mirror of her innermost feelings, the gleam of Paris long gone. And not only for her. Carl’s exuberance had also faded.
Brought up in Paris by Irish parents, his French tan had faded in the Irish climate, his muscular physique – one of his many appealing attributes – gradually disappearing in the absence of rigid weight-training and weekly games of rugby.
Deciding she was being ridiculous worrying about exclusion from the will, she put on a pale grey knitted dress with matching opaque tights and pulled her hair into a casual up-style, letting loose tendrils fall onto her cheeks.