Mary Kate Read online

  MARY KATE

  Nadine Dorries

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About Mary Kate

  Liverpool, 1963

  Mary Kate Malone is seventeen and bitterly unhappy that her father has married again after the death of her mother. On her last day at school, she decides to leave home in Tarabeg on the west coast of Ireland and head for Liverpool to find her mother’s sister.

  But absolutely nothing goes to plan. Within hours of disembarking, she finds herself penniless and alone, with no place to stay and no idea how she will survive.

  Meanwhile, back in Ireland, where old sins cast long shadows, a buried secret is about to come to light and a day of reckoning, in the shape of a stranger from America, will set an unstoppable chain of events in motion.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Mary Kate

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Glossary of Irish terms

  About Nadine Dorries

  The Tarabeg Series

  About The Lovely Lane Series

  About The Four Streets Trilogy

  Also by Nadine Dorries

  Newsletter

  From the Editor of this Book

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  In memory of my good friend

  Ann Frances Rayment

  1

  Brooklyn, 1963

  It wasn’t yet nine on a hot Brooklyn morning when Joe Malone the fourth slipped into the high-backed red-leather bench-seat in the window of his favourite diner, Enzo Capaldi’s. He had sat in the same seat and ordered the same breakfast every day for the past year, since returning home after being discharged from the marines. Quite literally, he’d taken his dead father’s place.

  Before stepping inside, Joe Junior had tied up his daddy’s old Labrador, Rocket, on the post outside. Rocket had followed the same routine most days for the past twelve years, and it was for his sake that Joe Junior kept it going. ‘An old dog can’t change his routine any more than a man can,’ he’d told his mother as he fastened the collar and lead around the neck of the moping dog the day after his father’s funeral.

  The diner was shady in the mornings but baked in the merciless heat during the afternoons, which was why Joe Malone the third had chosen Enzo’s in the first place, on Rocket’s account. Enzo always placed a large bowl of drinking water just outside the diner for passing canines.

  Joe and Rocket had their place, their timing and their breakfast just right. Joe Junior kept an eye on Rocket from the window seat as he lit his first cigarette of the day. His short, dark, slicked-back hair was slightly damp from his morning shower and he still wore it in the style of a marine. Cupping his hands together in a cradle, the cigarette dangling from his thumb and forefinger, he watched as the commuters bustled past and were swallowed up by the sidewalk, descending into subway hell.

  The waitress spotted him and with a smile and a nod she yelled out his arrival to Enzo behind the griddle. ‘Joe’s here,’ she called. ‘Large sweet espresso and OJ coming up, Joe.’ She lifted the coffee pot off the hot ring and poured it, at the same time as she slid a glass under the OJ dispenser and opened the tap.

  ‘Hey, is Joe Junior in already? You’re five minutes early, Joe,’ shouted Enzo, ‘or I’d have had it ready for you. I’ll bring it over myself – time for my break.’

  Joe raised his hand above the high back of the leather bench in acknowledgement and greeting and opened the newspaper he’d bought from the vending machine situated right outside the diner. He’d checked the mailbox on his way out of his apartment building and was disappointed that there was still no reply from Ireland. It was almost a month since he’d written to the address on the will.

  He slipped his fingers into the back pocket of his neatly pressed linen trousers and took out the copy of the will that had been given to him by Mr Browne, his daddy’s solicitor. His bright blue Irish eyes, which reflected his short-sleeved shirt of exactly the same colour, scanned once again the instructions written in his great-granddaddy’s hand.

  Fourth generation, raised in an Irish American community, Joe Junior had always felt more Irish than American. When he’d been forced by his father to attend the Irish-dancing classes held by the church youth club, the music had reverberated from the sprung floorboards of the hall right into his soul, its repetitive rhythm like a drumbeat calling him home to Ireland. His father had only known the country from the stories handed down through the generations of New York Malones, but he’d had a deep longing for the place. Joe Junior truly was his father’s son: often, in his dreams, he would find himself standing by a river, surrounded by green fields and mountains. He had once confided this to his mammy. ‘You saw The Quiet Man too often at the movies,’ she responded. ‘I told your father it would affect your brain. He’s made you as bad as he was. Me, I never want to see the place – why would I? My granny used to write to us and every single letter began with “Oh, God, the rain hasn’t stopped.” Years, that went on for. Who wants to visit a place where it rains every day? By the time she died, according to her letters it had been raining for fifteen years nonstop.’

  Every year, his father used to tell him that he intended to visit Ireland and that he would take Joe Junior with him. But his business always got in the way; he was too busy living the American dream. The final plot they’d hatched had been the post-marines trip: they would make the journey before Joe Junior settled down to help run Malone’s. They’d planned it down to the last detail, had pored over brochures and gone to the movies, had attended the Irish Centre and collected the newspaper and talked of little else. But none of it was to be. His father’s heart attack five days after Joe Junior’s discharge robbed them of their father-and-son trip of a lifetime.

  On his deathbed, Joe Malone the third made his son promise he would make the trip for him. He wanted him to let them know in Tarabeg that the first Joe Malone had never stopped missing them. Joe Junior had sworn his pledge, sitting at his father’s bedside in the hospital.

  ‘We can’t make our trip together, boy, but promise me you’ll still go? Someone has to go back. There’s a whole family there, and my daddy was sure one of the original Malone brothers is still alive.’ His hand found a new strength as it gripped his son’s.

  Joe Junior looked into his eyes. ‘I will, Daddy. I promise you that.’

  The grief at his passing lodged like a weighty stone in his gut, but in those final seconds he vowed to do what his father had yearned to do.

  He was still struggling to come to terms with the contents and conditions of the will. He read it every day, expecting each time to discover that he had imagined it. He’d known that the first Joe Malone to arrive in America had died under a cloud of secrecy; few in the family ever discussed it and certainly not with hi
m. Joe Junior was only twenty-five years old and his father’s sudden death at forty-seven had brought enough sadness and changes for him as the eldest child to deal with. And then the solicitor, of Messrs Collins, Murphy, Browne and Sons, had, under the terms of the will, enlightened him.

  He would remember the moment for all of his life. He’d been seated on one side of the huge oak desk, surrounded by teetering piles of dusty, buff-coloured files tied up in bright ribbons. Mr Browne, a thin-faced man with thinner lips, narrow eyes and retreating hair reduced to four greased strips combed backwards across his pate, had removed his wire-framed glasses and slid a large cut-glass ashtray across the desk towards Joe. Then he extracted a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped at his watery, smoke-stung eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure if you are aware that this will was written by the first Malone to emigrate to America from County Mayo in Ireland.’ He folded the handkerchief carefully as he spoke and tucked it back into his pocket.

  Joe didn’t speak; he simply nodded and drew on his cigarette. He didn’t want to reveal that, unlike other Irish American families who celebrated their first generation of immigrants, he knew next to nothing about the first American Malone.

  ‘They were desperate times indeed. The Irish were very poor, and out in Mayo they were the poorest. They suffered the worst during the famine, lived hand to mouth, and it took many years to recover. Of course there was plenty of work to be had here, paying very good money to unskilled men.’ Mr Browne replaced his spectacles, allowing Joe time to respond.

  Still Joe said nothing. Mr Browne had an air of disapproval about him. He didn’t seem at all comfortable, even though he surely did will-readings every day. Something wasn’t quite right. Joe was alert, prepared; his marine training came to the fore and he kept his composure. He detected a change in tone as Mr Browne continued. Until that point, everything had been straightforward enough, but he could sense that was about to change.

  ‘There has been a codicil, honouring previous and past wills and continuing forwards from the death of the first Joe Malone his express conditions, instructions and wishes.’ He was speaking faster, as if in a hurry to reach the end of something he would rather not be doing or saying. ‘There was a condition of time, or should I say, the passing of time.’

  The phone on his desk rang.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, looking irritated. He picked up the receiver.

  Joe had never before seen a telephone trimmed in eighteen-carat gold plate. It caught the light reflected from the lamp on the desk and winked at him.

  Mr Browne was speaking into the phone. ‘I collected it myself from the safe-deposit box last night. It’s in my safe. I will see to it now. You don’t need to do anything more, thank you, Miss Carroll.’

  He replaced the phone and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ he said again and pulled open a drawer in his desk, extracted a key, stood up, pushed his green-leather and oak chair backwards and walked over to a tall, gilt-framed painting on the far wall of the expansive office. It was a portrait of a formidable but dull-looking man in a top hat and cape; he had a walking stick in one hand, a scroll in the other and what looked like a dead fox slung over his shoulder.

  Joe looked out of the window. They were on the tenth floor and the view of New York was breathtaking. He wondered how this solicitor appeared to know more about his family than he did. Neither his father nor any of his brothers knew anything about the first-generation Malone. It was a mystery that had burnt away in his father’s heart, a yearning, which Joe Junior had inherited but couldn’t explain, to understand, to see the place their family had originated from and had lived in for centuries, through the worst of times.

  Mr Browne returned, lowered himself into his seat and placed a small box wrapped in purple velvet on the desk. Joe pulled himself back from the view and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Do excuse me. I shall continue. This next revelation may come as something of a surprise to you.’ Mr Browne cleared his throat. ‘Joe Malone the first was incarcerated in jail for the greater part of his life for his role in an armed robbery.’

  Joe gasped; he couldn’t help it. His defences had been penetrated. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

  ‘This will states that there is a considerable inheritance awaiting you, to the tune of a million dollars, in a village called Tarabeg, in County Mayo, Ireland. More precisely, at Tarabeg Farm on Tarabeg Hill. There is no mention of where this money originated from.’

  Joe blinked, then blinked again. He forgot to breathe.

  The solicitor leant across the desk, pulled a silver tray towards himself, picked up a cut-glass decanter and began to pour. ‘Here. Miss Carroll thought you might need this. It always helps to get the blood flowing after a shock.’

  He pushed the glass towards Joe, who took the drink gratefully and downed a large gulp before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘A million dollars?’ Joe let out a long, low whistle and realised he’d spoken his thoughts out loud. He cradled the glass in both hands to stop them from trembling.

  ‘Indeed. I don’t think it is too difficult to guess how the money was obtained. Joe the first paid the price in prison, and with his life, but he was on the run for over a year before he was caught, and in that time he appears to have made adequate provision in a number of ways. One of the reasons he served so long was because the money was never recovered.’

  Mr Browne coughed. Joe sensed there was still more to this than he was being told.

  ‘There is also this.’ He pushed the box across the table to Joe. ‘We have held the keys to the safe-deposit box on your great-grandfather’s behalf.’

  Joe set down his whiskey glass on the polished oak, not on the silver tray, causing Mr Browne to wince somewhere deep inside. He picked up the box and studied it carefully. The velvet was soft beneath his fingers. Soft and thick, and it hinted at things other than riches. There was a depth and meaning there, and, it hit Joe in a flash, sadness. He lifted his gaze to Mr Browne, who averted his and once again dabbed at his eyes.

  The grey sky had darkened the room and the bottle-green lamp on the desk cast a warm amber glow. Joe leant forwards into the light and opened the lid. For the second time in minutes, he gasped. Nestled on creamy kid leather sat a beautiful emerald carved in the shape of a heart. It was attached to a gold chain. When Joe lifted it into the air, it swung in and out of the light. His skin prickled, the hairs on his arms rose in response and his stomach flipped.

  Mr Browne went through the motions of returning his handkerchief, then picked up the will. ‘It is one of two. They were originally earrings, separated at the point of theft. One was sent to Tarabeg, the other kept in a safe-deposit box, awaiting today. You now have to look further into the box.’

  Joe furrowed his brow and lifted the kid-leather cushion to reveal a yellow slip of paper. He tried to retrieve it, but his hands shook so much, he failed. ‘Could you, please?’ He handed the box to Mr Browne and felt his breath leave his body in a rush.

  Mr Browne held out his hand, which Joe noticed was also trembling. ‘“Take me home.” That’s all it says,’ he said with a hint of surprise as he passed Joe the piece of paper. ‘I think the emerald may be symbolic. As you know, it’s a favourite jewel of the more successful and wealthy Irish ladies in America. I imagine when he wrote this he wanted the two hearts to be reunited. Maybe one represented him and the other his home?’

  Joe did not know that rich Irish American women wore emerald hearts. His parents had never moved in circles where people wore jewels.

  ‘The will, which I have a copy of for you, states that Joe Malone the first sent the money back to Tarabeg in a box and received confirmation that it had arrived and was being kept in a safe place. It also states that he didn’t expect all the money to still be present. He wanted everyone to benefit.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to tell the police about this?’ Joe spluttered, thrusting the emerald and its chain towards
Mr Browne. ‘I mean, it’s obviously stolen goods – I can’t take it.’

  Mr Browne flushed bright red. ‘Mr Malone, your great-granddaddy was a decent man, a good friend of my own grandfather’s, the founder of this firm.’

  ‘Regardless, shouldn’t you be handing all this information over to the police?’ said Joe, quite stunned by this reply.

  ‘Mr Malone, my granddaddy started this business to assist your great-granddaddy. They were friends and both of them helped Irish labourers who were working on the roads and bridges and were being exploited. The money was no ordinary robbery. It was the payroll of a company that sent terrified men up scaffolding without any protective shoes or clothing or even a safety harness. A company that made men from Ireland work outdoors in temperatures that would fry an egg on the sidewalk, a company that made them work until they were as red as a lobster and dropped dead from dehydration and sunburn. Joe Malone the first, he saw a boy from the same village in Ireland as himself fall to his death, and that was when he decided on revenge. It took him a whole year to organise.’

  ‘Why now? Why is this all being revealed now?’ asked Joe as he took out another cigarette.

  Mr Browne picked up the decanter, turned over the empty second glass on the tray and poured one for himself. The moment was coming when they were both going to need it. ‘Your great-granddaddy robbed a payroll, which was no small crime. He used some of the money to alleviate the suffering of many people. He also explicitly requested that the provisions in his will be carried forwards across three generations, to allow enough time for memories to fade.’

  Joe glanced pointedly at the gold-edged phone and then back to Mr Browne. ‘Did my great-granddaddy’s ill-gotten gains help start this firm?’

  Mr Browne looked sheepish. ‘That brings me to the last part of the will.’ He picked up the glass, took a gulp and once more wriggled in his chair to retrieve his handkerchief. He inhaled deeply, leant across the desk and, lifting Joe’s glass, handed it to him.