Читать книгу: «Keep You Safe: A tear-jerking and compelling story that will make you think from the international multi-million bestselling author»

With much love and thanks to Sheila Crowley

– a true force of nature.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

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

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

The bell rang out and on cue they started to approach all at once, like a stampeding herd.

Standing back to let the first wave pass while shivering in late March wind and cold, I pulled my gloved hands out of my pockets and tugged my woolly hat a bit more firmly down over my ears, tucking my wispy dark hair underneath it. Another blast of wind hit me in the face, turning my cheeks an even brighter shade of pink.

I knew that I could just stay in my car and keep warm while waiting for my five-year-old, Rosie, to emerge from Junior Infants class at Applewood Primary. However, she and I have a ritual of sorts and the typically inclement Irish weather wasn’t going to stand in the way of it.

Each and every day after school, I wait for Rosie just outside the school building, a bit down the front path by the main hall. During the more temperate months we walk the half-mile home together to our two-bed cottage in Knockroe, a small satellite town about forty minutes’ drive from Dublin.

I have never failed to meet Rosie in our chosen spot since she started school seven months ago. I was determined to never let her exit the class and not have me there – at least until my daughter told me that she wanted to walk home by herself or with friends. I wasn’t one of those helicopter parents or anything like that, but, come hell or high water, I would make sure I was there – especially since Rosie was still having nightmares about that one time after preschool.

The day when no one was waiting.

Hard to believe that fateful day was almost two years ago – it still felt like only yesterday. A chill worked its way up my spine – one that this time wasn’t triggered by the cold.

In her preschool days, my husband Greg had been the one responsible for picking up Rosie. Working from home as a freelance software designer, it was he who had more flexibility and usually had the opportunity to step away from the office he kept in the spare bedroom, and head over to the preschool to pick up our daughter. Since I work as a nurse at a clinic in a nearby town, I generally keep more irregular hours.

I had long been thankful that my husband could play such an active role in Rosie’s childhood, especially while my own commitments prevented me from being around as much as I would have liked.

My commitments are different these days.

Because there had been one time when Greg couldn’t make it to the preschool at the allotted time of 12.45 to pick Rosie up. Not because he didn’t want to, had forgotten or neglected to pay attention to the time, but because he had collapsed in our kitchen earlier that morning while making himself a cup of tea.

Sudden Adult Death Syndrome had ended my beloved husband’s life in seconds; he likely didn’t even realise what was happening.

I wasn’t aware that I’d been made a widow when the preschool teacher called me at work that afternoon to say that they couldn’t get in touch with Greg at home. That terrible realisation didn’t come until later.

Calling our home phone as well as Greg’s mobile, trying to figure out what was going on, I remember feeling irritated that Rosie and her teacher had been left waiting. I was annoyed at Greg and wondered where he was, especially since I couldn’t get an answer on any phone. So I told my supervisor at the clinic that I needed to head out; pick up my child in Knockroe, drop her home to her dad and would then come back to finish my shift.

It was only after I had sped the short distance there, apologised to the preschool teacher and hustled my daughter back to the house, that I realised my life was forever changed. If I could go back to that moment so I could enter the kitchen first in order to prevent Rosie from finding her father immobile on the floor, I would.

As it was, there was no changing the past, but I would do my damnedest to make sure that I was always there at the end of the school day so that she didn’t fear the same thing happening to me. She’d already had a tough enough time of it for a five-and-a-half-year-old.

My daughter was everything to me – all that I had these days.

Rosie’s classmates started to appear, refocusing my thoughts and preventing me from once again going down that dark road of introspection as I examined our lives without Greg. Scanning the crowd of Junior Infants, I immediately picked out Rosie’s bright green winter hat, shaped like the head of a T. Rex. My little girl had never been the princess type. She adored dinosaurs, wolves, dragons – anything fierce and scary – perhaps even more so since her dad died, and I often wonder if in her own little way she finds comfort in their strength.

‘Mum!’ she called, waving a hand, as if I hadn’t spotted her yet, her dark curls bouncing as she moved, green eyes wide with excitement. She dragged her backpack – dino-themed again – slightly on the ground and I walked forward to grab it. I didn’t want to have to shell out for another any time soon. As a single parent, I now did everything I could to avoid unnecessary expenses, especially when we only had my salary to depend on.

Though both in our late-thirties, my late husband and I had been one of the burgeoning number of Irish families who, despite both being gainfully employed, still couldn’t quite afford that first step on the housing ladder, and the money we’d been saving to buy a house (minimal at best, as the rental house in Knockroe wasn’t cheap) now had to go towards day-to-day household expenses, as well as the creation of a small contingency fund – just in case.

These days, I was a big believer in contingencies.

‘Hey, honey,’ I answered, closing the distance between us. ‘Here, give me that, don’t drag it.’ Rambunctious by nature, Rosie was hard on shoes and on school belongings, and was growing out of her clothes at a pace that staggered me. She took my hand without breaking stride, and walked determinedly towards our battered old Astra while I trailed in her wake.

‘Be careful, don’t step in the mud,’ I cautioned automatically. ‘And why don’t you have your boots on? Where are they?’ I looked disbelievingly at the flimsy ballet flats she currently sported.

‘They’re in the bag. I don’t need them; sure we’re only getting in the car.’ She shrugged and not for the first time, I was taken aback by how much like Greg she sounded. Always so easy-going and carefree, while I was the one more inclined to worry.

We reached the car and I opened the door so Rosie could jump in the back seat. ‘Buckle up. Car or not, I’d still prefer you to wear your boots in this weather, hon. We don’t want you coming down with a cold and your boots are warmer.’ I shut the door and headed around to the driver’s side. Climbing in, I fished my iPhone out of my pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here you go, DJ,’ I said pre-emptively, knowing that when Rosie was in the car she liked to take charge of the music, usually opting for the American rock anthems so beloved by her father. ‘So what happened in school today?’

I started the car and pulled out of the parking area as the heat blasted, and Rosie summoned up the Eagles’ ‘Take It Easy’ and began telling me about her day. She outlined all that had occurred, from the new letters they were learning to the Brachiosaurus picture she had drawn in art. I hummed words of encouragement until something she said caused a tinge of panic to flutter through my heart.

‘And they sent Ellie home after lunch because she’s sick.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked casually. Ellie Madden sat beside Rosie in class. I wasn’t a hypochondriac or anything – as a nurse I couldn’t be, or I’d drive myself crazy – but I was always keenly aware of my daughter’s health, as well as that of her classmates.

I had to be.

‘She has chicken pox,’ said Rosie dramatically, though she kept her attention firmly focused on my iPhone.

Chicken pox. I quickly felt myself relax, though I felt for poor Ellie and her parents.

Such diseases were a normal rite of passage for school-going kids – especially so soon after the Easter holidays when infection tended to be rampant amongst friends and families meeting up during the break. But chicken pox was something I had dealt with firsthand with Rosie a couple of years before, so at least I didn’t have to worry about it. But that didn’t mean I was worry free either.

‘Ah, I see. I wonder are there many in your class who haven’t had it yet.’ I tried to think of what other poor kid – and parents – from the school might soon fall victim.

‘Ms Connelly asked around after they saw the spots on Ellie’s neck. There were only a few: Kevin, Abigail and Clara, I think. I can’t get them again, can I?’ Rosie peered up from the device then, concern in her eyes, as I turned into our driveway and parked outside the small two-storey house we’d moved into as a family two and a half years ago.

As I got out of the car and helped Rosie gather her things, I shook my head.

‘No, you can’t,’ I confirmed. ‘I mean, technically, you can later as an adult but it’s called shingles then.’ Rosie was a naturally curious type and loved soaking up facts and general knowledge. My more traditional West Cork parents found it strange the way Greg and I had always talked so honestly to her from the get-go, instead of dumbing things down for kids like their generation often did.

‘Good,’ said Rosie as she walked into the house. ‘I hated being itchy.’

Though Greg and I had met, worked and lived in Dublin for all of our five-year marriage before Rosie came along, we both hailed from small-town backgrounds, and had hoped that moving to a closer-knit community in a more rural setting would be good for Rosie – particularly when she started school. So when I was offered a nursing position in a recently opened clinic in the larger town of Glencree – five miles away – we decided the quaint little village of Knockroe was the perfect place to put down roots.

While I loved the place, I still felt a bit like an outsider in the community, especially after losing my husband less than a year after moving there. Because I worked in the neighbouring town, I hadn’t got to know many Knockroe locals all that well, save for the other school parents and a few of the neighbours close by. Most of the townspeople, though kind, tended to leave me to my own devices and, shy by nature, this mostly suited me.

Though I’d had no choice but to come out of my shell over the last seven months or so when it came to the school run and other Applewood Primary-related events, like the Christmas pageant, odd fundraiser and occasional birthday party or play date.

After following my daughter inside, I went into the kitchen and deposited her belongings on the counter. I listened to Rosie’s footsteps on the stairs as she headed up to her room. While she never admitted it, she routinely avoided going straight to the kitchen when she first entered the house. I had never asked her about it and guessed it was a coping mechanism she had devised for herself after dealing with what she had seen on That Day.

I opened her backpack and pulled out her books, lunchbox, as well as a couple of school notes directed to parents. Yep, there was indeed one about chicken pox asking parents to be vigilant. Much like the one we’d got for head lice before Easter.

The joys of primary school.

But these school-related bugs brought to the forefront another temporarily dormant fear I didn’t like to revisit. I hated being reminded of the fact, but here’s the truth: Rosie wasn’t vaccinated for any such typical childhood illnesses – mumps, measles or the like.

I had found out very quickly that when you made such an admission to health professionals, school authorities, or, worst of all, other parents, you were immediately judged. Written off as irresponsible, foolish and downright stupid.

But in reality I wasn’t any of those things – rather Rosie was severely allergic to the gelatin component in almost all live vaccines.

Greg and I had only discovered the issue after she had experienced a horrific cardiorespiratory reaction after her first round of immunisations as a baby. Back then, we were faced with a horrible decision and literally caught between a rock and a hard place.

Our daughter could face a potentially life-threatening situation if she wasn’t vaccinated, but was certain to if she was.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

So after countless hours of research, much soul-searching and finally on the advice of our GP, we had no choice but to opt Rosie out of the standard childhood vaccination programme and hope against hope that herd immunity would prevail.

This was why I was acutely aware of infectious disease warnings from school; I couldn’t afford not to be.

It was my job to keep her safe.

Chapter 2

‘Clara Rose and Jake Alan – you’d both better be ready to go!’ called Madeleine Cooper as she stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to her kids’ bedrooms.

She hoped the use of their middle names would light a fire under their asses and get them moving. She impatiently looked down at the small gold watch that she wore on her wrist and pursed her lips. Nope; they were going to be late.

Looking once more up the stairs, she raised her voice a few more decibels. ‘I’m serious. If the two of you aren’t down here in the next ten seconds, I’m telling your father. Ten – nine – eight…’ Her voice trailed off as five-year-old Clara’s bedroom door was first flung open, followed by eight-year-old Jake’s a beat later.

Two blond heads rushed onto the landing so fast they almost collided, but continued on racing down the stairs. Madeleine cringed as her son ran his hands across the glass-fronted staircase as he made his way down. A day didn’t go by where she didn’t have to clean grubby handprints off everything. As her husband Tom routinely argued, the minimalist decor that looked so cool in the interiors magazines wasn’t the cleverest idea for a house with children. But Madeleine sure as hell wasn’t compromising on comfort over style. Just because you had kids didn’t mean they should rule the roost.

‘Look, it’s not as if this is a new thing,’ she chided. ‘We always go to Granny Cooper’s on Monday nights. And we haven’t seen her since before the holidays.’ The two murmured something apologetic as they rushed through the hallway to fetch their coats and Madeleine turned back towards the kitchen to where Tom sat at the table checking over the kids’ homework. ‘Are you ready, honey?’ she asked. ‘Your mother will be wondering where we are.’

‘Pure nonsense, all this new-fangled phonics stuff,’ he said in a distracted voice, and from that angle Madeleine noticed a couple of new silver streaks in his hair. And the stress lines that had been eased somewhat during their trip to Florida over the Easter break had sadly since returned to her handsome husband’s forehead.

The four of them had had such a ball in Clearwater, swimming and kayaking in the gulf, taking endless walks along the powdery sand, and enjoying sunset barbecues on the patio of the beach house they’d rented for their two-week stay.

The frowning man sitting in front of Madeleine now was a million miles from the one laughing and splashing in the water with the kids by day, and strumming Willie Nelson tunes on his guitar as the sun went down over the Gulf of Mexico.

Back to reality.

‘What ever happened to just learning the letters instead of pronouncing the sounds?’ Tom complained. ‘That teacher of Jake’s has a lot of nerve too. Look at what she wrote on his maths homework from last week; he actually got points off even though he answered the bloody question correctly. All because he didn’t do it with the “new” standards. A load of crap, if you ask me. All these lazy pen-pushers in the Department of Education who know nothing about education making nonsensical new rules that we don’t need.’

Madeleine rolled her eyes good-naturedly at yet another diatribe from her husband on why the ‘new-fangled’ ways of learning were ridiculous – totally different to how they did things back in their day. A contrarian by nature, it wasn’t unusual for Tom to rail against the status quo, but times moved on and she was sure the teachers knew what they were doing. In truth, Clara was a lot further on in reading than Madeleine had been in her very first year at school. However, it was late and she didn’t have time to discuss this just now, especially since she knew what his next point would be.

‘This is why we should be thinking again about homeschooling them. Because of this palaver. I’ve told you, Maddie, it’s seriously worth looking into—’

‘Not now,’ she said, cutting her husband off, irritated that he seemed to have forgotten the fact that, like him, she had a job, so where on earth would she get the time?

But her ‘job’ – a popular blogging channel for mums that was rapidly growing in popularity and reputation – was all too easily overlooked. To Tom, Mad Mum was just a frivolous hobby and a means for Madeleine to entertain herself while the kids were at school. How quickly he’d forgotten that she was once a marketing executive at the top of her game, before giving it all up six years ago and in some fit of madness (the blog wasn’t just a play on her name) taking early redundancy to be a stay-at-home mother. Madeleine grimaced. She adored Jake and Clara but God knew (as did so many of Mad Mum’s fans) that she was never going to be a candidate for Mother of the Year.

Though to be fair, Tom was an amazing dad; brilliant with the kids (way better than she was most of the time) and a wonderful husband. He was senior management in a top Irish bank and related job pressures meant that she’d always borne the majority of the childcare load.

All well and good while the kids were younger, but now that they were both in school, was it really that terrible for Madeleine to want to get some of her own life back?

She supposed she shouldn’t blame him too much though; her husband had just become so used to the current family dynamic that he’d forgotten the fact that she needed something other than parenthood to define her. And Mad Mum filled that role very well.

Madeleine had originally started the blog as a means of blowing off steam while alone in the house with the kids all day, bemoaning the day-to-day trials of motherhood in a good-natured but deliberately non-mumsy way. At work, writing compelling copy for various campaigns had always come naturally to her, so this felt like a natural extension. And by outlining her frustrations and warts ’n’ all experiences with her new-found domestic role, it was, she supposed, an attempt to rail against the po-faced and somewhat smug ‘how-to’ guides for mums already out there, and she sensed an appetite for some down-to-earth straight talking.

Still, she’d been taken aback by the overwhelmingly positive response her witterings had received, and very quickly her visitor numbers and social media following spiked to remarkable heights. Ever the marketeer, she quickly realised that she had, quite by accident, amassed a captive and thus potentially very valuable demographic, one that admired and trusted her.

But it was really only when Clara started play school a couple of years ago, freeing up Madeleine’s mornings, that she’d taken steps to turn Mad Mum into an actual business.

And while Tom had always been supportive of her endeavours, over the last year or so, she got the sense that he was a little taken aback by the business’s increasing drain on her time as she set determinedly about securing advertising and sponsorship. Of course he didn’t yet have a true inkling of exactly what those efforts were achieving.

But her beloved would get one hell of a surprise at the meeting they’d scheduled with their accountant next week when he realised Madeleine’s ‘little’ media business might actually end up pulling in something close to his salary soon. Thanks to the blog’s burgeoning visitor numbers, avid social media followers, as well as recent TV appearances, her profile was on the rise, and the site had already pulled in some heavy-hitter online advertising partners.

No way was she going to cut the boots from under all that by going back to having the kids at home all day. In truth, Clara starting proper school last year and thus Madeleine getting her life back had been a godsend, and the additional free time the impetus she’d craved to get her business plan into high gear.

‘Hon, we don’t have time to talk about it now,’ she told Tom, glad of an excuse to fob him off. She loved him and they’d always been a great team, but there was no denying that middle age (and no doubt parenthood) was turning her once laid-back and easy-going husband into a grumpy old man. Such a pity that their next family holiday wouldn’t be until the summer; though she could help Tom recapture some of that relaxed gulf coast vibe by plying him with the odd margarita now and then, she thought wickedly.

After grabbing her handbag, Madeleine checked her freshly curled and newly lightened tresses in the hallway mirror, and once again tried to hustle her errant family out the door.

Hopefully the ‘bouncy do’ would hold up well enough for tomorrow’s TV appearance. Madeleine had only got the call from the Channel 2 producer immediately after lunch and had just managed to snag a last-minute appointment with her trusty hairdresser before picking Clara up from school. She wanted to look her best for her slot on Morning Coffee, a popular lifestyle show featuring an ever-changing panel of female guests chatting about interesting topics of the day.

Tomorrow they would be discussing Mad Mum’s latest blog – a controversial piece by Madeleine, which had very quickly gone viral, about why maternity leave was a Very Bad Thing. She smiled, looking forward to the inevitable public outcry and debate, something her profile thrived on.

While most of her posts about motherhood were often deliberately tongue-in-cheek, this was a topic she actually believed in wholeheartedly. If it wasn’t for maternity leave, and how it neatly assigned all the earliest and most difficult child-rearing responsibilities onto the hapless mother – setting up a lifelong ‘default parent’ and allowing Dad to take a less active role – then she and Tom wouldn’t be even having the homeschooling conversation.

Placing his pen down, her husband conceded. ‘All right, maybe we can talk about it later. I’m just sick to the teeth of civil servants telling us how to live our lives, Maddie. I know how I learned maths and look at me now? What’s wrong with kids learning things the old-fashioned way?’

‘I know, I know, it’s all so different these days,’ she soothed, kissing him on the head. ‘But get your ass in gear – we’ll be late at your mum’s.’ Not that Harriet Cooper would mind. Tom’s mother was as laid-back as they came and, unlike Madeleine’s own late mum (who before she died two years ago was routinely scandalised by the forthright opinions her daughter laid bare in public), was a big supporter of Mad Mum.

Tom got up and followed her into the hallway where their children waited, lost in their own conversation.

‘Clara, for goodness’ sake, stop sniffling and just blow your nose. Go on the two of you, get in the car,’ Tom chided them good-naturedly, as he helped Madeleine on with her coat, a sand-coloured cashmere Ralph Lauren number she adored.

Another major benefit to earning her own money again; she could once more afford the beautiful things she’d had to forgo when they were just a single-earner family. She wrapped a colourful silk scarf around her neck and pulled on her leather gloves. She’d picked out a gorgeous DVF top for her TV stint tomorrow, something patterned to try to compensate for the fact that the camera added ten pounds. Which reminded Madeleine to see about maybe arranging weekly group running sessions with some of her friends. Now pushing forty, she knew she needed to try harder to keep herself in tip-top shape.

The couple followed their children out to Tom’s BMW, which sat parked in the driveway of their five-bed faux-Georgian house, about half a mile from Knockroe village. Both kids were now loaded in and sitting dutifully in the back seat, already enraptured with the DVD screens on the back of the front seats. She and Tom did attempt to keep in check the amount of screen time they seemed to default to, but there was no denying that the darned things kept them quiet.

Might write a piece about that soon, she thought wickedly, her mind racing. Something irreverent and completely contrary, sure to send the do-gooders into convulsions.

Tom started the engine and backed out of the long pebbled driveway, just as Cara began a heavy fit of sneezing. He made a face. ‘Here we go. Did you see that note from school today? About the girl in Clara’s class sent home earlier.’

Madeleine was checking her reflection in the mirror and reapplying her lipstick. ‘No, I haven’t had a chance to go through their bags.’ She sighed inwardly. ‘Why – is something going round?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing serious. Chicken pox apparently.’ He threw an eye back at their sniffling daughter who did look pretty miserable. ‘But Clara hasn’t had that yet.’

Madeleine knew. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to cross our fingers,’ she said optimistically, for Clara’s benefit. Little ears heard everything and she didn’t want her daughter worrying unnecessarily. While the pox wasn’t too serious, it was uncomfortable all the same, and her heart broke at the notion of her little girl coming out in those nasty sores and, depending on the severity of the dose, perhaps even being bedridden for a few days, poor thing.

Of course, one of the great benefits of working from home was that Madeleine didn’t have to call in sick to take care of the children if needs be. It was one of the reasons she’d taken the redundancy package in the first place; Jake been a poorly toddler and she had been exhausted from making excuses for missed meetings and freaking out over work absences for the first two years of his life. The logistics became even more of an issue when Clara was born, so while Madeleine had been dubious as to whether full-time motherhood was really for her, a much-needed respite from all the haring around (as well as the financial package her firm was offering) was ultimately too difficult to ignore.

Still, to her mind, time away from the workplace was always going to be a temporary arrangement – at least until the kids were old enough and she found something else to sustain her creatively and professionally. Thankfully Mad Mum filled that role on both counts.

But she worried the family had become a little too comfortable with these domestic arrangements and now her thoughts came full circle and again returned to Tom’s argument for homeschooling. Once again, she’d be the one having to make the sacrifice and, work commitments aside, why would she want to take on the responsibility of that along with everything else?

She was already overcommitted to not only her business, but also volunteering for various school fundraisers, her book club, Knockroe Tidy Towns and other community endeavours, not to mention that she could be called for a guest slot to any TV or radio station at a moment’s notice.

In order to grow her business to the level that Madeleine aspired, profile was important – it made a huge difference, as any marketeer worth their salt would tell you.

Not that her kids’ education wasn’t important of course – it was just nice to be able to pack them both off to school each day and have someone else deal with them for a while.

Madeleine sighed again as she wondered if she was a bad mother for thinking that way, but then chided herself. She knew from day one that she wasn’t going to be perfect. It was a bit late now for stressing about it.

She was only vaguely aware that the car had gone silent and that her family’s attention was on her. ‘I’m sorry? What was that?’ she asked, turning to face her husband. She noticed that Tom was frowning.

‘Is it true, Mum?’ Clara asked, her nose streaming and Madeleine gulped. Damn, the poor dote really was coming down with something. Hopefully it would be a day or two before the worst of it kicked in.

At least until the TV thing is over and done with…

Yep, she was indeed a bad mother. Terrible.

‘Is what true, sweetheart?’ she replied.

‘What Kevin Campbell said; that he’s never had chicken pox, and when people get sick at school that it’s our fault,’ her five-and-a-half-year-old said indignantly.

Madeleine gritted her teeth. Number one, Kevin Campbell was a known brat who liked to start trouble, and number two, the kid had no idea what he was talking about. But number three – and more to the point – Kevin Campbell’s mother was obviously gossiping about their family within hearing distance of her child.

Now she understood why Tom looked so annoyed. He couldn’t stand Christine Campbell – not only was she always in everyone’s business in Knockroe, trying to tell them how to live their lives and thinking she was so smart with her ‘supposed’ Diploma in Sociology from UCD, but she was also a notorious shit-stirrer.

And Madeleine knew that Christine especially hated how, with the increased popularity of her blog and subsequent TV appearances, Madeleine’s profile and thus her community standing had grown and threatened to supersede Christine’s own self-imposed Queen Bee status. Not that she had the slightest iota of interest in celebrity or overthrowing Christine’s ‘reign’ – she was all about expanding Mad Mum’s reach.

But it was completely out of order for the woman to make such comments, especially in earshot of her son. Jake and Clara shouldn’t be singled out like that. And moreover, her and Tom’s parenting decisions didn’t need to be questioned – by anyone. It was nobody else’s business.

‘Ah, don’t listen to what Kevin says. He has no idea what he’s talking about. Just ignore him.’

‘But is it true, Mum?’ Jake piped up, interested. ‘Would it be our fault if other kids got sick? Because we don’t get injections like everyone else?’

‘No, it wouldn’t be your fault,’ Tom said, through gritted teeth. He turned to look at his wife. ‘I’m going to phone that Campbell woman and—’

Madeleine quickly laid a calming hand on his arm. ‘Don’t give her the pleasure,’ she interjected wisely. ‘You know Christine relishes getting a rise out of people, and she would love nothing more than to debate with us, again, on the vaccination thing. Just ignore her.’ Christine Campbell and her ilk never failed to get her husband – who was fiercely protective of not only his family, but also his principles – riled up.

She turned round to face her kids. ‘Guys, your classmates getting chicken pox is not your fault and never will be. OK?’

To say nothing of the fact that you didn’t usually vaccinate for chicken pox anyway. So at least they didn’t need to worry on that front, and hand-wringers like Christine Campbell could go stuff it.

Clara and Jake nodded solemnly.

‘We’re here.’ Madeleine smiled, as Tom pulled into the entrance of his mother’s home on the other side of the town, and she unsnapped her seat belt, mentally crossing her fingers that Clara’s sniffles were just your typical run-of-the-mill perma-cold and nothing more troublesome. At least not anything that would put the kibosh on her plans for tomorrow. ‘So stop thinking about whatever nonsense Kevin was spouting,’ she reassured her children, ‘and focus on wishing poor Ellie get well soon.’

Chapter 3

‘Put the kettle on and crank up that coffee-maker, it’s Morning Coffee time! Our panel today is outspoken Daily Record journalist and media commenter Gemma Moore, bestselling author Anita Wright, former Miss Ireland and beauty expert Claudine O’Donnell, and the newcomer to today’s gang, mummy blogger Madeleine Cooper, whose no-nonsense and provocative take on motherhood has garnered her a huge following amongst many Irish women, myself included. Madeleine, welcome to the show.’

‘Thanks a mill, Louise, it’s lovely to be here.’

‘So let’s dive straight in. Your latest article… it’s already racked up hundreds of thousands of hits, has been retweeted a quarter of a million times, and has also been a major focus of discussion in some of the papers, including Gemma’s Daily Record – in short it has the place abuzz. Needless to say, Madeleine, you’ve hit a nerve.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘First, let’s just explain to any of our viewers who might not yet have come across your article… Madeleine suggests that maternity leave is – and these are your own words – “a patriarchal construct that disempowers women”. How on earth did you come to that conclusion?’

‘Well, like I said in my piece, Louise, maternity leave, this statutory practice of assigning care of the newborn solely to mothers for the first six months, sets up a lifelong family dynamic, whereby dads get to go off and carry on as normal, while poor sleep-deprived Mammy is at home meeting all of junior’s needs.’

‘Sleep-deprived, ha! Yes, we can all definitely relate to that bit.’ ‘But in reality this doesn’t just last for six months. Mum becomes the default carer all through life, the child’s go-to for everything whether she likes it or not, which means that she – not Dad – is always the one forsaking things to meet that responsibility.’

‘Anita, I see you shaking your head there. You don’t agree with Madeleine?’

‘Of course not. Maternity leave isn’t just about meeting the child’s practical needs; it’s scientifically proven that for the first few months parental proximity is essential for bonding and emotional development—’

‘But I’m not denying that at all, and actually by using the word parent you’ve hit the nail on the head. My beef is with the idea that it’s women who, by nature of the fact that parental leave is a statutory requirement for them only, are automatically expected to take on that role, whether they like it or not. Really, it’s akin to state-sponsored servitude.’

‘Well! Strong words…’

‘Servitude? Come on: a mother taking time off to look after her own child?’

‘But it’s far from time off, Anita – that’s my point. It’s a job in itself and a tough one, we all know that. During that time, we’re expected to go off, have our kids, hide away at home or at mother-and-baby coffee mornings, lose the baby weight, go back to work, and revert to behaving like normal childless adults again, as if nothing has changed.’

‘I definitely hear you there…’

‘But everything has. And not only that, but when we do rejoin the workforce after the leave period that default carer role persists. What father worries about leaving the office early to take his child to a dental appointment, or is made to feel guilty about taking a day off when junior is ill? It’s an automatic double standard that stems directly from the leave period. And I’m sure we can all agree that when men take a more active role in child-rearing, it’s all “Aww, isn’t he a great dad,” whereas for women it’s “For God’s sake, can’t she keep her personal life under control?”’

‘Oh yes, we’ve all heard that one. Claudine?’

‘I have to say I do tend to agree with Madeleine on the idea that mothers taking the lion’s share of responsibility does set up a default of sorts, but I take issue with the notion that it’s servitude, or anything like it. In my case, I loved being at home with my daughter for those first few months. And don’t forget, we’re natural nurturers, aren’t we? So it’s perfectly reasonable that we default to the role anyway.’

‘Madeleine? Claudine has a point; women are nurturers by nature.’

‘Well, some might be but certainly not all. I’ve written before about how out of my depth I was in the early days – hell, I’m still out of my depth most of the time. Should all mothers, irrespective of their capabilities, be assigned that role for life? And think about the other dynamic this whole thing sets in place – the notion that only Mum knows best, and Dad is a bumbling buffoon who can’t even get the basics right. I’ve heard countless friends tell me that they don’t “trust” their own husbands to look after the offspring, and again, it all stems from them being the ones who’ve done these things from the get-go.’

‘So, what’s your suggestion for remedying the situation, Madeleine? Surely you’re not advocating that both parents return to work and somehow juggle the childcare between them? Because in that case I’m almost certain that’s not in the child’s best interests—’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Louise, all I am saying is that we need to look closer at what I think is a long-outdated and yes, completely patriarchal construct. Perhaps both parents should decide between them who goes out to work and who stays, but the important thing is that it’s not just poor Mammy who’s automatically expected to do so. It’s not just maternity leave, it’s maternity life.’

‘Gemma? You’ve been unusually silent this morning. Not maternity leave but maternity life. A headline worthy of your own newspaper if ever I heard one. Your thoughts?’

‘Well… my thoughts are that Madeleine here obviously knows a lot about racking up social media hits, but seems to know very little about the real world…’

‘Right, let’s leave it there. Lots of reaction from our viewers already and we’ll read out some of your social media responses and texts next. But in the meantime, grab a biscuit and join us after the break, when our panel will be discussing which of our female politicians tops the polls in the style stakes… See you then.’

As the show signed off, Madeleine took a quick check of her social media and watched the tweets pour in:

@MorningCoffeeShow Madeleine Cooper talking a lot of sense. More please. #refreshing

@MorningCoffeeShow LOVE @MadMumIE! #goMadeleine #maternitylife

@MorningCoffeeShow Think Madeleine Cooper is dead right in what she’s saying, and many dads would only love the opportunity to participate in their child’s early days – myself included. #niceone

@MorningCoffeeShow More @MadMumIE on your panel please! #loveher

@MorningCoffeeShow Madeleine Cooper is hilarious… not sure Gemma was too keen on her tho! #iflookscouldkill

@MorningCoffeeShow Hadn’t heard of this Madeleine Cooper person before this morning’s show. ’Maternity Life’ is a new one on me, but thought provoking all the same. #madmum

Madeleine Cooper @MadMumIE is a breath of fresh air – so genuine and down-to-earth. Love that mischievous smile.

Anyone see @MadMumIE on #MorningCoffee? Any idea where her lovely colourful top is from? #stylishmum

Maternity Life? @MadMumIE certainly lives up to her name, but no denying she makes for great TV. Gemma Moore on the other hand… #sanctimonious

Chapter 4

It was going to be one of those days. I kneaded my forehead as I stood at the nurses’ station at the end of the hallway on the third floor of the clinic. I could already feel a headache brewing behind my eyes – and the fluorescent lighting didn’t help.

‘You OK, Kate?’ asked Shelly, another nurse who worked on the wards with me.

‘Ah, just a bit of a sinus headache,’ I replied. I had horrible sinus problems that were always exacerbated by changes in the weather. On damp days like these, my head felt like it was about to explode. Nothing to do about it though except pop some Nurofen and get on with things. Certainly couldn’t stay at home and rest up – I had bills to pay.

The latest of which, I guessed, was also contributing to the headache. Only that morning, I’d learned that the car insurance on the Astra had almost doubled for this year – simply because it was an older model. And since I didn’t have the funds to upgrade, I would have to pay what amounted to a king’s ransom just to stay on the road. ‘Don’t mind me.’ I smiled, changing the subject. ‘I’d better check on Mrs Smyth in 304. She was complaining earlier about her back hurting – I’m worried that she’s been in that bed so long she might start getting bedsores.’

Shelly smiled and patted me on the shoulder. ‘You take it easy for a minute, I’ll do it.’ She headed off down the hallway, her shoes squeaking, and I was unaccountably grateful for great colleagues and a healthy work environment.

It would have been so easy (and perhaps even sensible) after Greg’s death for me and Rosie to pack up our lives and move back to my hometown in West Cork. But despite my parents’ insistence, I couldn’t do it – not least because in a largely rural area it would be nigh on impossible to pick up a part-time nursing position that would allow me to work around Rosie’s school times, but also because I wanted to retain some sense of day-to-day normality for my daughter.

Despite being newcomers, our little family had slowly but surely begun to make a life in Knockroe – Rosie had made friends in preschool who would also be attending Applewood, and I didn’t want to wrench every last piece of joy and stability from her life.

Granted a rented house wasn’t the best situation long-term, but our landlord – a former Knockroe native who now lived in the city – was fair about the rent and quick to respond to any maintenance issues. My colleagues and superiors at Glencree Clinic had also been invaluably sympathetic and helpful immediately after Greg’s death, so even though sometimes it might have been helpful to have family close by, all in all, the balance was tipped in favour of staying put.

And as Rosie had come on in leaps and bounds since she started school, and was almost back to the sunny, good-natured child she’d been before her father’s demise, I figured I’d made the right decision.

The Easter holidays were a case in point, where we’d had the loveliest time together during the break, and my daughter was the happiest I’d seen her in an age. We’d gone hiking in the woods, taken a trip to the zoo and spent one very memorable day at a dinosaur expo in the RDS, which, of course, was right up her street.

I smiled then, remembering Rosie’s eyes immediately light up at the sight of the dino exhibits area; life-sized renderings of all her favourite prehistoric beasts. She’d been rapt with excitement at the displays, and giggled uproariously when a mechanical Dilophosaurus flashed his frills and sprayed us both with water as we passed by.

We’d spent a full hour brushing sand and uncovering ‘lost bones’ in the archaeological dig, and I listened gobsmacked as my five-year-old argued robustly with one of the attendants about how the latest Jurassic Park movie had got so many details wrong about a monster I’d never even heard of, let alone could pronounce its name. Though the tickets for the exhibit had been costly, my daughter’s shining eyes and bouncy gait that day, and even for the rest of that week, meant it had been worth every penny.

I truly had my little girl back.

And now, as the worst seemed finally behind us, I was determined that we should have lots more enjoyable mother/daughter days to look forward to and, depending on finances, maybe even think about taking a real holiday next summer or the one after.

I checked the clock then and realised it was getting close to the end of my duty shift at two. It was nice to be finished early afternoon, but it wasn’t as if I didn’t have other ‘duties’ of sorts to attend to.

I took Rosie swimming on Wednesdays, and on Thursday nights she had ballet practice. So I knew that I would spend those evenings talking sequins and writing frighteningly big cheques alongside the other Knockroe mothers while my daughter practised her Grand Pliés.

Not that I minded, really (apart from the big cheques of course). It was about the only ‘girlie’ pursuit that Rosie enjoyed – and she was far more graceful than I had ever been at her age. It was just challenging having to play double duty all the time. Greg always used to make sure dinner was on the table no matter what time I got home, and I missed those days. I missed him.

Quickly moving through a final checklist for rounds, I waved goodbye to Shelly as she emerged from Mrs Smyth’s room.

‘We’re all grand here,’ she said, giving me a thumbs-up. ‘Try to take it easy tonight with that sinus thing, and see you tomorrow.’

It only took fifteen minutes to drive from Glencree to pick Rosie up from school. Parking outside Applewood, I left the car running and headed for the gate. Sure enough, my daughter soon pranced over – wearing her boots today, good girl. I gathered her into a quick hug and then hustled her to the car. Buckling her in to her booster seat, I kissed one of her pink cheeks. ‘You’re going to match your ballet tutu if you get any rosier.’ I smiled. ‘So what’s up, buttercup? How’d today go?’

A world-weary sigh. ‘Clara Cooper went home sick this time. After big break. She was coughing and sneezing all morning, and when we were sitting together for reading time, I told her that she had spots on her neck – here.’ Rosie paused, pointing to an area just below her neck at the top of her chest. ‘I said that she’d better go tell Ms Connelly because of Ellie and the chicken pox. Kevin started making fun of her then. He can be so mean.’

I nodded in sympathy. ‘You did the right thing, and take no notice of Kevin. Even if Clara shouldn’t really be at school if she’s sick,’ I added, mostly to myself.

Clara Cooper, daughter of the town’s mini-celebrity Madeleine Cooper, and her popular blog or forum or whatever they called it. A self-confessed ‘Mad Mum’ according to the humorous articles and photographs she posted. Though I couldn’t call myself an avid follower, I’d caught a couple of her TV appearances and radio slots and liked her no-nonsense, slightly mad-cap approach to motherhood. Her philosophy was that women shouldn’t be too hard on themselves by taking it all so seriously and overthinking every aspect. And while I admired the sentiment, I guess it’s easier to apply such a motto when you have a partner with whom to share the load.

Though I didn’t know the woman particularly well, I liked Madeleine; she was one of the people in the community who’d reached out to me in the immediate aftermath of Greg’s death, not just to offer condolence but genuine assistance. Where so many others seemed uncomfortable around me – afraid even – Madeleine had even given me her phone number and urged me to call her for a gossip, cry, anything at all, and I appreciated that.

Still, I’m sure the teachers at Applewood didn’t appreciate her sending her child to school with a contagious illness, especially when she worked from home. It was one thing to be laissez-faire; quite another altogether to be wilfully careless.

Then I thought of something I’d heard in the background at work this morning, a promo on breakfast TV about a later show on the same channel… Madeleine Cooper had been mentioned as one of today’s panellists on Morning Coffee.

Now I got it. Clara’s poorly form and that morning’s impending live TV appearance must have put poor Madeleine in a bind, and I felt lousy for assuming that just because she didn’t physically clock in for work somewhere didn’t mean she wouldn’t have the same parenting balls to juggle as the rest of us.

‘Yep, poor Clara had an awful cough, and her face looked hot. She really shouldn’t have come to school at all, I think,’ Rosie added sagely.

I looked at my five-and-a-half-year-old, marvelling at how wise she was for her age. Again, she reminded me of Greg in that regard. He was always so finely tuned in to everything that was happening around him and very little fazed him.

‘Yep. Sounds like she might have caught the pox all right.’ I sent some goodwill little Clara Cooper’s way and hoped it was a mild enough dose.

*

The next few days seemed to fly by in a blur.

On Thursday afternoon, I hustled Rosie home from school, sat with her through homework while also simultaneously preparing a lamb tagine recipe that I had come across on Pinterest the other night. I could put it on and it would be ready for us by the time we got back from ballet later.

She hadn’t eaten much of that day’s lunch and had also refused a snack before we left, so would surely be starving later.

Now, I pointed her in the direction of her room so she could get ready for class.

‘Make sure you bring a cardie for your arms, sweetheart. It’s always chilly in the studio,’ I called up after her.

Looking around the kitchen, I grabbed my chequebook and iPad and threw them both in the way-too-big handbag I carried with me everywhere. Child-free women used bags like this as accessories, while those with kids knew that there was no way to get through the day without a surplus of supplies within arm’s reach. I idly remembered Madeleine Cooper posting something about this one time, except she presented it in a far more humorous and creative way than I ever could.

Moments later, Rosie was ready and we were off. I was feeling in good spirits; I simply loved the days where my organisation skills paid off and I didn’t have to run from one commitment to the next like a frantic lunatic. Sometimes I was really on top of my game.

Sometimes.

Upon entering the ballet studio a little way outside town, Rosie and I were met with a flurry of activity. My daughter was pulled in the direction of the practice area by her friends, and I was shuttled to a waiting area where mothers, and the odd father, watched their whirling dervish daughters through glass.

‘Kate – over here!’

I turned towards the sound of a familiar voice and saw the frizzy red hair of Lucy Murphy: unofficial mayor of Knockroe (by way of the fact that everyone knew her) and one of the few friends I’d made locally. We’d met when our daughters attended the same preschool.

Lucy was a stay-at-home mum and a couple of years my senior. Her husband Dennis worked in insurance in Dublin and she had two daughters, Stephanie and Laura. Laura was a few months older than Rosie and a year ahead of her at school while Stephanie was a couple of years older again.

‘Hi, Lucy,’ I said, greeting her warmly.

‘Great to see you, love,’ she said, coming in for a small hug before she got straight down to business. ‘I’m collecting donations for the recital costumes.’ (Of course she was.) ‘Though I fear for Jennifer, let me tell you, her first choice on the outfits was just way too revealing. Can you imagine? They’re five-year-olds!’

I nodded and murmured my agreement. Jennifer was one of the instructors at the dance studio, and her taste in recital gear was a bit more… liberal than most. While I tended to side with Lucy as it related to what my daughter was going to wear when she strutted her stuff on the stage in front of friends and neighbours, I also knew that I didn’t have to offer any complaint. Lucy would simply handle it for the rest of us and everything would get sorted accordingly. It must be wonderful to be that confident and capable.

I took a seat on the bench along the wall for the parents as Lucy buzzed off, happily barking orders at parents and children alike.

Some people tended to be put off by her bluster, and I realised that it was easy to feel that way. I myself had felt a bit overwhelmed when I first met her a couple of years back. A bit like a hurricane – she comes in really strong, churns everything up, and then mellows out. However, over time, she has become one of my biggest advocates and friends. When Greg passed away, she really helped me keep it together and I don’t know what I would have done without her.

Lucy organised my house when I was in too much of a fog to do anything, kept the receiving line of sympathisers moving, made sure both Rosie and I were fed, did my washing, helped me with pretty much everything day in and day out.

In the immediate aftermath, my parents had of course come up to stay, but they’re in their late sixties and in poor health, and were themselves too wracked with grief to be of any real help. And while I had others – work colleagues and old friends from Dublin – around at the time willing to do what they could, Lucy was the drill sergeant we all needed.

Now, I watched through the glass observation window as Rosie’s class started. This was really the first time this week I had been able to just sit and breathe, I realised.

I reached into my bag, grabbed an elastic and pulled my tousled shoulder-length hair up off my shoulders, tying it into a makeshift bun at the nape of my neck. It was starting to get greasy and I really needed a shower but there’d been no time. Later hopefully, when Rosie had gone to bed. She usually went up about eight, and while Greg and I used to relish the few hours together before our own bedtime, now the silence made his absence even more pronounced. So I tended to keep myself busy by cooking, reading or going online and wasting time on Pinterest and the like.

Inside the studio, my daughter was standing in fifth position as normal, but something she was doing caught my eye.

She put her hand up and scratched her back, right along her shoulder blade. I grimaced; she must have grabbed the wrong cardie by accident earlier. That purple one she had on was an itchy wool, and now she was paying the price.

‘Is anyone sitting here?’

I looked up to see Christine Campbell, a tall woman with a slightly aloof air about her. Her son Kevin was in Rosie’s class and, by all accounts (including Rosie’s), a bit of a troublemaker, constantly causing grief for the teachers. Typical boy stuff, really. She also had a daughter Suzanne, who was older and in a more senior ballet class.

I didn’t see Christine often, but our daughters’ class times sometimes overlapped. She and Lucy knew each other well, though personality-wise they seemed to me to be chalk and cheese.

‘No, go ahead.’ I moved my oversized bag and placed it on the floor at the same time that Lucy rejoined us and sat back down.

All at once, I felt like I was smack bang in the middle of a gossip sandwich as the two women tried their utmost to outdo each other for local ‘news’.

The topics were wide ranging and flung about rapidly – Christine conveyed her annoyance about a neighbour who had illegally constructed a shed against a boundary wall and how she was going to talk to her solicitor cousin about it, while Lucy condemned a hapless mother who’d promised she would volunteer at the Applewood PTA, but had not turned up to a meeting. I grimaced, making a mental note to be sure to keep any volunteer commitments.

But since I myself was short on scandal, I searched my brain for something to contribute to the conversation.

‘I heard poor Clara Cooper went home early from school with chickenpox the other day,’ I offered. ‘Is Kevin OK so far?’ I added, knowing that Christine’s son was one of the kids in Rosie’s class who hadn’t had it yet. I glanced towards the dance studio and frowned. My daughter was still scratching.

‘I know. I was the one who picked Clara up,’ Lucy commented. ‘Madeleine rang me first thing that morning – Clara woke up a bit poorly, but Madeleine was due at Channel 2 for a TV thing and had to send her in. She asked if I’d do the honours in case she got any worse.’

‘Typical,’ Christine harrumphed, her horn-rimmed glasses falling down her nose. ‘Getting someone else to do her dirty work. Mad Mum is right. And I’m sure it’s only a matter of time till my poor Kevin gets it.’ She pushed the glasses back up and rolled her eyes. ‘Doesn’t surprise me that Clara did either. You know what the bloody Coopers are like.’

I bit my lip guiltily, having forgotten that Lucy and Clara’s mum were also close, and had grown up together in Knockroe. And I especially regretted bringing up the subject in front of Christine. Lucy had once confided that Madeleine’s rapidly growing celeb status was a sore point as far as Christine was concerned, and I hadn’t intended to open that particular can of worms.