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

Keep You Safe: A tear-jerking and compelling story that will make you think from the international multi-million bestselling author Melissa Hill ‘If you like Jodi Picoult try Melissa Hill’–Woman and Home‘I was completely gripped.’–Sarah Morgan‘Brimming with powerful issues’–Evening Post‘This emotive story will touch your heart'–My WeeklyGood mother or bad … who decides?Widowed nurse Kate and mum of two Madeleine couldn’t be more different in their approaches to parenting.Kate knows her husband’s death has made her more protective of her daughter, but she’s not going to apologise for it.Madeleine feels there’s no such thing as a perfect mother and while her parenting style may be controversial it works for her children and that’s all that matters.But when Madeleine makes a fateful decision that upends her own family, and has devastating consequences for Kate, suddenly the world is lining up to vilify her and she must defend every parental choice she’s ever made…Why is she accused of being a terrible mother when all she did was try to keep her children safe?Praise for Keep You Safe:‘I was completely gripped. Every parent will recognize the issues raised in this book.’– SARAH MORGAN‘Emotional and cleverly crafted with well-drawn characters.’– THE PEOPLE‘Another great read from the best-selling Irish author.’– HELLO MAGAZINE‘Guaranteed to kick-start book club debates’– GOOD HOUSEKEEPING‘A rigorous yet entertaining examination of one of the most controversial issues in modern parenting.’– IRISH TIMES.‘Hill has her finger on the zeitgeist, offering savvy and well-researched points on a touchy subject. Fans of Meg Wolitzer and Emily Giffin will devour this introspective and enlightening novel.’– BOOKLIST‘With a creative balance of fact and fiction, Hill engages readers in a suspenseful page-turner that is impossible to put down.’– ROMANTIC TIMES.‘Hill writes with authority about a subject that is controversial and without much grey area. A riveting read.'– RTE CULTURE‘Brimming with powerful issues recognisable to every parent.’ – EVENING POST‘This emotive story will touch your heart … a thought-provoking take on an issue that is not all black and white'– MY WEEKLY Copyright (#ulink_5a752de2-28a4-5997-a942-d17c0070fd8f) An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017 Copyright © Melissa Hill 2017 Melissa Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008217150 Version: 2018-01-23 MELISSA HILL lives in Co. Wicklow with her husband and daughter. A USA Today and No. 1 Irish times and Italian best-seller, her books are translated into 25 different languages. One of her titles has been optioned for a movie by a major Hollywood studio, and another is currently in development for TV with a top US production company. Visit her website at www.melissahill.ie (http://www.melissahill.ie) or contact her on Twitter @melissahillbks, or melissahillbooks on Facebook and Instagram. With much love and thanks to Sheila Crowley – a true force of nature. Contents Cover (#u3fb5e22b-ad7e-58aa-a6bb-9aebc060bb79) Title Page (#ua4e79753-a030-58ff-88e5-c3d1c3782606) Copyright (#ulink_01d72de6-2fd1-5cac-9463-d9cb09872427) About the Author (#u68c2630b-e8f5-5d29-8856-d8c31debbcec) Dedication (#uddb63ac3-850d-55ac-a3db-05208b2c0112) Chapter 1 (#ulink_a0afdeb9-f035-5dfd-ae5a-c9cea5c8a720) Chapter 2 (#ulink_d8eaa081-dbdc-5be4-97bb-ec9d6a2fad8c) Chapter 3 (#ulink_a8e40ae2-7a0b-540f-84e9-17ad9f112675) Chapter 4 (#ulink_7f0e6891-064a-5e8e-b669-619fdf9dce67) Chapter 5 (#ulink_82592134-4e3b-5609-865f-66140e8581d7) Chapter 6 (#ulink_0b1a03e1-806f-51d1-bf75-45a14df5cb6f) Chapter 7 (#ulink_c1d893b7-3699-57dc-a341-16c29669970e) Chapter 8 (#ulink_2d26d63b-bbd8-5434-b814-755cfa418a0a) Chapter 9 (#ulink_21ea2caf-854d-59cc-8409-e3b0842bdfb5) Chapter 10 (#ulink_aa1f44a2-1c6e-58a6-ba40-150b1ae60fd5) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo) EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#ulink_d5669db6-8c31-590c-8c5e-d83d675ca6c4) 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 (#ulink_bd8db982-004f-5b1d-8699-5ff0a1b4dec5) ‘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 (#ulink_96aca11a-f7b3-5d78-9a4e-b738495ba720) ‘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 (#ulink_2122183b-e063-571c-8385-0bb635ac8063) 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 Pli?s. 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. I started to reply, but Lucy beat me to it. ‘Ah leave it, Christine. To be fair, you don’t usually vaccinate for chicken pox anyway.’ At this, my ears pricked up. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, turning to her. ‘What’s that got to do with the Coopers?’ Rosie’s allergy or the fact that she couldn’t be immunised wasn’t common knowledge amongst the school community, mostly because of the inevitable negative reaction it provoked amongst parents. And I didn’t want my daughter to be singled out in any way because of reasons she (or I) couldn’t control. So when before Easter the school secretary had sent out Health Service permission forms for the MMR booster to be carried out in the school, I had quietly marked an X in the ‘Decline’ box and forgotten all about it. But now I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the Coopers and I had something in common. ‘But Madeleine and Tom don’t believe in vaccination full stop,’ Christine said bitterly. ‘Complete nonsense. Not to mention irresponsible.’ My mouth went dry. So while I’d had no choice but to opt out of the standard vaccination programme, it seemed the Coopers had wilfully declined. ‘Don’t believe in… you mean the Cooper children haven’t had shots – for anything?’ I asked, feeling more than a little unnerved. This was what Greg and I had worried most about – the idea that so-called ‘herd immunity’ wasn’t guaranteed to protect Rosie so long as there were parents who chose not to participate. Yet I couldn’t condemn the Coopers for anything when I didn’t know the reasons. For all I knew, their children might also have some kind of autoimmune condition or other valid reason not to go along with protocol. ‘Yep. Apparently they don’t trust the HSE and the pharmaceutical companies, even though all that controversy over the MMR jabs was written off yonks ago.’ Christine rolled her eyes. ‘Give me a break. They’re just lucky this time that chicken pox is fairly harmless.’ This time. I swallowed hard, not sure what to make of this. ‘Well, I hope Kevin avoids it anyway. Nasty, scratchy dose,’ I mumbled sympathetically. ‘But not too hard on the kids if it’s mild enough.’ Lucy had gone unusually quiet and, sensing she was uncomfortable with the discussion, I decided to change the subject. ‘Oh look, they’re starting,’ I said, turning back to the ballet class and feeling bad for bringing all this up in the first place. But Christine wouldn’t be diverted. ‘A bit poorly my ass. Kevin was saying that Clara was coughing the day before that too,’ she said. ‘What kind of mother sends a sick child to school so she can go off to flatter her own ego? And what kind of parents take their kids out of class for an extra week over Easter so they can go and sun themselves in Florida?’ I remembered Rosie saying something about Clara being absent the first few days back after the break, but hadn’t realised it was because she was still on holiday. Must be nice to be able to fly off somewhere warm and sunny for so long. I could only dream. ‘Ah, Christine, it’s not as if the kids missed that much for the few extra days they were away,’ said Lucy. ‘And in fairness to Madeleine the other morning, she really didn’t think there was anything to worry about…’ ‘Oh save it, that’s no excuse. A blind man could see that the child was coming down with something, though of course maybe those Prada sunglasses her mother likes to wear messed up her eyesight…’ ‘Christine, seriously,’ Lucy reproached, ‘there’s no need for that. I know Madeleine. If she honestly felt that Clara was ill, she would have cancelled the TV thing, end of story. As it was, the little dote just had the sniffles and a bit of a temperature when I went to pick her up.’ ‘Well, Kevin said he spotted a cluster of spots on her neck. And if a five-year-old can see it, I don’t understand how the child’s own mother—’ ‘That could just be heat rash from the temperature,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘Pox don’t cluster.’ ‘Thank you, Nurse,’ Lucy chuckled, evidently hoping to lighten the mood. ‘In any case, Christine, Maddie was distraught and full of apologies when she got back from Dublin,’ she insisted. ‘She couldn’t have known.’ As Christine muttered something unintelligible, a thought started rattling around in my head. It was what I had just said: that chicken pox didn’t cluster. They don’t, I reminded myself. There were just individual sores when the rash popped up. I nodded, affirming my own train of thought. Christine’s son was probably just being a typical five-year-old boy. Making everything seem more dramatic and exaggerated than it actually was. Returning my attention to the studio where Rosie practised, I smiled with appreciation as she pirouetted gracefully. She did a slight bow in front of her teacher and classmates and then returned to the barre. Whereupon once again, almost absent-mindedly, my daughter raised her arm and scratched her back. Chapter 5 (#ulink_a0c5d793-98eb-5280-810b-0971916b1058) Rosie turned over in bed and pulled the covers up over her head. Shoving her face into the pillow, she tried her hardest to stifle the sound of her cough. She rolled over onto her back, then sniffled and pulled her leg up to her chest, so she could scratch her knee. She didn’t feel well. And she was very itchy. Rosie had noticed when she got home from ballet and started undressing to put her pyjamas on that she had some little red dots on her arms. And there were a few on her chest, too. She was sure that if she turned on the light and looked at her knee, she would probably find some spots there too. But her mum said that you couldn’t get chicken pox twice. Rosie felt worry build in her chest. She really didn’t want chicken pox again. It had been miserable the last time. She couldn’t stand the thought of being cooped up in bed, not being allowed to play with her friends or her dinosaurs, and having to take long, warm baths just to try to ease the itch that came with those yucky blisters. She shuddered, thinking about it. Maybe she was just tired. That had to be it. It had been a long week and maybe she was just feeling a bit worried because her friend Ellie wasn’t well and then Clara had gone home sick the other day too. Kevin hadn’t looked like he was sick though – and he said he’d never had chicken pox before – so how could she get them twice? She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. That was what Mum had told her to do any time she was feeling overwhelmed. Of course, she had told her that because of what she had seen with her dad, but Rosie supposed that trick could be used in this situation as well. Taking one, two, three deep breaths, she closed her eyes in the darkness and willed herself to go to sleep. In the morning, everything would be fine. She would feel better. But then her eyes sprang open as it felt like something had bitten her on the back. She cranked her arm around awkwardly to shove her hand up the back of her pyjama top to reach the area. Once the itch was scratched, she ran her fingers over her skin and felt a few flat bumps. There were more of them all over her too, she just knew it. Breathing hard again, she whispered to herself like her mum told her to do when she needed to calm herself down. ‘You’re fine, just go to sleep. Everything is OK. You don’t have chicken pox. Everyone knows kids can’t get them twice.’ Debating on whether or not to get up and tell her mum about this, she decided against it. Mum worried about things. And Rosie knew she’d be even more worried if she had to take time off work to take care of her, when there was no need. She was a big girl now. ‘Just go to sleep,’ she told herself quietly in the darkness, trying to count sheep like her dad had once told her. But that had never worked, so instead Rosie decided to try counting the names of all the different dinosaurs she knew – especially all the new ones she’d learned from the exhibition she’d been to over Easter. And after tossing and turning for an hour or more, she finally fell asleep, achieving a fitful slumber. Several hours later she woke, realising that she had kicked all of her covers off. She felt hot and cold at the same time and her pyjamas felt wet and her skin clammy. She was covered in sweat! At once, the problem of the previous night came rushing back to her and Rosie realised that she didn’t feel better – at all. Instead she felt much, much worse. ‘No, no, no,’ she said, feeling a fresh wave of panic. She was so warm – she had to have a fever, like that time she’d had a bad flu and her mum had explained all about how fever was the body’s way of getting rid of bad germs. Bad germs like chicken pox? And as much as she wanted to jump out of bed to look at herself in the mirror to confirm that the spots were still there, she just couldn’t. She felt exhausted. Rosie wanted her mum, but when she opened her mouth to call out, she found she could barely manage a squeak. ‘Mum…’ she croaked. When she didn’t hear any footsteps on the stairs, she tried again, this time a bit louder. Her mum had to hear her – mums just knew, somehow, when their kids needed them. Particularly her mum. Sure enough, a moment later, Rosie heard, ‘Coming, honey,’ and she felt some of her panic subside. Mum would make this OK, she thought. In just a second, Mum would tell her that everything was fine – that this was just a flu and she would be right as rain in no time. * On Friday morning, I pushed the button on the Nespresso coffee-maker Greg had bought the year he died, and waited for my morning dose of caffeine to be dispensed. Looking quickly at the clock on the microwave, I guessed that I needed to get Rosie up this morning. Usually she was very good about getting herself out of bed and ready for school. No worries, still plenty of time, I told myself as I grabbed my coffee cup and took a tentative first sip, savouring the warmth. Then, picking up my phone to check for any messages from work, I heard a small whine coming from upstairs. Rosie was calling for me, and something about her voice wasn’t right. Immediately, my brain defaulted to panic mode, as it did so often. How would I shuffle my day around if she needed to stay at home because she wasn’t feeling well? Trying to summon just how many days of annual leave from work I had left, I called out back to her. In fairness, I’d been lucky – Rosie hadn’t missed a single day since starting school last September. Quite the feat considering most of her classmates seemed to have perma-sniffles, and I chalked it down to my insistence on her eating Vitamin C-rich fruit and veg as well as a regular multi-vitamin for us both to heighten our immune system – especially given my own exposure to various bugs at the hospital. But it was impossible to fight everything all of the time. I placed my coffee cup on the counter and raced upstairs, mentally reorganising my day as I opened my daughter’s bedroom door to make the inevitable diagnosis: Yup, you’re staying home today. My thoughts drifted to Madeleine Cooper who had evidently faced that self-same scenario earlier in the week. But nothing could have prepared me for what I actually saw when I entered Rosie’s room. My little girl lay uncovered, her dark hair limp and damp and sticking to the sides of her face. Her skin was flushed and her pyjamas had patches of wet here and there, as if she had been sweating throughout the night. And on the surface of her skin that wasn’t covered by clothes there were spots. Lots and lots of small red spots on her face, her neck, her hands, even her feet. My mouth dropped open in shock, and my mind automatically jumped to the thought: Of course she had to be the kid who gets chicken pox twice. But then my professional training sprang into action and cautioned me against being too hasty with my diagnosis. I saw Rosie looking at me, studying me, and a small crease appeared on her forehead, while her expression changed from worry to fear and finally… panic. I quickly tried to rearrange the look on my face, willing myself to appear calm and in control. When I was feeling anything but. ‘Mummy, I don’t feel well,’ she whimpered. I picked up my pace, closing the distance to her bed. I sank to my knees and reached out, placing my hand on her forehead. She was burning up. ‘Do I have chicken pox again?’ she asked weakly. ‘How could I have it again?’ ‘Shush, honey, I don’t know. Let me take a look at you,’ I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as I peered at the spots on her skin. ‘Let me unbutton your top, sweetheart, I want to see your chest.’ Rosie allowed me to unbutton her pyjama shirt while my fingers trembled. Somehow I just knew what I was going to find next. Her chest was covered with a rash. Small, red clusters. Everywhere. My mouth was suddenly dry and I licked my lips, willing myself to say something to comfort my daughter. ‘I’m so itchy, Mummy. And so hot.’ She was still watching me closely, and then she coughed violently, spittle lining the corners of her mouth. My mind raced as I placed a hand on her forehead again and my heart pounded with fear. ‘I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’ll take you to the doctor. We’ll get you sorted.’ The rash, the clusters. This is different, the nurse inside me protested. This isn’t chicken pox. Chicken pox don’t cluster. And they aren’t flat either. This was something different… And with a sudden terrifying realisation, I knew. But I couldn’t allow myself to even think the word. No, it simply wasn’t possible. Where would Rosie have picked it up? It was chicken pox that was going around the school. Not… Unless… My thoughts turned then to the other sick child, Clara Cooper. Who, according to Christine, wasn’t vaccinated against serious childhood illnesses. Just like Rosie. Clara – who had been sent home from school three days ago with suspected chicken pox. Except she hadn’t. This wasn’t chicken pox. This was out and out measles. Chapter 6 (#ulink_4a59d9fe-86c1-5a16-aed1-467e23c5f9c9) ‘It’s OK, petal, we’re going to make you feel better,’ Madeleine soothed as she hovered over Clara’s bed. On Tuesday morning, while in make-up at the TV station, her worst fears had been realised with a text from the school principal confirming that Clara was indeed sick. Talk about timing… She’d given her some Paracetamol after all the coughing and sneezing the night before hoping to nip whatever it was in the bud, but noticed at breakfast that her youngest was still a bit off. But she really couldn’t keep her at home that day, she had the TV thing to do, and Tom had already left for work hours earlier… So Madeleine had very quickly weighed up the odds and decided that she’d chance sending Clara to school, and would rush straight back once she’d done her thing at the studio. It was a gamble but what choice did she have? She couldn’t cancel Morning Coffee at the last minute; the show aired at eleven and she needed to leave right after the school drop-off. Chances were Clara would be grand – kids were always up and down with these things and usually rallied well – but just in case Clara felt worse, she could mitigate the risk by asking Lucy to do her a turn. No point (or indeed time) in getting her husband to trek all the way home from Dublin, and she couldn’t ask her mother-in-law for a dig-out either, because Harriet didn’t have a car. Ever the trooper, Madeleine’s friend immediately agreed to collect Clara just after eleven and stay with her at their house until she got back. ‘It’s no bother. Knock ’em dead and Clara will only love being able to watch you on TV.’ The two had been friends for ever – Lucy’s eldest was the same age as Jake so she and Madeleine had shared the whole Newborn Mania thing – and routinely helped each other out when it came to their offspring, often alternating school runs and sports practice drop-offs. Her friend was also decidedly non-judgemental about Madeleine’s columns, something that was rare enough in Knockroe. Many of the other women in her circle (in particular Christine Campbell) had already been a bit suspicious and defensive about how Madeleine had mostly kept to herself when Jake was born – very quickly dropping out of local mother/baby groups, and unwilling to get into discussions about the trials of sleepless nights or feeding routines, or engage in the seemingly endless debate between breast and bottle. At the time, she felt it was hard enough getting to grips with the huge changes a newborn wrought without overanalysing every last aspect. Their own parents’ generation didn’t have that luxury, and for the most part just took things as they came, which suited Madeleine down to the ground. She hated how motherhood was so damn competitive and judgemental. She’d heard about that aspect from other friends before, of course, but nothing could have prepared her for just how damaging and destructive it could be to insecure newbies. ‘There is no “right way”,’ Madeleine’s mother used to tell her, when in the very early days with Jake she fell into the trap of worrying and comparing herself to other women who seemed so sure about what they were doing. ‘Same as marriage, you just take it one day at a time. But the most important thing of all, pet, is to enjoy it.’ It was the best piece of parenting advice Madeleine had ever received. Thankfully, Tom too held little truck with outsiders interfering or undermining, and agreed that the two of them should trust their instincts for what they did know, and just research anything they didn’t. Some days were great, others absolute shit, but from then on Madeleine refused to put pressure on herself to make everything ‘perfect’ or ‘normal’. Like her mother said, to a baby every experience was their perfect and their normal, so no sense tying yourself up in knots about it. Lucy was of a similar mind in some aspects, but was also much better than she at finding common ground with others who didn’t share the same philosophy. Whereas Madeleine’s own failure to do so had driven her to find solidarity with like-minded mums online via her blog, rather than suffer her more judgemental local counterparts who refused to admit that motherhood could be anything other than unicorns and rainbows. Though she admitted she’d got things badly wrong with Clara this week and, worse, hadn’t she known deep down that her daughter was coming down with something – especially when they’d heard a dose was doing the rounds? She probably should have kept her at home – and on any other day would have – but if she’d cancelled at the last minute the Morning Coffee producers would likely never invite her back. As it was, the team were delighted with the reaction to her appearance on the panel, and had already asked her back for another stint. It could only lead to bigger and better things as the show’s viewers were exactly her target audience and, following the slot, Mad Mum’s blog and social media engagement had skyrocketed. Good all round, apart from the fact that that journalist, Gemma Moore, seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to her, which she couldn’t understand. Everyone knew how these things worked and surely Gemma realised that Madeleine was purposely hamming it up for entertainment? In any case, based on the social media response, it had worked. So while she still felt terrible for sending Clara to school when her daughter truly was ill, all in all Madeleine stood by her decision to bite the bullet and take things as they came. Tom had agreed with her, which made her feel somewhat better at least. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself – sure, for all we knew, Clara was just coming down with yet another bout of the sniffles,’ her husband reassured, kissing her on the forehead, when Madeleine had remonstrated with herself for the decision. There was no denying the various iterations of coughs and colds had indeed seemed endless since the kids started school, and in fairness their youngest was strong as an ox most of the time… Clara coughed violently then, and Madeleine stroked her little girl’s hair, feeling guiltier still. She truly hadn’t believed there was anything to worry about, and even now, a few days on, there was no sign of any telltale sores. But if her daughter did in fact have chicken pox, there was nothing to do now but wait it out and let the thing take its course. Heartbreaking to see her little girl so ill though, she thought, softly caressing Clara’s cheek. At least she only had one sick child to concentrate on – Jake had had the dose before, so Madeleine sent him to school the next morning without the worry at least that she would get another recriminating phone call… At that moment, her mobile phone sounded from where she had placed it on Clara’s dresser, and a sudden surge of panic rushed through her. Hell, what if she’d just jinxed herself and her son was in fact now down with something too? But when she looked at the caller ID, she felt herself calm down. It was Lucy. Likely calling to get the scoop on Clara. She was a good friend and, after picking her daughter up from school on Tuesday, had gone out of her way to reassure a panicky Madeleine that all was in hand. ‘No need to break any speed limits on your way back. Take your time – she’s fine.’ ‘How’s Clara doing?’ her friend demanded now, before Madeleine could even issue a greeting. Taken aback at her tone – it wasn’t like Lucy to be so short – she looked again at her daughter who seemed to be dozing off. ‘She’s fine, thank goodness – you know yourself, you’ve been through it with Steph. Poor thing will be itchy and miserable for the next few days but—’ Lucy cut her off. ‘Have you talked to anyone from the school since?’ Madeleine furrowed her brow. What did that have to do with anything? Everyone knew the thing was going around, hadn’t they got that note on Monday… ‘Well, I obviously phoned to tell them that Clara wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week, that the poor little thing had caught the blasted pox and—’ ‘Oh God, you really don’t know, do you?’ What the hell? Madeleine thought, irritated. Why all the drama for crying out loud? Was there a reason why Lucy wouldn’t let her finish a sentence? It was actually starting to sound like she was phoning for a gossip and Madeleine didn’t have any time or inclination for gossip. Just then, Clara was her only concern. ‘Well, I kind of have my hands full here. I don’t know what else is going on at the school and, to tell you the truth, I don’t particularly care—’ ‘Maddie,’ interjected Lucy harshly, ‘I don’t think Clara has chicken pox.’ Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about? Of course she has chicken pox. Ellie got it first, and now Clara has it. Her temperature’s subsided and granted there’s not many sores showing up yet, but all we can do now is let it take its—’ Again, her friend cut her off. ‘Madeleine, let me finish. I just got off the phone with Kate O’Hara. Rosie is sick too.’ ‘Ah, poor thing.’ Madeleine felt sorry for Kate, who was a single mother and would be seriously put out by having to miss work to look after little Rosie. And as she expressed as much to Lucy, she could almost sense her friend shaking her head on the other end of the line. ‘No, you see, Rosie already had chicken pox a couple of years ago. And before you say it, no, she isn’t one of those kids who gets it twice either. Please, Madeleine, quick, just tell me what Clara’s chest looks like – is there a rash?’ Madeleine felt confused, but did as she was told. With the phone pressed to her ear, she looked at her sleeping child – thankfully Clara had found some peace in slumber – and pulled down the bedclothes a little. Then she whispered quietly into the phone. ‘I don’t know. Like I said there isn’t much of a pox outbreak yet, but now that you say it, just under her neck there is a kind of rash, I suppose, little bumps clustered together. Pretty much what you would expect with—’ ‘Madeleine, you have to get Clara to a doctor, fast. And get Jake out of school too. I’m serious.’ Lucy sounded almost frantic on the phone and her normally mild-mannered friend’s panic made Madeleine’s mind race. But her heart almost dropped into her stomach with her friend’s next words. ‘I don’t think that Clara has chicken pox, sweetheart, but she could have measles. Rosie definitely has – Kate recognised the difference right away. You know she’s a nurse. But, anyway, it’s not common knowledge yet, at least I don’t think it is, the way that people know… well… the way people know about Jake and Clara. But it seems Rosie isn’t vaccinated either. She has some allergy that prevents it and—’ Feeling like her head was spinning, Madeleine looked down at her daughter and tried her hardest to recall what Jake had been like when he’d had measles, but it was a good six years ago and she really didn’t remember. It had been a mild dose, so hadn’t really stuck in her mind, other than the fact that the doctor had berated her for not vaccinating her eighteen-month-old against it in the first place… And now it seemed Clara had picked it up. But where? Suddenly, Madeleine’s mind drifted back to their holiday in Clearwater over the Easter break. There’d been something in the news at the time – she’d hardly paid attention to it amidst all the activities – about some kind of outbreak in one of the Orlando theme parks? And little over a week ago the Coopers had shared an eight-hour flight home from that very location, with countless other Irish families who’d spent Easter in the theme parks… ‘Oh my goodness,’ Madeleine gasped, as the full realisation of what might be happening hit her. The countless hours and days she and Tom had spent researching measles when Jake was a baby, trying to decide whether or not they could realistically avoid the MMR vaccination. First and foremost, they’d been hugely uncomfortable about the vaccine’s link to autism, and while the original research paper suggesting the connection had long been discredited, it was very difficult to ignore the multitude of real-life anecdotal experiences that were so prevalent. The very idea of their happy, thriving, babbling Jake regressing to a withdrawn, unresponsive state within days – perhaps hours – of receiving the vaccination was enough to break Madeleine’s heart, and it certainly gave her pause. While Tom had been raised a free-thinker and found it easy to rail against the establishment, she hailed from a more traditional Catholic background, used to trusting and going along with generally accepted advice and thinking. Initially, Madeleine couldn’t credit that the government and health boards would realistically offer something that could harm, rather than protect, children. That was before she started to read through the reams of research on the vaccine and its potentially harmful ingredients, as well as the troubling suggestion of collusion and lobbying from the pharmaceutical companies. But it was the worrying realisation that worldwide governments’ and health officials’ ultimate priority was not the health of an individual child but ‘herd immunity’ that truly concerned her. She’d spent hours upon hours reading up on both sides of what was a very heated and controversial argument, but, ultimately, the whole decision came down to her baby son’s safety. ‘Suppose we don’t give him the vaccination,’ she’d said to Tom, when Jake’s first MMR shot was imminent and they were by then seriously wavering about going along with protocol, ‘and he catches something terrible? I don’t think I could ever forgive myself—’ ‘Could you forgive yourself if we do vaccinate and it triggers something potentially worse?’ he’d argued, and Madeleine’s heart constricted. ‘It’s a huge leap of faith, Maddie,’ he went on, but by then she no longer needed persuading. The health board’s concerns might be for the safety of the population at large; but, as parents, theirs had to be for their son. And once you understood something like that, once you’d come to a realisation that rocked the very foundations of your beliefs, you couldn’t go back. Their family knew that all too well. ‘Look, it’s not as if measles is the end of the world either,’ her husband concluded. ‘I had it when I was a kid and, yes, it was nasty, but I recovered fine.’ Madeleine’s brother Paul had also seen off mumps as a child, and she herself had gone through a mild bout of measles when she was ten. So they figured, even if the worst came to the worst… But then poor Jake went and picked the disease up only a few months later anyway, while they were still hand-wringing over the whole thing. Admittedly, it was at first terrifying to discover that their helpless little one-year-old had contracted something serious, but she and Tom had managed it and, thank goodness, all had been OK. So when the time came to vaccinate Clara, they truly didn’t even think twice. What were the chances of her contracting measles too? And, if she did, wouldn’t they just deal with it again? Despite repeated protests from their GP, urging them to reconsider, Madeleine and Tom eventually concluded – based on both their research and experience – that avoiding the vaccine was the lesser of two evils. It was a risk, but a calculated one. Or so they’d thought. Rosie isn’t vaccinated either… But now, like a blow to the solar plexus, the big difference in this situation hit Madeleine full force. Jake had been young enough to contain and to prevent infecting others, but Clara was in school. With lots of other children. And, given that their daughter had contracted the disease by nature of the fact that she was unvaccinated, it was obvious she’d now passed it on, and even worse, to someone who, according to Lucy, didn’t have the vaccination option. This was a scenario that Madeleine and Tom hadn’t run the odds on. Realising that she had left Lucy in silence on the line, she whispered, ‘And Ellie Madden too?’ Christ, had she passed it on to the entire Junior Infants class, the whole school even? Oh God… ‘No, apparently Ellie actually does have chicken pox – that’s already confirmed. But, Maddie, get Clara to a doctor straight away. And you have to get Jake out of school too, once it’s in your house, he’s likely still infectious, even though…’ To her credit, Madeleine was grateful to Lucy for not making a big deal of their refusal to vaccinate. Goodness knows she and Tom had faced considerable ire from various quarters before about it. ‘I talked to the principal at Applewood,’ her friend went on. ‘Kate made them aware right away, and they’re hoping to keep this quiet for the moment. It’s a good thing it’s nearly the weekend as they don’t want a full-blown panic, but they need to identify who is the highest risk – anyone with autoimmune issues or anything like that. There are very few others there who aren’t already immunised, thank goodness, but…’ Lucy’s voice trailed off and right then Madeleine felt deeply ashamed that her family – her choice – had visited this on the school. ‘You know, kids that aren’t protected can still be helped, Madeleine. I looked it up and if you do vaccinate within seventy-two hours of a suspected outbreak, infection can still be prevented. So I just thought that maybe it’s not too late for Clara…’ Despite herself, she felt defensive. ‘Lucy, I’m sorry but I can’t talk about it now,’ she said wearily. ‘That’s between me and Tom. It’s a family decision.’ And she knew exactly what her husband would have to say on the matter. No way. ‘Sorry, Maddie,’ Lucy replied quietly. ‘I just thought… sorry.’ Madeleine took a deep breath. She knew her friend was only trying to help. ‘No need to apologise. It’s just a shock… and I’m trying to get a grip on what I should do.’ In truth, she was still a bit floored that this had happened, but at the same time she needed to get her ass in gear… she’d have to call Tom at work and the GP of course, as well as haul Jake out of school and a million other things… A cold shiver ran its way up Madeleine’s spine as she looked back at her feverish daughter and suddenly a new realisation set in – one that carried with it a whole new level of worry. Measles… Clara really was ill too – a lot more feverish and uncomfortable than Jake had been. Maybe it would be more serious this time. The odds were small, but they were still odds: measles could be fatal. For all these years, she and Tom had played them, and now that horrible realisation, albeit distant and buried, rose once again to the fore. Oh God… what have we done… Madeleine swallowed hard, and her thoughts instantly turned to Kate O’Hara, who was in the same situation as her at that moment. Well, almost the same. After all she had Tom to share the burden, whereas poor Kate was on her own. ‘Is Rosie OK?’ she asked, trembling. ‘Should I call her mother?’ Lucy was circumspect. ‘I’m not sure that’s the best idea just at the minute. Like you, she has a lot on her plate now. Maybe you should just focus on Clara for the moment,’ her friend advised. Madeleine nodded. In truth, the idea of talking to Kate just then was horrifying, especially if she too suspected Clara was the carrier. Lucy was probably right and she knew Kate much better than Madeleine did. In fairness, she hardly knew Rosie’s mum at all, having only minimal contact with her at the school or related activities, and of course that time when the poor thing lost her husband. But, more to the point, what could Madeleine possibly do for Kate’s daughter now other than apologise? Deciding she’d spent more than enough time wallowing, she said goodbye to Lucy before springing into action and trying to get a handle on this thing. First, she called Tom’s work, but, failing to rouse him anywhere in the building, Ruth his secretary promised she’d get him to call his wife straight back. No response from his mobile either, so Madeleine immediately phoned their GP’s surgery, quickly outlining the situation to the receptionist. ‘Measles? Are you sure, Madeleine?’ Rachel Kennedy, another mother with a much older child at Applewood asked. ‘Isn’t Clara immunised against that?’ Swallowing her mortification, she explained to Rachel that no, neither of her children had received the MMR jab. ‘I… I had… no idea. I’ll have to get Dr Barrett to call you back about a house call then.’ Rachel’s disapproval was so thick Madeleine could actually feel it down the line. Her voice dripped with scorn. ‘Obviously you can’t bring a highly contagious child to the surgery.’ Obviously. ‘I understand that. Thanks, Rachel.’ After hanging up the phone, Madeleine moved once again to her daughter’s bedside and choked back a sob at Clara’s now undeniably rash-ridden feverish body; the full implications of her and Tom’s decision now well and truly coming home to roost. Chapter 7 (#ulink_55d2749c-9e2b-5d70-bd47-a2d905590623) I felt ready to tear out my hair as I paced the floor at Glencree Clinic. My personal and professional lives had once again merged in the worst way. Yet I hadn’t worked, at least here, for days. I’d spent the weekend at home with Rosie when I was more certain of my diagnosis and she displayed all of the classic measles symptoms. Of course, I had consulted with a GP too, but ultimately for measles – much like chicken pox – you had to let it run its course. It’s a virus and can’t be treated with antibiotics. On Friday morning when I called in to work and stayed at home with Rosie, I worked to control her fever, tried to keep her comfortable, all the while wondering how on earth this had happened, and hoping against hope that my tough cookie survivor would have the strength to battle it out. This was the outcome Greg and I most worried about back when her allergy was first diagnosed and we had to make a call on the MMR vaccine. ‘If she catches something, we’ll just have to deal with it,’ my husband advised, typically implacable. ‘It’s unlikely though – herd immunity for measles is very high in this country. And anyway what choice do we have?’ None whatsoever I knew, realising now that Greg’s faith in so-called herd immunity had clearly been misplaced. Measles might be rare these days, but it was still possible. And for my poor Rosie just now, terrifyingly real. At least I knew my own chances of getting sick were slim. As a healthcare professional I was vaccinated as a matter of course against most standard infectious diseases. Still, as any parent knows, those first few hours dealing with a coughing child and a germ-filled house is enough to drive you crazy. But I’d thought we were getting through it OK – or rather Rosie was – until tonight. Lucy had come over earlier in the evening to help me out and confirmed that yes, little Clara Cooper had indeed also gone down with it, but according to Madeleine seemed to have improved over the weekend. I started to think positive; maybe Rosie was close to being out of the woods too? But then, almost out of nowhere, her early fever returned. And spiked. Seriously spiked, over 104 degrees. Almost in tandem, my heart dropped the other direction. I knew the danger zone all too well and my daughter was in it. Lucy and I hustled to get her undressed and into a cold bath, but still, we couldn’t get her fever down. I’ve dealt with a lot of stressful medical situations, but it’s completely different when it’s your child, your own flesh and blood. While I was trying my damnedest not to panic, in truth I was very scared. But even though I was scared, I’m not an idiot. And when Rosie had a febrile seizure, right there in the bath, I knew that this was very serious. Fighting the infection was consuming her and I needed to get her to hospital – fast. Unlike the good hour it would take to reach one of the Dublin hospitals, Glencree was only fifteen minutes down the road, and my workplace was well enough equipped for paediatric emergencies. Notwithstanding the fact that I implicitly trusted my colleagues to do their best for my little girl. Lucy and I got Rosie wrapped up and into the car, but the poor thing was in a bad way, shivering and burning up at the same time. I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to remain strong, hoping and praying that it was just one seizure and that it wouldn’t happen again. But then it did – right as we were flying down the road in Lucy’s Jeep, only minutes away from my workplace. I held on to my daughter in the back seat – to hell with the seat belt – trying to get her to turn on her side safely so she wouldn’t choke on her own tongue. All the while screaming inside and praying to God not to do this to me again. Please don’t take my daughter away too… When Lucy squealed to a stop in front of the clinic’s entrance, I had to do everything in my power not to jump out of the car and start screaming for assistance. Thankfully, Lucy had no compunction about doing just that on my behalf. Minutes later, my still-thrashing daughter was strapped to a stretcher and hustled indoors. I recognised several of the staff and nurses and knew one or two of the paramedics on shift, at least by name. They would help Rosie, I reassured myself. They had the equipment and resources to control her fever – much more so than what I could do at home. I allowed myself to feel just the tiniest bit of relief and reminded myself that while febrile seizures were scary, they were mostly harmless; a natural result of the body’s high temperature when fighting illness. On a practical level, I knew all this but it still didn’t make it any less scary. Rosie was in good hands in Glencree, it was the best place for her just then. I had to trust the very talented people around me. I had no choice. A little later, they were indeed able to stabilise her and bring her temperature down just a little. I literally pounced on Dr Jackson, the on-call paediatrician who just then was coming my way. I knew her a little, but personal decorum goes out the window when you’re frantic for your child. ‘How is she? Will she be OK?’ I babbled, my heart in my mouth at the sight of the doctor’s worryingly expressionless face. ‘Kate…’ she began, using that tone, one I’d heard uttered by hospital staff countless times (hell, I’d used it myself) when bracing themselves to give people news that wasn’t good. Oh God…Terrified, I waited for the doctor’s next words to come out of her mouth, bracing myself for the worst. ‘It’s looking like Rosie has pneumonia,’ Dr Jackson told me gravely, and I gasped with horror. Pneumonia… My God, how had I missed it? I should have had my little girl seen to long before now… what kind of idiot was I? I was supposed to be an RN for goodness’ sake… I had a goddamn Masters degree and still I didn’t realise my own child had pneumonia… The doctor put a gentle hand on my arm. ‘As a precaution, probably best if we transfer her to Dublin where they can keep an eye on her,’ she said, referring to the national children’s hospital in the city. We’ve given her antibiotics and are now trying to get her hydrated and in better shape for the ambulance journey, but it’s going to take a little time.’ She smiled gently. ‘Kate, I know what you’re thinking and, please, try not to be too hard on yourself – sometimes it’s hard to tell with these things…’ ‘I just can’t believe I didn’t even consider it…’ Especially when pneumonia was one of the most common complications with measles. I burst into tears, and allowed Lucy to lead me to a nearby chair, whereupon she let me cry on her shoulder exhausting myself even further. Dr Jackson lightly patted my shoulder, and advised that I would be able to reunite with Rosie when they’d finished prepping her for the transfer, while once again reassuring me that I couldn’t have known. But of course I could; I’m her mother, aren’t I? The one who’s supposed to protect her from harm and keep this kind of stuff from happening in the first place. Fat lot of good I was at that, I thought sniffing. I stood up and began pacing, wearing a path in the linoleum floor as I waited to see my daughter. ‘Come on, Kate, try to relax,’ Lucy said as she fought back a yawn. It was now three o’clock in the morning. I had already told her repeatedly that she should go home to her own family, but she’d insisted on staying. ‘Rosie’s in good hands – think positive.’ I shook my head. ‘No, if I sit down, I’ll drive myself crazy thinking.’ About how this was all my fault. How I should have known. Why had I waited three whole days before getting her seen to, assuming she could just fight this on her own? Right then, a nurse entered the general waiting area and gave me a gentle smile. It was enough to make me want to run over and hug her, yet I still couldn’t be sure if it meant… ‘Rosie’s sleeping now, and we have her on an antibiotic drip. The ambulance should be ready soon, and you’re free to go back in and sit with her while we wait.’ Almost sick with relief, I thanked the nurse and looked quickly at Lucy, who offered to head back to the house to bring me some toiletries and clothes – things I hadn’t had the time or the foresight to grab when we hightailed it over here hours ago. I nodded my assent and she asked me if there was anything I needed specifically, but my mind was blank. I didn’t care what she brought me frankly, because I couldn’t recall a thing that I needed as much as I wanted to be by my little girl’s side. Hold her close, keep her safe. Like I thought I’d been doing up to now. On entering Rosie’s hospital room, I was immediately struck by how big the bed was and how small and fragile she was. My heart felt like it was breaking. My God; she’s only five years old… She was so pale and she had monitors and machines all around her, tracking every heartbeat, every breath. I walked slowly to the side of the bed and sat down, taking Rosie’s little hand in mine and murmuring, ‘Mummy’s here, buttercup. It’s going to be OK.’ But was it? a small voice in my mind asked. Again, my brain instinctively tried to go clinical on me – it was ready to spout off the measles statistics that I had been trying not to think about since I first spotted that telltale rash. I tried to tell it to shut up. It’s just pneumonia – the antibiotics will sort it, it will be OK. I worked my hardest to take Lucy’s advice and try to think positive, but my mind was too busy lecturing me that there were no guarantees from one minute to the next. I understood that lesson better than most. Chapter 8 (#ulink_e9a2f9aa-a6fb-5909-a36a-b756a3c11818) The following week, Madeleine felt herself breathe a sigh of relief and offered up the quietest of thankful prayers as the GP took another look into Clara’s mouth and nodded. Her rash still looked angry and sore, but her fever had all but disappeared, thank goodness. Some colour had returned to her cheeks, and today – a week since first displaying any signs of illness – Madeleine’s five-year-old was looking much more like herself. Dr Barrett stood up and took a final glance down at Clara. ‘It looks like you are on the mend, princess,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’re a very lucky girl.’ His smile disappeared as he looked at Madeleine. ‘As are you,’ he added in a grave tone. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, tears of relief pricking at the corners of her eyes, but her attention was returned to Dr Barrett when he cleared his throat and motioned with a sharp jerk of his head that he wanted to speak with her – privately. She turned to leave the room and dutifully followed in his wake. ‘When will Tom be home?’ Dr Barrett enquired. In his sixties, the Knockroe doctor had been on first name terms with Madeleine’s family for years, and had been her GP since she was a child. She secretly wondered when he was going to retire. Tom said that Frank Barrett would retire at his funeral. He was probably right. ‘Not until later. He had to get back to work. He was here for the first few days, of course, but when it looked like she was out of the woods, he went back yesterday.’ Tom had been wonderful at keeping poor Clara’s spirits up, especially when one day he’d arrived home with, of all things, a blow-up kayak and a huge cuddly dolphin, promising their little girl that once she was all better, he’d take her out on the water like they did in Florida. This had raised a much needed smile from her rash-covered face, and even a few giggles when Tom and Jake proceeded to re-enact on the floor of her bedroom the loveliest moment of their trip; a memorable day out on the gulf when a family of blue dolphins had appeared and proceeded to jump up and down alongside their kayak, delighting them all, especially Clara. ‘He only has so much annual leave left unfortunately, and we have holidays booked for the summer,’ Madeleine babbled to the doctor, which earned her a stern harrumph. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right – that shouldn’t matter at a time like this.’ Especially when it had been a holiday that had got them into all this trouble in the first place. ‘You’re right, she must have picked it up on the flight back from Florida,’ Tom had agreed, when the doctor first came to examine Clara, echoing Madeleine’s early assessment. On the GP’s advice, her husband had been in touch with the health board to report the incident and put them on alert for potential contamination amongst other passengers. ‘The timeline does sound right,’ the doctor concluded. ‘You got back, when – Saturday week? So she would have been exposed about ten days prior to showing any symptoms. Unfortunately, further exposing her classmates at Applewood in the ensuing time,’ he’d added pointedly, and, thinking of little Rosie O’Hara, Madeleine winced. Now Dr Barrett turned to face her as they reached the living room. ‘I don’t know if you and Tom are really cognisant of just how lucky your family is – how lucky Clara is. Especially when you already dodged a bullet with Jake.’ He narrowed his eyes at her from behind his spectacles and ran a hand through his full head of shockingly white hair. Madeleine sensed a lecture. She wished Tom was here – especially as she guessed what was coming next. It was so hard having to defend their position over and over – mortifyingly difficult actually, given what they’d just been through. Her husband was much better than she at arguing the reasons behind their decision not to vaccinate Clara, and Tom had for the most part taken this recent misfortune in his stride. ‘We just need to wait things out, Maddie. She’ll be fine. We’ve been through this before,’ he reassured, when, after Clara’s diagnosis, Madeleine had castigated herself for their failures. But Tom had once again proceeded to reiterate the reasons why they had decided against the jabs in the first place, outlined their full decision-making process when Jake was a baby and arrived at the same conclusion. ‘We said the risk was one we weren’t willing to take, and now it’s time for us to stand by that,’ he’d repeated gently, while Madeleine thought it was all fine and well to make such decisions without having to face the fallout of the reality: namely a sick child who was feverish and uncomfortable. But, in truth, Clara did seem to be fighting it well, and now, thank goodness, looked to be in the clear. ‘I need to encourage you again,’ Frank Barrett reiterated. ‘When Clara is fully recovered, go and get your children protected against the rest of all these godforsaken illnesses medicine conquered years ago. I’m serious, Madeleine.’ She put up a hand, trying to appease him, but he continued. ‘No, as your doctor, it is my job to say this. You know, there are a lot of GPs in this country who wouldn’t even allow your kids near their surgery. The only reason I haven’t had that policy with you is because I have known your family for ever. But I have to put my foot down now. Do you know just how bad this could have been? Do you have any idea? I’m receiving complaints from parents all over Knockroe and beyond. Madeleine, they don’t want their kids around yours – especially not at school.’ ‘Please, Frank,’ said Madeleine, trying to keep her voice from quivering. ‘You know this is something that Tom and I have always felt very strongly about—’ ‘Bah!’ Dr Barrett bellowed, throwing up his hands in frustration. ‘Nonsense. Conspiracy theories against the pharmaceutical companies. For heaven’s sakes, Madeleine, you know those autism studies were debunked years ago. I thought you were smarter than that; I know you are. All vaccines have ever done is eradicate serious illness. Do you know how many people in Third World hellholes would love to have access to something as simple as the freely distributed preventative medicine we take for granted? Do you know how many lives it would save?’ The doctor sighed heavily and dropped onto the sofa, seemingly exhausted. He looked at one of the plush throw pillows that he had disturbed from its artful arrangement and appeared thoughtful. Madeleine could sense him softening somehow – like his rant had run out of steam. She didn’t know what to say to him. She understood his point of view, of course she did. But they’d been through this time and time again when the kids were younger. ‘Do you want a glass of water? A cup of tea, maybe?’ she asked kindly. He had done so much for her family over the last week, and she understood his stress. Dr Barrett shrugged. ‘Tea would be great. Thank you.’ Madeleine retreated to the kitchen, vaguely aware this was one room of the house that had yet to be completely rescued from neglect when Clara was in the throes of her illness. And, as if the house wasn’t bad enough, after the last week, Madeleine knew that she too badly needed taking in hand. She put a hand up and ran it through her hair, now flat and straggly, and she guessed her unmade-up face looked haggard, and a million miles from her bubbly blonde TV persona. Washing her hands, she swallowed the compulsive urge to automatically grab the bleach and begin scrubbing things down right there and then – to try and restore order. Instead she put the kettle on and brought it to a boil. She pulled a teapot down from the cabinet as she eyed the wine glasses that were housed right above it. What I wouldn’t give for one of you bad boys just now, she thought ruefully. Alas, it was barely noon and she wasn’t one of those people. Not yet at least. Though her Mad Mum alter-ego would probably advise her to go right ahead. Allowing the tea to steep, Madeleine closed her eyes and thought about what Dr Barrett had said. He was right, of course. She knew that they had been lucky in that it hadn’t been anything more serious. Clara was on the mend. They’d got through it, dodged another bullet. Everything was going to be OK. She nodded as if to reassure herself of this as she placed the teapot and cups on a silver tea tray that had belonged to her mother. She knew it was a bit old-fashioned, but there was also something about it that was just so nicely ceremonial. She had always loved it and took it out every chance she could. Though Tom had kept the basics stocked up, unfortunately there were no biscuits or anything else to offer the doctor, and a trip to the supermarket was long overdue. She sighed. The last week had well and truly been utter chaos, but at least things were looking up now. She walked back into the living room and set the tray on their walnut coffee table, taking extra care not to scratch the finish. Pouring a cup of tea, Madeleine looked at the doctor and asked, ‘Sugar?’ Dr Barrett shook his head. ‘Just milk will do. Thank you.’ The doctor took a hesitant sip and closed his eyes briefly, as if allowing himself a brief respite as the warmth of the liquid spread through his body. Suddenly, he reopened his eyes and placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table. Something about his demeanour had changed once again, as if it was time to get back to business. ‘You know that little Rosie O’Hara is in hospital?’ Madeleine looked down at her milky tea and nodded solemnly. ‘I know, I heard.’ Lucy had filled her in on the news – that on Monday she had gone with Kate to the local clinic because Rosie’s fever had suddenly spiked. And that the little girl had soon after been transferred to Dublin. Returning her eyes to meet Dr Barrett’s, she had the uncanny feeling that he was studying her. Gauging her reaction. Of course he’d given her that lecture before too – about social responsibility and their contribution (or lack thereof) to herd immunity. But how could you realistically proceed with something you truly felt was unsafe? Especially when there was no law against not vaccinating. ‘She’s in a critical condition, Madeleine. I don’t know if you know that. She has pneumonia, and some swelling in her brain apparently. She’s not going to have an easy road of it. Not like Clara.’ Madeleine’s throat went dry. Why was he telling her this? To make her feel guilty? Trying to blame her outright for Rosie’s condition? As if she didn’t feel bad enough. Thanks to Lucy, she was all too aware that her daughter was being blamed by other Knockroe parents – and the school – for infecting Rosie. She didn’t need to be made to feel guilty about that from the family doctor as well. Madeleine placed her cup and saucer on the tray and stood up. She appreciated the house call that Dr Barrett had made, but now it was time for him to go. She had more than enough to do around the house and she still had Clara to attend to. And this whole conversation was making her feel really uncomfortable. ‘I’ve already sent Kate our best wishes. I know what she’s going through, after all.’ Madeleine intended her words to sound soft, but as they fell from her lips she realised there was more of an edge to them than she’d intended. But she just couldn’t face any more guilt, any more regret. This, taken with the stress and worry about Clara over the last week, was getting on top of her. What was done was done and there was nothing Madeleine could do about it now. She couldn’t go back and change things or stop Clara from contracting the disease. The time for such decision-making was years ago, long gone. And at that time, she and Tom had made the decision that felt right, that was the best one for their family. She couldn’t think about the impact of that choice on other people just now. It was all too overwhelming. Madeleine just wanted the doctor to leave so she could deal with this on her own, away from stern glares and accusing tones. Though if this was what her doctor – a close acquaintance – was saying, she wondered what strangers or indeed other locals would say when they heard about Rosie’s hospital admission. Dr Barrett clearly picked up on the mood. ‘Well, I suppose that I should be going,’ he said, standing up. ‘Let me know if there is any change with Clara. Otherwise, I think she is indeed on the mend. But again you and Tom should think about what I said about the other jabs. It’s still not too late.’ He focused a keen eye on Madeleine then and she felt as if all of her thoughts, doubts, and worries were on display. Incredibly, despite her relief that Clara was on the mend, this visit had actually made her feel worse; had sent her entire world out of whack. It was truly awful that little Rosie was in hospital; there was no question about that. She felt for Kate and she was desperately sorry that Clara’s infection had played some part in that. It wasn’t her daughter’s fault though; these things were always a risk, and nobody had any control over how another child might fight infection. And, more to the point, wasn’t it common knowledge that Rosie was unvaccinated too? In any case, Clara was going to be OK, that was the main thing. It was the only thing that Madeleine should be thinking about just then. Chapter 9 (#ulink_2e2b94e8-8640-5826-994a-0753ec8bcdf4) I felt my eyes grow heavy as I sat in the recliner that had been placed in the corner of Rosie’s hospital room. However, as soon as I got close to sleep, some beep or boop would be emitted from the machines surrounding my little girl’s bed, and I would spring awake, my heart thumping. I was exhausted. I hadn’t truly slept in days, and felt at times both over-fuelled by adrenaline and as lethargic as if I had been trying to run underwater. This must be what torture by sleep deprivation felt like. I would honestly sell my soul to the highest bidder if it meant that I would get more than an hour of sleep at a time. Of course, it wasn’t as if I didn’t have people around me telling me to take care of myself. Lucy, Rosie’s paediatrician Dr Ryan, various shift nurses – they all told me I needed to sleep, and I knew they were right. I understood that I needed to focus on myself too, but I found it impossible. The stress alone was making my body rigid with anxiety. No matter if I wanted to rest, I felt constantly on. My mind still raced with worry and the never-ending chorus of ‘what if?’ Until Rosie started to show signs of any improvement, my life was at a standstill. After fixing my hair into a more comfortable top knot, I got up from where I sat and walked to her bedside, dropping to a kneel. Her eyes were closed and she was sleeping. They had her on a respirator at the moment because she was having problems breathing due to the pneumonia. I would have given anything to remove the machines and tubes that seemed to engulf her. I wanted her to be awake so I could talk to her and reassure her that she would be OK, but I knew that sleep was good for her and it was what she needed. Resting my head against the rail of the hospital bed, I felt myself starting to nod off again until I heard someone come into the room. ‘Kate?’ It was Frances, a friendly nurse I’d come to know in the six days we’d been here. She checked on my little girl’s condition, but from her chart I already knew there was little to report. They’d taken blood tests on admission to the hospital which had confirmed pneumonia. As it was, we just had to wait for the antibiotics to do their job. Wait. It seemed like all I’d been doing this past week. To my surprise, the nurse took a seat alongside me. ‘How are you?’ she asked, touching my arm. ‘You know you really should try to—’ ‘I know. But sleep isn’t easy…’ ‘I understand. It’s a horrible time, but rest assured we’re doing all we can. Measles, it can be such a nasty business when it takes this course. But, to be honest, it’s a long time since I’ve come across an outbreak in this hospital.’ She paused for a moment and then leaned forward in her chair, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I heard that the other little girl from Rosie’s school has since recovered?’ ‘Apparently so.’ ‘And there haven’t been any other cases in the school or in the town apart from Rosie?’ ‘No, I don’t think so. Not that I know of anyway. Thank goodness.’ Appearing thoughtful, Frances seemed to be studying me. ‘I understand the reason why Rosie isn’t vaccinated. And I know it was a hard choice that you and your late husband had to make. But do you happen to know why the other little girl wasn’t?’ ‘I really don’t know the family all that well…’ I answered. My head felt foggy. ‘No idea if it’s a political position? Something religious perhaps?’ She seemed to be just making idle conversation, but something about her tone of voice made me perk up. I tried to climb through the swamp of grey matter in my head. ‘Why do you ask? And what does it matter?’ But the nurse didn’t have time to answer my question, because at that moment Lucy entered the waiting room with Christine Campbell in tow. Handing over my recent post as well as some other bits and pieces I needed from the house (my iPad and charger, one of Rosie’s favourite dinosaurs, a random book that had been on my bedside table), Lucy took a seat beside me. Christine sat on my other side as I introduced Frances. ‘Christine was really anxious about Rosie,’ Lucy supplied when I looked curiously at our new visitor. It was nice of Christine to come, and surprising too when I didn’t know her especially well. But that was one of the positives about living in a small community. ‘Oh you’re all from the same town?’ Frances smiled. ‘I was just asking Kate about that other little girl with measles. Do you know her too?’ she enquired pleasantly. I shifted uncomfortably. Given that Clara was almost certainly the cause of Rosie’s current trials, I didn’t like to think about the Coopers all that much. While I was happy that little Clara had recovered, I couldn’t deny that I felt a little… jealous too. That they were the ones with all the luck and resources, as well as having each other to lean on when things were hard. While I had nothing and no one. Apart from Lucy of course, who had once again been wonderful. My mother had tried to make arrangements to travel up from Cork, but my dad was poorly with sciatica and, as she didn’t drive, she was relying on a lift from a generous neighbour. Part of me was almost glad she hadn’t yet managed it. At least I could stay here at the hospital and focus all of my attention on Rosie, without having to think about hosting my mother too, who suffered from her nerves and, God help her, wasn’t the best in a crisis. But while I was reticent to discuss the Coopers, Christine was practically jumping in her seat waiting for her turn to speak. ‘Yes, we do know the family,’ she said, her tone barely concealing her disapproval as she pushed her glasses back to the top of her nose. ‘Unusual that she wasn’t vaccinated either, isn’t it?’ Frances said conversationally. ‘Unlucky too, I suppose.’ ‘Nothing at all to do with luck,’ added Christine with narrowed eyes. ‘It’s because the girl’s parents – the father in particular – are a pair of sanctimonious lunatics. Tom is one of those conspiracy theory types,’ she added bitterly. I shot Lucy a look. I was grateful for Christine’s visit, but my daughter’s bedside wasn’t the place for gossip, or airing personal grievances. In turn, my friend apologised with her eyes. ‘Christine, like me, the Coopers have just experienced a very scary time, except unlike me, they’ve managed to come out of it OK. Whatever the reasons for their choices, it’s their business. I’m just glad their little girl is better. That’s all that matters.’ Lucy spoke up. ‘Yes, and also Madeleine has been so concerned about Rosie. She asks about her all the time. The mother and I are friends,’ she added, for Frances’ benefit. ‘Please understand, I’m not trying to gossip,’ the nurse went on. ‘I was just wondering about their reasons, maybe there’s a good reason—’ ‘Nope. Absolutely not. They knew exactly what they were doing in not vaccinating. And they took the risk anyway. Put all of our children in danger.’ ‘Christine, please…’ Lucy looked mortified. ‘I see,’ the nurse murmured softly. ‘And, Kate, you know my cousin is a solicitor? Well, we were discussing the situation about the Coopers over lunch the other day… and he tells me there is a school of thought that suggests if you decide not to vaccinate your child, and another gets seriously ill like Rosie has, you could potentially be held liable.’ I shook my head; was Christine seriously suggesting that I was the one responsible for Rosie’s plight? ‘Are you saying I’m to blame for this?’ I gasped, a bit hysterically. I looked to Lucy for help, but she wore an expression I couldn’t read. Was it confusion? Or concern? Why couldn’t I follow this conversation? Jesus, I needed to sleep. But Christine’s dark eyes were bright and she was shaking her head. ‘No, Kate, she’s not suggesting at all that you’re responsible,’ Frances put in. ‘But I think what your friend is suggesting is that the other parents could be. They failed to vaccinate their child. That same child contracted a preventable illness, passing it on to Rosie who’s since become very ill.’ ‘What does it matter who’s responsible?’ I cried. ‘Please,’ I implored Lucy. ‘I can’t deal with this. I… I’m not able for visitors just now. My daughter needs me.’ The nurse stood up. ‘Kate is right. Perhaps this isn’t the best time…’ I felt myself start to relax just a bit, but Christine wasn’t finished. ‘But you have to think about this, Kate. I mean, I’m not trying to force your hand or talk you into anything you are uncomfortable with, I just want you to think about it. There was a deliberate choice made. You couldn’t vaccinate Rosie without risking her life. The Coopers weren’t faced with that decision – they just decided not to bother. And don’t forget Madeleine sent Clara to school that morning, knowing she was unwell. This was what my cousin found interesting. Think about it. She doesn’t protect her kids from infectious diseases and then she sends her feverish daughter to school. She deliberately put ours at risk.’ ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It was just unfortunate, just one of those things. And it’s a risk I had to take every day too knowing Rosie isn’t protected. It’s just as much my fault as anyone else’s.’ ‘How can you not see it?’ Christine persisted. Lucy put a hand on her arm, trying to quieten her. ‘Because nobody does that!’ I cried, outraged at the very suggestion. ‘No parent would ever intend such a thing.’ But amidst my protests, the alternative scenario sparked a thought in me. If Madeleine Cooper, knowing Clara was ill, hadn’t sent her daughter to school that morning, wouldn’t Rosie have avoided getting measles? And wouldn’t my little girl now be at home making up fearsome scenarios for her dinosaurs, instead of lying in a hospital bed, fighting for breath? Chapter 10 (#ulink_7f6a0c9c-1886-5f8b-b44d-8ae5d57bc99c) MAD MUM MUSINGS Parents Not Allowed I see a woman hovering under a seven-foot play frame, arms aloft like a wedding guest waiting to catch the bridal bouquet. But then she turns and I see, not anticipation, but outright terror on her face. ‘Oh my God, she’s going to break her neck,’ she gasps, horrified. ‘Anyone know who her mother is?’ The kid apparently in such grave peril is mine – except she’s been climbing that play frame since she was four. When I tell the woman this, she stares at me, eyes wide with recrimination, and I realise that, yikes: this mama bear’s a helicopter. A species of parent that is all too common in our favourite playground. I love taking my six- and eight-year-old kids to the playground for many reasons: first and foremost so they can play and muck about – with other kids or by themselves – as well as learn to negotiate the world on their own terms. They run around, laugh, climb play frames and make friends – all the usual things kids do at parks and playgrounds – while I sit on a bench at a safe distance, chat to other parents or (gasp!) idly scroll through my phone. For my two, it’s a space that remains free from everyday restrictions (within reasonable limits). I don’t stand over them or interfere and it seems this, at least to the helicopters, makes me not just a Mad Mum but a Very Bad one, perhaps even worthy of social services intervention. Because helicopters come to the playground to be Alert At All Times, hovering endlessly over their charges – coaxing up the ladder and down the slide, bouncing gently on the seesaw, swinging endlessly on the swing. I know not every parent is the same, and there’s no denying that it can be hard to just let kids at it, especially if it’s your and Junior’s first time in the place, and you see everyone else hand-holding. And if you don’t, it immediately makes you look like you don’t give a shit. I’m also sure no one ever thinks he or she is a helicopter parent, and it goes without saying that everyone is just trying to do right by their child. But does more worry equal more love? For my part, I’m inclined to be free range because I remember my own childhood and how my parents didn’t have the time, let alone the desire, to watch every misstep or foresee every potential problem. Don’t child-proof the world, is my motto. World-proof the child. (Thankfully my husband agrees with me.) And every time someone else is horrified that he or I let our brood try something potentially ‘too dangerous for their age’, I wave concern aside with the assertion that aren’t they better off learning now – before it’s too late – to respect the danger of what they are doing and negotiate it safely? I want them to try things they thought they couldn’t do, fail, try again and repeat until they are successful. Isn’t this a necessary life skill in itself? Psychological studies also show that children benefit from, if not actual danger, the feeling of danger and related sensations that result from activities like climbing up to get a bird’s-eye view, playing with dangerous tools, or exploring on their own. With that in mind, I recently read an article about a playground in New York that embraces an interesting philosophy: parents (helicopters or otherwise) are not allowed. After the adults sign a waiver, their kids are let loose on a small field full of all kinds of detritus; tyres, a plastic water cooler, pieces of wood in all sorts of sizes and shapes, thrown out household equipment etc., where they do what kids have done for ever: have fun and figure out how to make and break things. Given all the stuff lying around for them to play with, it’s inevitable that some of them will occasionally get dirty and scuffed up and scratched. In fact, that’s pretty much the point. So parents, maybe try to switch off those whirring fret-motors at the playground, come back down to earth once in a while and even consider sitting with some of us feckless miscreants for a minute or two? It’ll work wonders for your nerves and you never know, you and your kids might just have some fun… Clara Cooper couldn’t wait to get back to school. She felt herself nearly shaking with excitement as her mother pulled up in front of Applewood Primary. Clara just wanted things to get back to normal; she was eager to go to drama class again and see her friends and, as much as she would only admit it secretly to herself, she even missed having to do homework. She felt desperate to feel like a normal kid, instead of a sick one who had to be quarantined from her life and everyone in it. ‘All set, honey?’ her mum asked with a smile. Clara was about to reply when her stupid brother interrupted her. ‘Why would anyone be excited to go back to school?’ he sneered. ‘I’d rather be at home watching TV.’ Sometimes Jake could be an idiot. He just didn’t get it – but Clara wasn’t going to let him ruin her mood. ‘Yeah, I’m ready, Mum. I’m really excited, actually.’ ‘That’s my girl,’ said her mum. ‘At least I know which one of you is the smart one,’ she teased. ‘Do you want me to walk you in? Or…’ But Clara was already shaking her head. Jake had flung open the door of the car and jumped from the vehicle as soon as it came to a stop. He threw up a hand in salute and shouted, ‘Bye, Mum,’ as he ran towards his friends, who were gathered at the classroom doors. Clara wanted to follow his lead. After a couple of weeks of being sick and coddled around the clock (not that she hadn’t liked that – she had felt terrible after all), she was now ready to spread her wings and be independent. ‘I’m fine, I just want to go see my friends. Is that OK?’ she asked politely. Her mother grinned. ‘Of course! Now, just wait a minute though. Let me get a picture of you – I want to put it on Facebook. So many people have been asking about you and I want to show them just how well you look and how excited you are. Speaking of which, Auntie Fiona is picking you up later. Now that you’re better, Cam and Brian are staying with us for the afternoon, and she’s going to bring you all back to our house.’ ‘Great.’ Clara forced a smile, but in truth she wasn’t too keen on her cousins coming to visit. Brian was OK, but Cam was just so moody and nasty to everyone. She didn’t know why his mum and dad didn’t warn him to be kind and show manners like hers insisted she and Jake always did. But, she supposed, some kids were just like that. Her mum held up her iPhone and snapped a picture, nodding in approval. ‘Perfect. Now you go and have a lovely day. Dad and I are proud of you, sweetheart – you’re such a trooper.’ Clara waved goodbye and hopped from the car. Taking a deep breath, she felt like skipping, but tried to play it cool, scanning the outside of the school for her friends. Spotting some other girls from her class, she strode with purpose in their direction. As she walked, her thoughts briefly turned to Rosie. She felt a small burst of worry enter her chest. Clara knew that her classmate was still in the hospital – at least that’s what she had heard her mum say. She was a bit worried about Rosie. They weren’t best friends or anything, but she still really liked her. Rosie was fun, not at all girly and she loved playing dinosaurs with the boys. Clara liked dinosaurs too but her best friends Rachel and Megan didn’t really, so it was nice to have another girl who enjoyed playing with them too. And she also felt a bit bad for Rosie because her dad died. Clara really couldn’t imagine what that must be like, but guessed it must be a terrible thing. She couldn’t imagine losing her own dad. And now poor Rosie was in the hospital – she had become much sicker with measles than Clara. That was something else she couldn’t imagine because she had felt like she was going to die while she had them. What must it be like to feel even worse? Furrowing her brow, Clara decided that she would keep Rosie in her thoughts, but that she wouldn’t let her worries ruin her first day back. Picking up her pace, she felt her spirits buoy once again, especially as she heard the squeals of delight from Rachel and Megan. She ran the final steps to her friends and they all cried out in excitement. However, the girls’ obvious excitement at being reunited attracted the attention of another classmate they usually tried to avoid. Kevin Campbell. The young boy approached the three girls with a scowl on this face. He was flanked on either side by two of his other friends – older boys who liked to be nasty. Great, more meanies. ‘Who said you could come back to school?’ he sneered. ‘Are you trying to get everyone else sick now?’ Clara turned to look directly at Kevin. She hated having to talk to him, but she knew from experience that ignoring him just made him worse. So she faced him down, like her mum and dad had taught her. ‘Principal Connelly talked to my doctor and my parents. Everyone said I was ready to come back. Just go away. It’s none of your business anyway,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She felt Megan stand reassuringly close alongside her. But this answer didn’t satisfy Kevin. ‘It is my business. I don’t want to get sick because of you. I don’t want my friends to catch your rotten diseases. You know, I heard that Rosie could die. Do you know that if that happens, it will be your fault, Clara? I wonder how old you have to be to go to jail? They might not lock you up for killing her, but they will definitely lock your parents up – and then you and Jake will be put up for adoption or something.’ His friends laughed loudly, which merely served to egg Kevin on. ‘Probably be better that way anyway. My mum says that your parents are stupid and crazy. So it’s good if they do get locked up. I mean, murderers should go to jail – especially ones who kill kids.’ Clara felt a lump grow in her throat. Her mum had told her that Rosie getting sick hadn’t been her fault. But now she wasn’t so sure. What if Rosie did die? She willed herself not to cry, but still a tear leaked from her eye. Of course, Kevin saw it. ‘Are you going to cry, Clara?’ he guffawed. ‘Well, you probably should. If I were you, I would feel terrible for killing one of my friends.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/melissa-hill/keep-you-safe-a-tear-jerking-and-compelling-story-that-will-m/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.