Kitabı oku: «Keep You Safe», sayfa 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, she was indeed a bad mother. Terrible.

‘Is what true, sweetheart?’ she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clara and Jake nodded solemnly.

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

‘It would seem so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well! Strong words…’

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

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

‘I definitely hear you there…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@MorningCoffeeShow LOVE @MadMumIE! #goMadeleine #maternitylife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I truly had my little girl back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes.

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

‘Kate – over here!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is anyone sitting here?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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