LITMIR.BIZ

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and your boots are warmer.’ I shut the door and headed around to the driver’s side. Climbing in, I fished my iPhone out of my pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here you go, DJ,’ I said pre-emptively, knowing that when Rosie was in the car she liked to take charge of the music, usually opting for the American rock anthems so beloved by her father. ‘So what happened in school today?’

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

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

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

      I had to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The joys of primary school.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      It was my job to keep her safe.

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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