LITMIR.BIZ

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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,’

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