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