It's All About Him Read online

  It's All About Him

  Colette Caddle

  For Seán

  Thanks to my son Peter for his help and advice about young boys; what would I do without him? To Seán, for making me laugh and reminding me what it's all about. Thank you to my mother for her constant and solid support. And last, but by no means least, thank you to Tony for still putting up with me after all these years. I love you all.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 1

  A wave of nausea swept over Dee as she read the letter. She'd been expecting it, of course. The bathroom had flooded the Sunday before last. The ancient tank had finally given up the ghost and burst, sending hot water spewing out at a frightening rate. The old floorboards couldn't take it and had buckled under the weight of water, devastating the room underneath. The fact that the room was now leased to the Happy Days crèche owned by her friend Lisa meant that, for nearly two weeks, Lisa and her assistant Martha had to crowd the eight children into one room and it was far from ideal. It had been an awful experience all round but now it had just got worse.

  Dee stared in horror at the piece of paper documenting the cost of a call-out on a Sunday night, of replacing the tank and the pipes – 'they've had it, love' – and there was another bill sitting on her desk for the installation of the new bathroom floor and dining-room ceiling.

  'The insurance will cover it,' her boyfriend Conor had assured her as they mopped up after the plumber had left, and she'd nodded with a pained smile. She didn't have the courage to tell him that there was no insurance; he would think she was stupid.

  It was madness, of course, but Dee had allowed the policy to lapse as there simply wasn't enough money to go round. She had to have public and employer's liability insurance for the crèche and medical insurance for Sam was imperative. The house, well, the house had been standing for the last eighty years and it would probably survive another few.

  'Mum? I feel sick again.'

  Dee shoved the letter into her dressing-gown pocket and led her little boy back into the bathroom. He looked pale and his lips had a blue tinge but his eyes were reasonably bright. Still, she'd take him to the surgery just in case. He'd been up half the night throwing up for no apparent reason and though Dee had gone over and over in her head what he'd eaten the previous day she still couldn't figure out what might have upset him.

  When Lisa arrived for work, she took one look at mother and son, sent Dee for a shower, and took the little boy down to the kitchen. After Dee had dressed in her uniform of jeans and T-shirt and twisted her long hair into a knot, she ran downstairs. Sam, clad in clean pyjamas, was curled up on the battered sofa in the corner of the kitchen, nibbling toast and watching Pokémon.

  'Thanks,' Dee said as Lisa passed her a mug of strong tea.

  'Bad night?'

  Dee nodded, rolling her eyes. 'Awful.'

  'Why don't you go and have a lie down? Once the other kids arrive and he's distracted he'll be fine.'

  'I have to do the shopping,' Dee looked at the clock, 'and if I just go to the local supermarket I'll be back in time to take Sam to morning surgery.' Dee usually did her shopping in the wholesaler's twenty miles south on the outskirts of Dublin as it worked out a lot cheaper, but that was out of the question now.

  'I'm sure it's nothing,' Lisa tried to reassure her.

  'Still, I'd like Bill to check him. Do you need anything at the shops?' Dee pulled a pen and pad towards her and added another couple of items to the already long list.

  'Plasters and some fish fingers, please.'

  'There are two containers of my homemade fish nuggets in the freezer,' Dee reminded her.

  Lisa grinned. 'Sorry, they're just not orange enough for the kids.'

  Dee grunted and added the items to her list. She and Lisa chatted about the day ahead and then Lisa went through to prepare for the imminent arrival of three babies and four toddlers. 'I'll be back for Sam in a minute,' she called over her shoulder and Dee nodded her thanks and crossed the room to crouch down in front of her son.

  'How are you doing?'

  "kay,' Sam said, not taking his eyes off the television.

  'Do you think you might be sick again?'

  He shook his head.

  'Great! Then let's get you dressed.'

  'Ah, Mummy, do I have to?'

  Dee smiled. 'No, I don't suppose so. I've got to go and do the shopping and when I get back I'll help you dress and we'll go and see Doctor Bill.'

  'But Mummy, I'm fine now,' he protested.

  She stood up and fluffed his thick mop of hair. 'We'll let Doctor Bill decide that. See you later, sweetheart.'

  As Dee drove the short distance to the large supermarket on the outskirts of Banford, she thanked God for Lisa. To have someone on-site on days like today was a godsend and it suited Lisa, too.

  Her best friend since childhood, Lisa Dunphy adored children and had trained both in childcare and Montessori. Her dream had always been to run her own crèche and it had finally occurred to Dee that she could both help her friend realize her dream and solve some of her own money worries at the same time.

  Lisa had been thrilled with the idea and Dee had begged and pleaded with the bank for a loan so that they could carry out the necessary work that would transform the bottom of the house into Banford's most popular childcare centre. It had been the best move Dee had ever made. The dark, old house was now alive with the sound of children's voices, Sam loved having the company of the other children, and the extra income helped towards the maintenance of her family home. At least, it used to, she thought, as she remembered the bill that had arrived that morning.

  She had no idea how she was going to pay it. Between her income from her catering business and Lisa's crèche she could just about manage but there was nothing in the kitty to cover events like this. She would have to go to the bank or credit union and beg for help. Either that or arrange a payment plan with the plumber and builder.

  She turned into the supermarket car park and groaned as an ominous rattle came from under the car. 'No, not now, you bloody rust-bucket,' she growled, resolving to ask Conor to take a look at it later. Thank God she had a boyfriend who not only was attractive but also knew something about cars, too. In fact, although he was a farmer, Conor could turn his hand to most things and seemed to spend much of his free time either fixing something in her house or tinkering with the car. Sam followed him around like a lapdog and Conor always made a big deal of giving the child something to do and calling him his little helper.

  'You should make an honest man of him while you have the chance,' Lisa often told her. 'Men like t
hat don't grow on trees.'

  'No, they don't,' Dee would agree.

  She parked the car, grabbed a trolley and pushed it through the automatic doors, rummaging in her pocket for her extensive shopping list. 'Oh, no,' she groaned as she searched fruitlessly through all her pockets and bag, realizing that it didn't matter how much she looked, the list was at home on the kitchen table. 'Great,' she muttered, heading for the fruit and vegetable aisle, 'just great.'

  She tried to remember what was on her list, then gave up and threw a bit of everything into the trolley. If she had too much it would simply mean more cooking and freezing; they couldn't afford to throw anything out. She would make a hearty soup, she decided, and freeze it in small portions for Lisa to reheat on days when Dee wasn't around. Cheered at the thought, Dee moved on to the freezer section and peered dubiously into the cabinets at the range of fish fingers. She hated buying this sort of stuff but Lisa would murder her if she came back without them. 'If you can feed them healthily four days out of five you've done an amazing job,' she'd argue and Dee knew she was right. So she relented and bought the processed food that Lisa demanded but not before agonizing over all the labels.

  She was studying the tiny print on the back of a pack of waffles when a young girl appeared at her elbow.

  'Hi, I'm Carrie Lambe from Forever FM, can I talk to you for a moment?'

  'I'm in a bit of a hurry . . .' Dee started.

  'Oh, please.' The girl looked at her with large, pleading eyes. 'This is my first stint as a reporter and no one will talk to me. I promise it won't take long.'

  Dee glanced at her watch. She was making better time than she'd realized and, after all, everyone deserved a break. 'Okay, then.'

  'You're a star, thanks a million!' Carrie switched on her tape and shoved a microphone under Dee's nose. 'We're just asking people today if they have any opinions about food labelling.'

  Dee's eyes lit up. 'I have an opinion, all right; it's a bloody disgrace.'

  Carrie nodded excitedly. 'Really? And why's that?'

  'Do you know exactly how misleading some labels are?' Dee demanded.

  'Well, yes, that's why—'

  'Look.' Dee pulled a pack of chicken nuggets from the freezer. 'Read that,' she instructed.

  The girl frowned. 'One hundred per cent chicken breast.'

  'And what does that tell you?'

  Carrie blinked. 'That it's made from one hundred per cent breast of chicken?'

  'No!' Dee flicked over the packet and pointed at the ingredients label with its tiny writing. 'It means that the chicken in the pack is one hundred per cent chicken breast.'

  'Okay,' Carrie said slowly, giving her an odd look.

  'Read it,' Dee was saying.

  Obediently, Carrie screwed up her eyes and studied the label. 'Chicken forty-seven per cent – huh?'

  'Exactly.'

  'But I don't understand. On the front it says one hundred per cent; that's a lie.'

  'Not at all. It's just clever marketing,' Dee explained. 'It's telling you that the chicken in the pack is chicken breast, but what it's not telling you is that less than half of the product is actually chicken.'

  Carrie wrinkled her nose. 'So what else is in there?'

  Dee shrugged. 'God knows.'

  'I had no idea.'

  'Because you do what most people do and read the label and believe it. You look at one hundred per cent chicken breast and think you're buying a reasonably healthy meal.'

  Carrie double-checked that her tape recorder was working and she was getting all of this invaluable information. 'Are there any other products that you feel are misrepresented?'

  'Oh, yes, but I'm afraid I don't have time to go through them all now.'

  'Oh, please, I won't keep you long,' Carrie promised.

  Dee glanced at her watch again. 'Tell you what, let's talk about breakfast.' She pushed her trolley quickly towards the aisle with the breakfast cereals, Carrie scurrying after her. 'The best way for a kid to start the day is with a healthy cereal, right?'

  'Right.'

  'And cereals are sweet even before you add any sugar.'

  'Well, certainly the chocolate- and sugar-coated ones are,' Carrie agreed.

  'No, all of them,' Dee assured her. 'Almost all cereals have sugar added and something else, too.'

  'What?'

  'Salt.'

  'Salt? In cereal?'

  Dee nodded solemnly. 'Oh yes. So you'd give your little one a bowl of cereal with milk and sugar and then maybe a slice of toast?'

  Carrie nodded.

  'More salt. Not just in the butter or spread but in the bread, too.'

  'But that's terrible.'

  'So before your kids have even left for school they've probably consumed their recommended daily intake of salt. Most people don't stand a chance with this kind of labelling,' Dee continued. 'For a start, some labels talk about sodium and some about salt and they're not the same thing.'

  'That's scandalous,' Carrie protested. 'How can you possibly make healthy choices unless you're a trained nutritionist or dietician or something?'

  'It's hard,' Dee agreed, 'but there is a way.'

  'There is?'

  'Home cooking. The only way you truly know what goes into anything is if you make it yourself.'

  'Yeah, well, that only works if you have the time and you can cook.' Carrie made a face. 'I'd poison myself!'

  Dee laughed. 'You're not alone and some people are always going to depend on processed food, which is why there should be more restrictions on labelling.'

  'How come you know so much about food?'

  Dee rummaged in her bag and pulled out a business card.

  'Dee's Deli Delights,' Carrie read. 'Oh, you're a chef!'

  'A cook,' Dee said modestly. 'I'm self-trained. I cook all the food for the Happy Days crèche and the café in Better Books.'

  'Yes, I know it! They have that amazing chocolate cheesecake, do you make that?'

  Dee nodded. 'All natural ingredients and only three hundred calories a slice,' she said proudly. She glanced at her watch and groaned. 'I'm sorry, but I really have to go now.'

  'Oh, of course. Listen, thanks a million, that was great.'

  'No problem.'

  Dee finished her shopping at break-neck speed. In little over an hour she'd returned home, put away the groceries and was walking with Sam towards the doctor's surgery. It was nearly twelve and surgery would be over soon so she quickened her step, tugging Sam after her.

  He seemed fine but Dee wasn't taking any chances. She would never forget the time when Sam was just twenty-six months old, and she had put him to bed coughing. She had assumed it was just another cold – he got so many – but in the early hours of the morning he had been fighting for breath. Terrified, she'd called an ambulance and prayed as they sped down the motorway towards Dublin. The staff in the emergency ward had quickly eased Sam's breathing and within two days he was home again, the doctors assuring her that though it had been an asthma attack it had been a mild one and it was something he would undoubtedly grow out of. They had been interested to see the rough, red skin in the creases of his arms and knees and had told her that eczema and asthma often went hand in hand.

  Dee had gone straight to see Bill Green, her GP, and though he had agreed with the diagnosis and told her that Sam might get mild attacks from time to time until he grew out of it, she'd pestered him as to what she could do to prevent it. He had told her that a healthy diet with plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables might help and that she should restrict Sam's exposure to additives. She could also keep a diary, noting when Sam's skin flared up or when he started wheezing, and see if there was any pattern to it.

  Then Dee had begun a crusade, promising herself that she wouldn't rest until she found the causes of Sam's health problems. It turned out that dog and cat hair – some breeds more than others – were a trigger of some of his skin problems and also that processed food was definitely an issue. Dee spent hours in the local library rese
arching food and the damage that additives could cause and began to cook everything from scratch herself, even their bread.

  Bill Green assured her that Sam would probably be fine given time and that she shouldn't get too stressed about his condition, but Dee was determined to do everything in her power to cure her son. She never wanted him to go through such a horrible experience again. Her hard work paid off and with a change of diet and a bit more care around animals, Sam's attacks became fewer and milder.

  'How are you feeling now, sweetheart?' she asked, putting a hand down to caress his dark head.

  'Okay. I don't want to go to see Doctor Bill,' he grumbled.

  'But Doctor Bill's your friend, Sam. I'm sure you're fine, but let's get you checked out just to be sure.'

  When they walked into the surgery, the receptionist looked up and smiled. 'Hey, Dee, hi, Sam, how are you?'

  Dee smiled at the girl who'd become a friend over the years. 'Not very well, Sheila.'

  'Oh, dear.' Sheila shot Sam a sympathetic look. 'Well, you timed it well, honey. Doctor Bill is just finishing up with our last patient and then you can go in.'

  Dee perched on a stool as Sam wandered over to the small play area.

  'What's up?' Sheila asked when he was out of earshot.

  'No idea; he's been vomiting half the night but I can't figure out why.' Dee stifled a yawn.

  'You look terrible,' Sheila told her.

  'Thanks a lot.'

  'You need a break. Why don't you get away for a few days?'

  'You are joking,' Dee laughed. Even if she could afford a holiday, who would take over her workload? Anyway, it would be too stressful, worrying about what was in the food Sam was eating, never mind the worry of him sleeping between strange sheets.

  'Then at least let's have a night out,' Sheila was saying. 'I'll organize it; you, me, Lisa and Lauren.'

  'I haven't seen Lauren in weeks, how is she?'

  'Tired,' Sheila chuckled, 'but that's par for the course with six-month-old twins.' She turned her head as the surgery door opened and Bill Green shepherded out an elderly lady.

  'Okay, Mrs Doyle, you take care now, bye-bye.'

  'I will, Doctor, thank you.'