Walking in Shadows

By Katherine Connolly

An extraordinary story about a very ordinary woman. Born and bred in a small community in the south-west of Ireland, this is a tale that starts plainly, moves into equestrian adventure, climaxes with three horrific relationships, and, like all good stories, has a happy ending.
Katherine Connolly loves animals. Growing up in a family where her father worked in a rescue centre and her mother raced greyhounds, she was always surrounded by them. Throughout her life they have been her rock. Through the bullying, family deaths, near fatal accidents, mentally and physically abusive relationships, and a life-changing medical diagnosis, the animals have been the one thing Katherine could come home to, no matter where she was.
A true story depicting a simple childhood haunted by family illness and death. A promising career in the equestrian business that took Katherine around the world, working with top show-jumping yards, only to be brought crashing down by a tragic accident. The gritty details of three very different and cruel relationships that would have left any person at the brink of sanity. The medical diagnosis that saved her life but also ended much of it. And finally, the happy ending that she always dreamed of. Welcome to an inspiring tale about a remarkable woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481787734

Katherine Connolly

Katherine Connolly* is an ordinary woman from an ordinary place in Ireland who has lived an unbelievable life in a short space of time. She writes with an authentic Irish lilt and relates her story to us through raw and heartfelt language. From a simple farming background comes the tale of an incredibly strong woman who, in the face of many adversities, is still standing and keeps marching forward, with the help of family and her closest friends, her animals. A shy country girl, all she ever wanted was to be loved and to lead an uncomplicated life. Her big heart can be found in all the family and friend relationships she has, but life was against her in so many ways. In this, her first book, read about her search for a trouble-free existence, and how many times the odds were stacked against her – a woman with simple needs and low demands who managed to find herself in every deep hole life could offer up. Her autobiography is an intriguing tale you will find hard to stop reading.

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© 2013 by Katherine Connolly. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/09/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8772-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8773-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

About the Author

About the Book

Prologue

Sociopaths will destroynded up you—without heart, without conscience, without even a second glance. At first they are too good to be true, and then they remove your heart. Then whatever else they want, with a scalpel. The operation they perform is brilliant, often but not always flawless. And when they’ve gotten whatever they came for, they leave you traumatised, stunned, and bleeding by the roadside; then silently move on, to do it again to someone else.

—Adapted from Matters of the

Heart by Danielle Steel

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I was born by caesarean section in Cork University Hospital on 26 July 1979, daughter to Beatrice (neé Murphy) and Ronan Connolly. Mam was a nurse and Dad was an inspector for a local rescue centre. He ran the Cork branch of the dogs and cats home.

We lived in an area on the outskirts of Cork city called Corrakyle. One of my earliest memories is being out in the yard at home in Tobermore (the name of our house) with the dogs (we always had loads of dogs roaming around) and my sister Caitlin walking me around on my grandad’s pony Polly. I also remember my brother Jack taking me up on our rickety bicycle to Granny Murphy’s house, one hundred yards up the road. But one day I got my leg stuck in between the spokes of the bike, and Jack was not allowed to take me anywhere after that… but no one paid heed to that rule for long.

I was the baby of the house, being nine and ten years younger than Jack and Caitlin respectively, but Caitlin and I were the same—pure softies. Cait used to put the rescue dogs underneath her bed when we had any at home. Of course we weren’t allowed do this, and unfortunately I was too young at that stage to get up to that sort of devilment.

Jack didn’t really have much interest in animals. He liked them, but not as much as Cait and I did. All he was interested in was cars. He left school early, and my Uncle Victor gave him a job as an apprentice mechanic in his garage.

Along with the dogs, we also always had horses around the place. Our home place had lots of runs for the dogs and stables for the horses, and Dad rented some land locally for grazing. Every weekend Dad and some local lads or Caitlin would be off to Dublin or Limerick with the horses, trotting and racing. Mam was heavily involved in greyhound racing and would go to her coursing meetings in the winter time.

I remember my first day in school was great. My teacher, Ms. O’Sullivan, with whom I’m still in regular contact, was lovely. I was the pet. But during my Junior Infants year, in May 1983, Dad picked me up from school one day, and when we got home there was a strange orange and black sign outside the house: For Sale—Quinn. I was both excited and sad at the same time. During that summer we were all busy every day going out to Drumbane to clean up the farm that Dad had bought. It was a small, close-knit community and was near Carrigaline, about eighteen miles away from Tobermore. We moved in August.

In September I started school in Drumbane National School and went into Senior Infants. I knew one of the teachers there and her daughter, who was in my class. They had lived beside us at our old home in Corrakyle. It was nice to know someone, but I did make a great friend straight away: Aoife. I was kept back that year, but I don’t remember it bothering me too much.

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When I was born I had a condition called ptosis. It meant my eyelids were droopy and about three-quarters of my eyes were covered. I remember when I started school in Corrakyle I used to have to lean my head back so I could look out underneath them and see the blackboard.

I was five when I first had an operation to try and fix them. I still remember it as if it were yesterday. I even remember the anaesthetist putting the ether mask over my face to knock me out. When I woke up (even at that age I knew it would make a difference), all I wanted to do was see how my eyes looked, but I had patches over them for a few days.

I was spoilt while I was in hospital; I got so many presents. Even my teacher brought me chocolate animals and a book called Bimbo and Topsey. (We named two ponies Dad bought Bimbo and Topsey a few years later.) When I got the patches off it was like I was a new girl; everything was so much brighter, and when I went back to school I could see the blackboard without putting my head back. My eyes weren’t 100 per cent fixed, but they were so much better.

After a couple of years in Drumbane National School, when I was in second class, the slagging started: What’s wrong with your eyes? the kids used to jeer. Open your eyes! they would say, smirking. Obviously I couldn’t open my eyes fully; I wished more than anything I could have.

One lad in particular was really horrid to me. Whenever we were alone he’d be lovely, but once he had an audience he would be so cruel. He used to ask me if I had myxomatosis, an eye disease rabbits can get. For years I went home most days crying. All I wanted was to be at home with my dogs and ponies; a few hugs from them and I’d be OK. I never told anyone about it. Mam and Dad had too many worries of their own with the farm and Dad’s health.

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My heart was never really in school from the minute I got in, and not just because of the bullying. In the morning I daydreamed of the ponies and dogs at home, and I couldn’t wait for school to finish so I could go home and ride whatever Dad had at that time—we never had ponies for long. He used to deal a lot, so if he could get £50 more profit on anything, then it was sold and gone as quick as.

One of the horses Dad had during this time he bought at a fair in Patrickswell, Co. Limerick. He brought a few home, but this particular one was a 16.2-hand-high piebald 3-year-old gelding, JimBob. He was broken and riding, very quiet, but still only a baby and much too big for me. I was only about eight at the time. I can’t even remember the first time I rode him, but I do remember I used to ride him out every day after school. I’d bring him in by his chin; I couldn’t even reach up and put a head collar on him. And then Dad or one of the lads used to have to tack him up for me. They would throw me up on him and off I’d go for hours. When he eventually got sold on, he ended up over on Valencia Island as a trap horse to take tourists around the island. We went over during the summer of that year—1988, I think. I couldn’t wait to see him. For months prior to going I was so excited, but when we got over they told us he had died. They said when he got there he wouldn’t eat, and eventually passed away. I’ll never forget the old man that owned him saying he might have missed me too much. I could not stop crying that day. At 9 years of age, I was heartbroken.

Another pony Dad bought and I had for a while was a wee, bold little devil, Rascal. I had him for a few months, fell in love with him, and taught him some manners. Then a dealer came down from the North, and bought him and a load of others. He had them loaded and ready, but I got so upset that he took Rascal down off the lorry again and handed him back to me. It made no difference anyway, because the following day, when I got home from school, Dad had him sold on to someone else.

He did buy me one special pony, Skye, which I had for years. She was the best, but so bold when she wanted to be. She and I lived for every Saturday morning in the hunting season. She was the best pony or horse I ever hunted and still is.

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I don’t remember Dad ever eating a dinner with us. He was diagnosed with diabetes at age twenty-one and was always sick; even the smell of something being cooked would make him sick.

The illness gave him lots of side effects. Eventually he went into renal failure and had to go on dialysis. At the time Mam used to nurse a nun in St. Bridget’s Convent in Cork three days a week. The nun was on dialysis, too, but she did hers a couple of days a week hooked up to a machine for four hours. Dad went on CAPD, a portable dialysis machine. This meant that he could do it at home but only for about an hour every day. To be honest, when he was on that machine, those were the healthiest days I had ever seen him. He was