Fiona McArthur - Midwives On Call At Christmas

Simon had packed the food back into the insulated backpack, Tara was gazing into the small pool of liquid in her glass, and the playful mood had deepened back into the awareness that had always been there but which now eddied between them like the afternoon breeze.

‘It’s been fun, Simon.’

‘It has, Tara.’ There was a tinge of amusement in his voice as he slid across next to her. When his hip touched hers he lay back on the rug, one hand behind his head and the other he used to catch her hand.

‘Those clouds over there look like a castle with a dragon.’

She looked up, squinted and frowned. ‘Where?’

‘You’ll have to lie down to see.’

‘Ha.’ But she lay down and he pointed and she could just see what he meant before the turbulence slowly rearranged the puffy paintwork in the sky into something else.

‘I can see a dinosaur.’

‘Where?’

‘To the left of the dragon.’ She lifted her hand and he followed where she pointed.

‘That’s not a dinosaur. More of an elephant.’

She giggled. ‘That’s not an elephant.’

He rolled onto his side and she could feel him watching her. So this is was what they meant when they said ‘basking’. Tara felt herself ‘basking’ in Simon’s appreciation and it was a feeling she’d never really experienced. Could certainly grow accustomed to it too if she had the unlikely chance of that.

He leant over and kissed the tip of her nose. It was unexpected and she sneezed.

Simon flopped back and laughed out loud. ‘It’s hard being a man, you know,’ he complained. ‘I have to make all the moves and then she sneezes.’ He put his hand over his eyes. ‘I had this fantasy that this incredibly sexy woman—dressed in black leather, mind you—would attack me and have her wicked way with me, or at least kiss me senseless.’ He sighed again. ‘But it hasn’t happened.’

Tara rolled over to face him, with her arm tucked under her cheek. Then, with a ‘nothing dared, nothing gained thought behind her eyes’, she climbed on top of him until she had one leg on either side of his body and her weight resting on her hands. She leant in and kissed his lips, once—he tasted so good—twice— mmm … yum —and a slower third time that threatened to turn into something bigger until she sat up. Feeling pretty impressed with her own daring, actually. ‘Consider yourself attacked.’

‘Mmm.’ His eyes had changed to sleepy sexy and his hands reached up and slowly pulled her face down to his. ‘I could get used to this.’

The sun was setting. And she wanted nothing more than to lose herself with Simon in this private place above the world. But she wasn’t quite sure this was the right time—goodness knew where that thought had come from. ‘I think it wouldn’t be as much fun in the dark.’

He smiled lazily and kissed her neck. ‘You sure?’

‘Mmm. Maybe it would be.’ She had no doubt it would be. No, Tara. Stop it, the voice of reason nagged in her ear. ‘But I don’t make out on deserted roads with bikers.’ She said it as a joke to lighten the moment, because Simon had been on his first bike ride now.

He pretended to be disappointed. He kissed her again. ‘I should have known that about you.’ He hadn’t given up hope.

But then she thought of Mick. The picture of a dishevelled biker. And she guessed she had. But she’d never really seen that until the end. She’d seen the lost little boy from the orphanage. The brother of her best little friend who had died so tragically young and someone who had needed her. She shuddered to think what Simon would have thought of Mick.

Simon’s face changed and obviously, unless he could read her mind, he thought it was something else. ‘You okay? I didn’t mean to upset you. Hell, Tara, I think you’re amazing. You blow me away and yet you make me feel so amazingly good.’

He rolled her off him and sat up. Reached down and pulled her up to sit next to him, tucking her into his side with his arm around her shoulders. ‘Not sure how you do that but it’s a great feeling. There’s no pressure for anything else.’

‘Ditto.’ This guy was too much. Too nice, too amazing—for her. He’d be gone in a couple of weeks and she’d look back and wish she had made love with him. It was a gift to be here with him, right at this moment, and she was throwing it back because she was too scared of the moment—or was she too scared of the emptiness later?

Simon was like the foster-home she knew she’d have to leave. It really was better not to suffer the separation. But it felt so good to be tucked into his side, his strong arm around her shoulder. Close to him.

‘You could still hold me, Simon.’

He cuddled her into him, gave the impression he couldn’t get close enough, then lifted her onto his lap. ‘Can’t think of anything I’d rather do.’

So they sat there. Tara was still on Simon’s lap as the sun set with a magnificent orange glow that turned to pink and purple in front of their eyes, reflecting off the lake, and she snuggled into his shoulder as peace seeped into her.

Then she heard the strangest thing. It sounded almost like her motorbike but distant. The throbbing roar of her Harley-Davidson. For a horrible moment she thought Mick had found her then remembered she had the bike.

Simon shifted her off his lap and stood up as she scrambled to her feet herself.

But when they looked her bike was there. Less than ten feet away from them and definitely still and quiet. Then the noise came again. The louder roar of the engine then the sound of a bike idling. It came from the bushes across the car park and Simon started to laugh.

‘What was that?’

‘If I’m not mistaken, that, dear Tara, was our lyrebird.’

‘You’re kidding me. How could a bird make that noise?’

‘World’s greatest mimickers. They can sound like babies, chainsaws …’ he grinned ‘… and apparently Harley-Davidson motorbikes.’ Simon slipped his hand into hers and pulled her into his embrace. Kissed her gently. ‘I’ll have to apologise to my dad. Lyrebirds make amazing noises. That’s pretty special.’

Still distracted, she kissed him back but not with her full attention. ‘Not possible.’

But the sound came again and closer to them. To the side there was a rustle of bushes, the crack of tiny twigs, and she twisted her head to see past Simon’s shoulder and then she saw it. A small grey-brown bird the size of a chicken, his reddish-brown throat lifted as he gazed at her. But it was the two long feathers that hung each side of his tail that told her what it was.

She whispered. ‘Simon. Turn slowly and look to your left.’

Simon turned his head and saw it. A slow smile curved his mouth. ‘I told you!’ He squeezed her. ‘Our lyrebird.’

He’d said ‘our’ again. She hugged that defiantly to herself and ignored her voice of caution. ‘Why doesn’t it run away?’

He grinned cheekily. ‘Well, it knows I don’t want to move.’ He squeezed her gently. Looked down into her face. ‘I really don’t want to.’

But the lyrebird could. He strutted across to a little mound of dirt about six feet from them and climbed to the top, where he spread his gorgeous tail. Swivelled his head to glance at them as if to tell them to pay attention, and the two long tail feathers spread like the outside edges of a fan and outlined the distinctive harp-shaped feathers in the centre that had given him his name. And then he began to prance.

Tara could feel the rush of goose-bumps that covered her arms. A shivering perception of something magical and mystical, totally surreal, and Simon’s eyes never left the bird’s dance until he felt her glance at him.

The lyrebird shook his tail at them once more in a grand finale and then sauntered off into the bushes.