Midwives On-Call. Alison Roberts

it’d work for him.

      He took Kanga from Toby, wriggled him slowly towards Gretta’s toes—and ticked Gretta’s toes with Kanga’s tail.

      Then, as both kids looked astonished, he bounced Kanga across to Toby and tickled his.

      Toby looked more astonished. He reached out to grab Kanga, but Oliver was too fast. The tickling tail went back to Gretta’s toes—and then, as Toby reached further, Kanga bounced sideways and tickled Fuzzy on the nose.

      Fuzzy opened his mouth to grab but Kanga boinged back to Gretta, this time going from one foot to the other.

      And then, as Gretta finally reacted, Kanga boinged up and touched her nose—and then bounced back to Toby.

      Toby stared down in amazement at his toes being tickled and his eyes creased, the corners of his mouth twitched—and he chuckled.

      It was a lovely sound but it wasn’t enough. Kanga bounced back to Gretta, kissed her nose again, then bounced right on top of Fuzzy’s head.

      Fuzzy leaped to his feet and barked.

      Kanga went back to Toby’s toes.

      And finally, finally, and it was like a minor miracle all by itself, Gretta’s serious little face relaxed. She smiled and reached out her hand.

      ‘Kanga,’ she said, and Kanga flew to her hand. She grabbed him and held, gazing dotingly at her beloved blue thing.

      ‘Kanga,’ she said again, and she opened her fingers—and held Kanga back out to Oliver.

      Her meaning was clear. He’s mine but it’s okay to play. In fact, she wanted to play.

      But that one word had left her breathless. What the …? He’d seen the levels of oxygen she was receiving and she was still breathless? But she was still game.

      She was trusting.

      He wanted to hug her.

      She was four years old. He’d met her twice. He was feeling … feeling …

      ‘Hey!’ It was Mike, and thank heaven for Mike. He was getting emotional and how was a man to keep tickling when he was thinking of what was in store for this little girl? He looked across at the gate and smiled at Mike with gratitude.

      ‘Hey, yourself.’

      ‘We’re going to the beach,’ Mike called. ‘You want to come?’

      ‘I’m sitting the kids,’ he said, and Mike looked at him like he was a moron.

      ‘Yeah. Kid-sitting. Beach. It’s possible to combine them—and your two love the beach. Katy and Drew are staying home—Katy’s still under the weather but her mum’s here and Drew has a mate over. But we have four kid seats in the wagon—we always seem to have a spare kid—and why not?’

      Why not? Because he’d like to stay lying under the tree, tickling toes?

      It wouldn’t last. His child entertainment range was limited, to say the least, and both kids were looking eager.

      But, Gretta … Sand … Maybe he could sort it.

      ‘What if we put one of the car seats into your car,’ Mike said, eyeing the rental car parked at the kerb. ‘Rental cars always have bolts to hold ‘em. That way you can follow me and if Gretta gets tired you can bring her straight home. And we have beach shelters for shade. We have so much beach gear I feel like a pack mule going up and down the access track. Katy’s mum’s packed afternoon tea. Coming?’

      ‘Yeah,’ he said, because there was nothing else he could say. But there was part of him that was thinking as he packed up and prepared to take his charges beach-wards, I wouldn’t have minded caring for them myself. I wouldn’t have minded proving that I could be a …

      A father? By minding them for a couple of hours? Would that make him a hero? Could it even disprove what he’d always felt—that you couldn’t love a kid who wasn’t your own? Of course it couldn’t.

      It was just that, as the kids had chuckled, he’d felt, for one sliver of a crazy moment, that he could have been completely wrong. That maybe his judgement five years ago had been clouded, distorted by his own miserable childhood.

      And an afternoon alone with these kids would prove what? Nothing. He’d made a choice five years ago. It had been the only honest option, and nothing had changed.

      Except the way Gretta was smiling at the thought of the beach seemed to be changing things, like it or not. And the knowledge that Em would think giving Gretta an afternoon at the beach was great.

      Would it make Em smile?

      ‘You coming, mate, or are you planning on writing a thesis on the pros and cons?’ Mike demanded, and he caught himself and took Kanga from Toby and handed him to Gretta.

      ‘We’re coming,’ he told him. He looked at the muscled hulk of a tattooed biker standing at the gate and Oliver Evans, specialist obstetric surgeon, admitted his failings. ‘But you might need to help me plan what to take. I’m a great obstetrician but as a father I’m the pits.’

      ‘You reckon he’ll be okay? You reckon he’ll manage?’

      ‘If you’re worried, ring Mike.’

      Em and her mum were lying on adjoining massage tables. They had five minutes’ ‘down’ time before the massage was to begin. The soft, cushioned tables were gently warmed, the lights were dim, the sound of the sea washed through the high windows and a faint but lovely perfume was floating from the candles in the high-set sconces.

      They should almost be asleep already but Em couldn’t stop fretting.

      ‘Ring Mike and ask him to check,’ Adrianna said again. ‘We all want you to enjoy this. I want to enjoy this. Check.’

      So she rang. She lay on her gorgeous table and listened to Mike’s growl.

      ‘You’re not supposed to be worrying. Get back to doing nothing.’

      ‘You’ve got Toby?’

      ‘Me and Oliver—that’s one hell of a name, isn’t it?—we’re gunna have to think of something shorter—have Toby—and my kids and Gretta. We’re at the beach. Want to see? I’m sending a video. Watch it and then shut up, Em. Quit it with your worrying. Me and your Ollie have things in hand.’

      He disconnected. She stared at the phone, feeling disconcerted. Strange. That her kids were somewhere else without her … With Oliver. Ollie …

      No one called him Ollie except her, but now Mike was doing the same. It was like two parts of her life were merging.

      The old and the new?

      It was her imagination. Oliver … Ollie? … would do this afternoon of childminding and move on.

      A ping announced the arrival of a message. She clicked and sure enough there was a video, filmed on Mike’s phone and sent straight through.

      There was Toby with Mike’s two littlies. They were building a sandcastle—sort of. It was a huge mound of sand, covered with seaweed and shells. Fuzzy was digging a hole on the far side and Mike’s bitser dog was barking in excitement.

      As Em watched, Toby picked up a bucket of water and spilt it over the castle—and chuckled. Mike laughed off camera.

      ‘If you think I don’t have anything better to do than fill buckets for you, young Toby—you’re right …’

      And then the camera panned away, down to the shoreline—and Em drew in her breath.

      For there was Oliver—and Gretta.

      They were sitting on the wet sand, where the low, gentle waves were washing in, washing out.

      Oliver had rigged a beach chair beside them, wedging it secure with something that looked like sandbags. Wet towels filled with sand?

      Gretta’s