THE FERALS

By Tessa Harvey

Brodie poised over the bulky, strangely shaped gift, small fingers outstretched. Reluctantly, he stepped back. It's yours daddy."

"Actually," Jake drew out the word, "it's for you!" Before the sentence had fallen from his mouth, the sheet was off! The boy stood there staring. "A bike! A real bike!" 

He was already on it, feet scraping the bare floorboards as he wobbled. "I can ride it. C'mon dad, give me a push."

Remembering a similar scene with his dad when he was a small boy, Jake ran after him, gripping the saddle. Wobbling, Brodie made it to the doorway and balanced there, then slowly turned into the long hallway. It was easier there and Jake snapped photos on his phone, capturing the child's intent, rapt expression.

Later, they tried the bike outdoors. Another child was riding a scooter, whooping with excitement. They waved, keeping in mind social distancing. Jake remembered his own childhood when children had been everywhere on Christmas Day, riding bikes, scooters, pushing doll's prams. 

Even without the Coronavirus, it was still not the same now, with more and more children locked into their personal media devices. Many did not now even watch television!

A sudden crash jerked Jake out of his reverie. Brodie was gamely picking himself up off the footpath, examining his new bike anxiously.

Relieved, he glanced up. "It's okay dad. The handlebar got my tummy, but it doesn't hurt really."

Well, thought his dad, at least winter means so many clothes, it's hard to get many bruises. He checked Brodie's silver helmet, and they retraced their route of the evening before, crossing the road carefully and following another shortcut, coming out near a small house with a high wall at the side. Brodie leaned his bike against the mortared stonework and tried to scramble up to peer over the top. His dad half-supported him. "Well, what do you see?" "There's nothing dad, only an old shed and paths and dead bushes."