pendulum of a grandmother clock swing back and forth.

Surrounded by the trappings of acquired wealth, he was rolling in his fingers a gold-plated armband, wondering whether or not to put it on.

It was hardly needed for the hand-made shirt he was wearing, but the armbands were part of a ritual which required a conspicuous display, as a victorious general might don the sword of a beaten enemy.

For many years he had enjoyed this evening. He was looking forward to it for months. But now he had come to dread it.

A bubbling sound startled him. As they had for the five years since his last wife passed away, caterers from Fourways had left a pre-cooked dinner, which simmered in serves over tiny blue flames.

He stood up and put on the armbands which he had won in 1958. Then he went to the window and opened it wide.

Through the cool evening breeze came the sound of children singing, and he joined in a chorus he recognised from his own childhood: "...co-omfort and joy, comfort-and-joy, gla-ad ti-idings of co-omfort and joy..'' It was Christmas Eve again, and time, as always, to entertain Ralph.

He was late but he would not forget to come.

Henry could imagine him squinting into the oval hall mirror one last time to fiddle with his necktie, though there would be nothing wrong with it.

Forty years ago this would have been the vain act of a vain man, but the tie and the pressed blue suit he wore and the razorblade parting of thinning grey hair would today mark Ralph as a "dapper'' old gentleman.

Henry thought of him leaving on the hall light in his tiny, waterfront cottage, closing the door behind him, no doubt without bothering to lock it.

Ralph's standing joke was that he "owned nothing worth stealing''.

Henry had something to do with that. It was a five minute walk from the cottage, across Harbour Road, and up the winding drive to Henry's house.

They had met at the Dingy Club and had become good friends, as had their wives.

That Christmas Eve they had all dined together at Ralph's, and after a lovely meal somebody, nobody could remember who any more, had suggested a game of cards.

The wives had gone to bed at some point.

Ralph had lost ten pounds and his golf clubs, which he treasured.

Henry had offered to return the clubs and the money, but Ralph, who was furious, had refused.

He made Henry promise never to make such an offer again, saying: "It takes all the fun out of gambling!''.

Then they had laughed about it, recognising in each other a passion shared. It was one which could easily consume them, so they had agreed to indulge it once a year, on Christmas Eve.

The next year Ralph got back his golf clubs, thirty pounds and Henry's watch.

That was the last time he had won.

As the sound of the carol singers faded away they were replaced by the familiar crunching of feet on gravel, as a bent but sprightly figure appeared, silhouetted against the driveway light in a cloud of his own breath.

Henry met him at the door.

"Ralph! How nice to see you! Come in, come in,'' "Good Evening Henry. You're looking well.'' "Older and fatter. But you don't put on a pound. Give me your coat.'' In the dining room two high-backed dining chairs were pushed back and the two immediately sat down to dinner, at once relaxed despite the large, polished table and the space it created between them.

Although the real point of the evening had yet to come, the meal was an agreeable formality, with the same smalltalk they exchanged every year: "So, how's that garden of yours, Ralph? "Pretty good. Beautiful roses this year...And yours?'' "OK, I think. Alfred does a great job, but I hardly get out in it...You should, Henry...'' When it was over Henry led his friend into the lounge where they settled at a circular cedar table topped with green baize.

He had bought it with his winnings in 1966, and made a gift of it to Ralph the following year.

It was a way of returning something, as by then Ralph had no money and few pssessions, though he had been adamant that the terms of their original agreement be kept.

Ralph's wife had left him after discovering her favourite necklace was missing.

Henry's (first) wife had left after he had refused to give it back.

"I'm going to beat you tonight.'' said Ralph. He always said that.

Henry poured two glasses of port from a decanter within arm's reach of the gaming table.

A long, flat gilt box with a velvet interior was opened, and the well-thumbed, black and white discs placed in battle position.

Backgammon was how they always started. The stakes were usually set low to begin with, but each protagonist, on gaining some slight advantage, would invariably reach for the doubling die, increasing the odds.

Their games never paid out at less than eight times the original wager, and often reached the maximum sixty-four.

Lady Luck seemed to be smiling on Henry as usual, until a well-timed double-six secured Ralph an unlikely sixteen-times victory.

Henry could only shake his head as he took out and consulted The Book.

"Congratulations,'' he said, "you are now the temporary owner of the beautiful mahogany bureau you see in the corner of this room. Enjoy it while you can. I intend to win it back.'' The Book had evolved many years previously when Ralph's reduced finances meant it was no longer possible to play for money.

They had given their possessions a value and an index had been created for ready reference.

They used the traditional chips to bet with (as in the casinos) but the payout would be in personal belongings, antique furniture, and in one extreme case...

Henry had never had nightmares as a child, or through early adult life.

He had them all the time now. They were never quite the same, and yet they were identical, in that they all conveyed on his waking self the same unshakable feeling of guilt.

He would promise his wife faithfully to bring something home, a loaf of bread, say, and then forget.

Or a man in desperate circumstances would ask him for change in the street. He would decline, mumbling inability, while jingling the coins in his pocket.

Always he woke up wanting to change his mind, to go back and do things differently, and always he sank back into the pillow, not relieved that his predicament was dreamt, but sad that his chance was gone.

Ralph, he knew, slept like a baby.

An hour later the backgammon was put away. Henry had not only failed to win back the bureau, but had also consigned the dining suite and leather armchair to the notepad in front of him.

Additionally, several personal items, including a gold watch and chain, were piled on the table.

He had lost every game. Sportingly, he offered his friend the choice: "continue or move on to the cards''.

He was beginning to tremble slightly, and jumped when Ralph bellowed "Cards it is!'', leaning over the table and leering at him.

At least one of them seemed to be enjoying himself.

A brand new pack of cards, still in the cellophane, was passed across the table for inspection. Once it was approved, Henry broke the seal, opened it, and from habit held the contents to his nose, inhaling deeply.

He loved the smell of a new deck, and relaxed a little. they warmed up with Blackjack, with Henry as banker. The games were short, but the bets were high.

However, just as before, Ralph could do no wrong, and more prized antiques had soon amassed in his column of the notepad.

Suddenly he said: "You know, Henry, I really don't want your damn furniture, and I don't want your jewellery'' (his term for Henry's tiepins and watchchains). "What I want is your money.'' Henry looked into the cool, grey eyes of his old friend and felt his heart begin to beat faster.

Henry had never wanted money. He had always hated it. This was what the women did not understand when they berated him for taking so much from Ralph over the years.

It was not his fault that Ralph needed so to lose, or that he enjoyed winning.

He had been a failed businessman with dreams of independent means. Ralph had made that possible. The process, once started had been unstoppable.

On Christmas Eve 1972 he had won this house.

Ralph had gone to live in his cottage.

For this everybody, except Ralph, had tried to make him feel bad.

They even pointed to Ralph's failing health, but hadn't he said himself how gardening, fresh air and walking to the store was so good for him? "Henry, I want your money which, as you know, is really my money, so that I can give it to charity. Calculate the value of this lot,'' he said, waving his cigar at the notepad, and put a dollar value on it.

"Then make a cheque out to the Salvation Army and put it in an envelope.

There are so many worthy causes, but that will be a good start.

"Do it now, then we can carry on playing, for money.'' Henry hesitated, and felt immediately the familiar waking sensation which lately followed his dreams.

He got up and fetched his chequebook, and a packet of envelopes, from the bureau.

The sum of the notebook entries was agreed at $16,050.

He wrote out the cheque and addressed the envelope.

He was not even surprised when his friend suggested mailing it that night: "If you have some stamps, it will be a nice surprise for them before the New Year,'' he said.

Finally they played poker.

Though not ideally suited for two, they enjoyed the flexibility this game offered when it came to the stakes.

Neither liked to be the one to call, and ridiculous pots had been exchanged over the years. It had nothing to do with the quality of the hand dealt, and everything to do with an equal resolve on both sides, a steely determination to outlast or outwit the other.

Indeed, what could be sweeter than to raise the opponent so outrageously that he was forced to concede, and then turn over, with tears running down one's cheeks, a miserable pair of eights? Of course, it didn't always work, and when it had it had mostly worked for Henry.

Not so tonight. With each hand Henry looked deep into his friend's eyes, as he always did for that hint of weakness. What he saw tonight was his own reflection: a peering, perspiring, bespectacled man, with square-cut fingers clutching his cards like the last ship's biscuit.

"It's up to you, Henry. I might be bluffing, but it may cost you dearly to find out. If you're wrong, Child Aid could use a few pennies.'' He had barely slid over the chips before Ralph smiled and turned over a full house: queens and nines.

Child Aid would indeed be better off.

Henry had written the first cheque in a state of mild shock; the second with a grim chuckle of resignation. He could spare the money. Nevertheless, a game was a game, and he resolved to concentrate.

He thought of past victories, famous bluffs made or called to his benefit, but each time the glorious scenes were interrupted by tray images: A Front Street man with no shoes; a runny-nosed child with a broken toy truck. These images dissolved in turn into the radiant, inscrutable smile of his old adversary, Ralph. Could he be reading his mind? By the end of the evening -- a midnight curfew had been mutually agreed after that all-night session of '72 -- Henry had deposited no fewer than ten large denomination cheques in slim manilla envelopes.

There would be shoes for some and toys for others, and hot meals for the cold, the sick and the battered. Secret Santas, Rotarians and Aids Support groups had all benefited.

The last cheque had been made, fittingly, to Addiction Services. He was a little confused.

It couldn't be happiness that he felt at the loss of a small fortune, for such a sensation would invalidate the whole driving force of his life thus far: The pursuit of money. Yet somehow he knew that tonight, on Christmas Eve, his sleep would be deeper and his dreams lighter.

For this he had Ralph to thank, his old friend who had given everything and taken nothing.

Outside the night was clear and the drive was lit by a bright half moon.

"I'll walk you down,'' Henry said, "and post these at the same time.'' When they reached Harbour Road he was breathing hard, unused to exercise.

The post box was a few yards from the door of the little house he had vacated after a straight run to the Jack of Spades.

"Goodnight, Ralph, and Merry Christmas.'' he said. "You beat up on me pretty good, tonight. Shall I see you again next year?'' "I don't know if we should Henry,'' came the reply. "Are you sure you can afford it.?'' Henry laughed, dropped the envelopes in the post box and slowly made his way back, pausing to let a car go by.

The driver and his passenger were on the way home from a party in Hamilton.

They were greatly amused by what they had just witnessed: an old man posting his cards after midnight on Christmas Eve, while talking to himself near the door of a derelict, disused cottage.

SHORT STORY COMPETITION CPN