Afterward, Darryl could never quite recall exactly when the old gentleman had first appeared.

It had been one of those cool, bright afternoons in late November. All chores completed, Darryl had been polishing his bike in the yard, eyes lingering on the bright paint work as he tried to imagine how it would look with the new chrome parts.

"That's a fine looking bike young man!'' "Startled, Darryl turned to see an old gentleman leaning against the gate. In a single glance he took in the immaculate, yet threadbare suit the spotless shirt and highly polished shoes.

But it was the old man's face which held his gaze. For looking into those gentle eyes, Darryl felt as if his whole life had been laid bare and reflected back.

All his joys and sorrows. His father's death, and the kindness of friends. The totality of his mother's love in spite of constant worries about money.

Blinking, he stepped back, and the spell -- if that was what it was -- was broken.

He smiled at the old man.

"Well, it will be fine. I'm saving up for new chrome parts. You know doing jobs around the neighbourhood and that kind of thing.'' "Good for you!'' replied the old man. "It's good to meet a young person who's prepared to work for what he wants. I wish you luck!'' "Darryl!'' his mother called from inside the house. "Don't forget you're going to cut Mr. Tucker's grass before dark.'' "Ok. Mom!'' Darryl turned to say goodbye to the old man...but he had already gone.

Over the ensuing weeks the old man became a frequent visitor and gradually he and Darryl became friends.

Darryl was never quite sure when he would turn up, and his departures were as abrupt. But he came to enjoy the old man's shrewd observations and gentle, old world manner.

His name was Samuel Outerbridge and he lived nearby with his daughter and granddaughter, Jeannie May, who was the apple of his eye.

Sharing his time between his granddaughter and the Salvation Army hostel where he was a volunteer, Samuel seemed to live a full and busy life.

In return, and without realising it at first, Darryl began to express the fledgling forms of his hopes and dreams.

Shadowy and insubstantial thoughts which had seemed elusive before, seemed to crystallise under Samuel's piercing gaze. And Darryl began to talk of his future with confidence and hope.

Strangely, although he mentioned Samuel's visit to his mother, she never managed to catch them together. Only later was Darryl to realise why.

With the advent of Christmas their conversations grew more enthusiastic.

Darryl had almost reached his goal for the cost of his bike parts, and Samuel's Christmas club contributions would mature in time for him to buy Jeannie May the expensive doll she so desired.

"Not that she's spoiled,'' explained Samuel, "She'd never ask for it, but I've seen her eyes when she looks at it in the window. And I want her to have it!'' So it was with dismay that Darryl viewed his friend on Samuel's next visit.

Overnight the old man seemed to have aged. With hunched shoulder and dull eye, he explained: "It's Jeannie May,'' he whispered hoarsely "I don't understand it! "She was fine two days ago, and now they say she has pneumonia...and they've taken her to hospital!'' His voice trembled, and to Darryl's horror he grasped the gate with shaking hands, as if he might topple over.

Darryl took the old man's arm in wordless comfort and Samuel seemed to focus on him for the first time.

"Do you know what the worst of it is?'' he whispered fiercely. "I can't get my hands on that money for another week.

"How I wish I could get the doll for her now. It would be just the thing to cheer her up.'' Caught up in the old man's grief, Darryl only hesitated for a moment.

"Wait here!'' he ordered briefly, and running into the house, he took up the box containing all his hard earned money and thrust it into Samuel's shaking hands.

Speechless, Samuel looked from the box to Darryl and back again.

"You can't give me this! What about your bike?'' "You can pay me back out of your Christmas Club. Right now the important thing is to get Jeannie May better!'' "And this will do it', said Samuel.

He grasped Darryl's hand in his, "I can never thank you enough son. There's not many young folks would do something like this.'' "It's my pleasure,'' Darryl said, smiling. "Now shouldn't you be going? The sooner Jeannie May gets her doll the better...'' "You did what!'' Darryl's mother seldom shouted. "You gave your money to a complete stranger for a doll?'' Patiently Darryl explained the circumstances.

"Well, it was a wonderful thing to do,'' she conceded. "But I hope you haven't lost that money!'' Several days passed by and Samuel didn't reappear.

Fretted by his absence, Darryl imagined the worst. Maybe Jeannie May's condition had deteriorated, maybe...? But that didn't bear thinking about! Tired of his preoccupation, his mother finally persuaded him to call the hospital.

They didn't have any patient listed under the name Jeannie May Outerbridge, or Jeannie May anything, nor had they.

onfused and hurt, Darryl took to walking for long periods alone, hoping that he might catch sight of Samuel.

So it was hardly surprising when one day, his footstep carried him to the door of the Salvation Army hostel. Hesitantly, he pushed open the door, and went inside.

"Hello young man. Can I help you?'' Warmed by the women's smile Darryl blurted out: "Do you know a Samuel Outerbridge?'' "Well well! That's a name I haven't heard for... oh... at least ten years.'' Darryl's stomach began to churn.

"What do you mean?'' he said at last.

"Why, bless your heart! Samuel Outerbridge died ten years ago.

"Such a lovely old gentleman he was, and so devoted to that granddaughter of his. What was her name? Jennie? No! Jeannie! Jeannie...?'' "Jeannie May?'' volunteered Darryl.

"Yes! That was it,'' the woman looked sad. "Such a tragedy that was.'' Curious now, Darryl asked: "Why? What happened?'' "You don't know?'' Then as Darryl shook his head, she continued: "Well, Jeannie May took sick.

Just before Christmas it was. The old man fretted and worried. Something to do with a doll, I believe.

"He wanted to buy her a special doll for Christmas, but he didn't have the money.'' Her voice lowered with the return of emotions long forgotten.

"And then she died! Oh, it was terrible! And he was beside himself with grief and all he could think about was that doll.

"He blamed himself you see. He thought that if only he could give her the doll, she'd get better.

"He never recovered from her death. He died on Christmas Day you know...some say from a broken heart.'' Visibly, she shook free from the old grief and smiled at Darryl.

"We gave him a lovely funeral, down at St. John's in Pembroke.

"All the folks from the hostel clubbed together and bought a poinsettia for the grave. Funny thing through,'' she mused, "it never has flowered. Not in ten years! Some people say it's because Samuel is still grieving.'' She snorted her derision.

"Personally I think the nursery just sold us a dud.'' Darryl's mother was baking when he reached home at last, and the air was full of the warm and spicy smells he associated with Christmas.

She favoured him with one long, measured look.

"Tell me,'' she said simply. And the whole story came tumbling out.

"It's hard to believe,'' she declared at last, "that someone would use such a sad story and play such a trick. I think you should go to the Police!'' "I can't Mom,'' replied Darryl sadly, "crazy as it sounds, a part of me still believes in him.'' Christmas Day dawned at last. Darryl and his mother exchanged their modest gifts, each falsely hearty, and neither fooling the other.

As for his bike, Darryl hadn't touched it for days, he hadn't the heart.

A loud banging heralded the arrival of his friends, and he went, with lagging footsteps, to open the door.

"Hey man! Season's Greetings! You really had us fooled!'' Darryl glared, in no mood for riddles.

"What do you mean?'' he asked.

"Your bike, man. It looks sharp! You got the parts after all?'' Darryl's heart was beating double time as he pushed through his friends and strode round to the side of the house where he kept his bike.

And there it was. Definitely his... and yet not his.

There was the familiar paint work. He had polished it often enough.

But there the familiarity ended, as the sun gleamed and reflected in a thousand shimmering stars off the gleaming chrome of spoke and wheel rim, pedal and trim.

Wonderingly he reached out and fingered the bike, half afraid, that like a mirage, it would shimmer and disappear. As his hand closed over the cold metal, his mother came around the corner.

"Mother?'' His own wonder was reflected in her eyes.

"No son! It wasn't me!'' It had been the best Christmas since his father died.

Replete with good food and his friends' admiration, Darryl hugged his mother and set off for a solitary ride, nagged by a feeling of disquiet and of questions still unanswered.

It was no accident, therefore, when he turned the corner to find the cemetery before him.

Parking the bike, he scanned the scene, and his heart swelled and sang in a joyous tumult of emotion.

The bright beacon of the poinsettia blazed out for all to see.

He had no need to read the words on the two graves sheltered, close together beneath it's branches. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the red brightness of a leaf.

And he smiled, and whispered,.... not quite to himself: "Well, Samuel! ...I guess Jeannie May has her doll at last.'' SHORT STORY COMPETITION CPN