‘Miser! Scrooge! Skinflint!', the shouts were accompanied by the sound of closed fists banging on the door. And loud laughter. Lots of it. Bernard swore under his breath as he leapt to his feet, almost knocking the kitchen chair he'd been sitting on over in his attempt to catch the perpetrators of this nightly aggravation. He dashed through the hall, threw open his front door for the third time in the past hour but the little blighters had scarpered. He could hear the sound of their feet, clacketty clacking as they tore down the concrete steps and into the road. The child from the next door flat was sitting on the landing, completely unaffected by all the rumpus, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she gave all her concentration to crayoning in a picture book. She looked up at Bernard and smiled, but he ignored her. She was just another kid, and he hated kids. Kids meant Trouble, with a capital T. 'Little devils', he snarled, going back inside his flat and slamming the door hard. He'd catch them one day, or his name wasn't Bernard Falvey.

It was the same old ding dong every evening. Kids yelling through his letter box and banging on his door as they hurled themselves down the steps of the high rise block of flats. He was sick of it.

Still cursing, he sat back at the kitchen table and resumed eating his meagre supper of beans on toast. Beans were cheap. You could get four tins for a euro, special offer. And they were good for you...or so he'd read somewhere. The bread was half price, on account of it being stale, but stale bread made better toast. At least Bernard thought it did. The beans were cold now. That meant reheating them on the gas. He clicked his teeth with annoyance as he thought of the waste of money having to relight the stove again. While he was waiting he poured boiling water over a teabag let it stand for a few minutes then lifted the teabag into another mug so he could use it again. That way he could make a small packet of teabags last for two weeks. Longer sometimes. Winifred Falvey was not at all pleased when, at the age of forty three, she discovered she was pregnant. For that matter her husband Paddy wasn't exactly over the moon either. For the first ten years of their marriage Winifred had prayed daily for a child. When one didn't arrive, she and Paddy settled into a comfortable sort of life and forgot all about wanting a family. In Winifred's book God was playing some little joke on her by answering her prayers all those years later, and she was not amused. Actually neither she nor Paddy had much of a sense of humour in any case.

Bernard was a puny baby who n.ever stopped crying for the first six months of his life. He was still puny when he started school and was the butt of bullying on account of his weedy physique and the fact that his parents were a great deal older that the parents of all the other kids. 'That yer gran?', they taunted when Winifred collected Bernard from school., always standing slightly apart from all the other mothers. Bernard also was always on his own. At sixteen, Bernard left school and got a job as a junior clerk in An Post. The lonely schoolboy had grown into a lonely young man. He stayed living with his parents and when they died, within six months of one another, he took over their flat. He was now thirty eight, and had lived on his own for ten years. He had no friends, or relatives, had never had a girlfriend or been outside Dublin. His one interest in life was to save as much money as he could. Not because he wanted to buy a car, or go on a continental holiday but simply because he liked seeing the amount of money in his post office savings book go up week by week. It made him feel secure. The less money he spent on himself every week the more he liked it.

Two weeks before Christmas, Bernard was annoyed to find that the lifts of the flats was out of order when he came home from work. He always walked home, not wanting to waste money on bus fares and didn't relish the long, tedious climb up the steps to his flat which was on the thirteenth floor. By the time he reached it he was out of breath, and overheated from the heavy coat he was wearing against the bitter December weather. The coat had been a real bargain...three euros in a charity shop and hardly worn. Two young girls lay stretched out on the landing outside his flat playing some sort of board game and having an animated discussion on the existence of Santa Claus. Bernard recognised one of the girls as being Alice, the daughter of his next door neighbour. Not that he had ever spoken to the child but he knew her name was Alice because he had heard her mother calling her in for meals. 'You're really thick Alice O'Brien', the other girl said scornfully, if you think there's such a person as Santa Claus. How d 'ya think he can get into these flats for starters when there's no chimneys? You're a right dumbo and no mistake. Everyone knows it's yer dad what creeps in when you're asleep and puts presents at the bottom of your bed or under the Christmas tree.' Alice's bottom lip quivered slightly and for a few seconds it seemed as if she was going to burst into tears, then she looked up, suddenly aware for the first time of Bernard's presence.

'Do YOU believe in Santy?', she asked him solemnly. Bernard stared down at the small, perfect, oval face framed by a mass of tight, blonde, corkscrew curls. Her large, brown eyes fixed on him with almost frightening intensity. He felt a lump in his throat and for the first time in his life he experienced compassion. He felt so sorry for the poor little thing for he knew that no dad would come creeping into Alice's bedroom with presents. There was no dad in Alice's life. Her mother was a single parent. The other girl was also waiting for his reply only her face was hard, and full of derision. Suddenly it became very important to Bernard that Alice's belief in Santa Claus remained intact. Slightly nervously, for he wasn't used to talking to children, he cleared his throat and said, 'Yes, I do believe in him as it happens.' Alice's face lit up with delight. 'See Marion Daly, I told you so!'. 'Go on mister. Prove it then', the impudent Miss Daly challenged, her chin jutting out aggressively. Bernard did some quick thinking (something else he wasn't used to doing!). 'Alright then Alice, you write a letter to Santa Claus telling him what you want him to bring you, then give it to me and I'll post it to him. I know where he lives you see.' 'Oh my Gawd!', the streetwise Marion Daly exclaimed, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand in mock disbelief at such nonsense 'What a load of old rubbish!''

When Bernard saw Alice on the landing the following day she very shyly handed him an envelope addressed to Santa Claus. He was surprised when he opened the letter later in his flat by the modesty of the little girl's request. He had expected a whole list of things. A bike maybe, or a doll's pram. Perhaps even a computer for he knew that even children as young as Alice were into computers these days, but all she asked Santa to bring her was a Barbie doll. Bernard was even more surprised by his own excitement and pleasure at going round the shops in search of a Barbie doll. He had never bought a present before and he chose the most colourful, expensive paper he could find to wrap the box containing the doll in. When the assistant asked if he wanted some outfits to go with the doll, he bought two. A horse-riding one and a party one. As far as Bernard was concerned the most difficult part of the whole operation was going to be presenting the wrapped up present to Alice's mother. He had only spoken to her once, and then very sharply when she had knocked on his front door and asked if she could borrow a cup of sugar. He had nipped that in the bud straight away, thinking that if he gave her half a chance she'd be banging on his door morning, noon and night wanting to borrow something or other. Now he wished he hadn't been so curt.

He waited until it was past nine o'clock when Alice would probably be in bed and then, with the parcel under his arm, he rather nervously rang his neighbour's door bell. Hesitantly, and with a certain amount of embarrassment he explained in a whisper why he had bought the present and emphasised that Alice must never know it was from him. Alice's mother was an older version of Alice. Same tight, blonde curls. Same large, brown eyes. Her face broke into a warm smile when Bernard handed over the parcel. 'Why, thank you so much', she said 'that's the nicest thing that's' happened since my husband died. You're a very kind man. Very kind indeed.' Back inside his flat Bernard was filled with a warm glow. No one had ever called him a kind man before and why, he wondered, had he always assumed his neighbour was an unmarried mother? Maybe he'd been wrong about a lot of things...

On Christmas morning, Bernard got out the goodies he had bought for the festive season. One chicken portion, a bottle of cheap wine which had been knocked down in price, a bag of nuts and a packet of chocolate biscuits which had thirty three per cent extra free. He put everything out on the table, scratched his head, and wondered if he hadn't gone a bit over the top. He was trying to decide which was the most economical way to cook the chicken portion when there was a faint tap on his front door. It was Alice, resplendent in a bright red dress, with a Barbie doll dressed up in party clothes cradled in her arms and a smile on her face which stretched from one ear to the other. She looked the essence of happiness. 'You were quite right about Santy', she told him. 'He got my letter you sent him and guess what. I only asked him for a Barbie doll and he brought me two outfits as well. Do you think he did that because I've been good? I have been trying to be extra good.' Bernard gave a nod, entranced by this little angel. 'I can't wait to tell that bossy Marion Daly that she got it all wrong', Alice continued, 'oh yes and I nearly forgot, mammy says would you like to come and share our Christmas dinner. There's plenty for all three of us she said and I'd like you to come too.'

Share, Bernard thought to himself? It wasn't a word he'd used that much in his life but he rather liked the sound of it. It had a nice ring to it. 'Why I would love to have Christmas dinner with you and your mother, Alice', he replied smiling, and gathering up the wine, biscuits and nuts he followed the little girl into the next door flat with a whole new way of looking at life.