arm was the beginning of a heart attack. If he registered the ache at all as he crossed Reid Street and headed for the Phoenix Store's thronged entrance, it was the weight of the plastic bag filled with port, brandy, schnapps and other items from his scribbled list. The bag wasn't that heavy, but it banged against his leg with every stride, and the handles hurt his fingers. He was sweating and his breath was laboured, so he decided to rest before going in.

When he put down the bag and leaned against the wall, he found it made no difference to the pain, which intensified and spread slowly across his chest.

He began to realise what it was. Of all the things on Ted's mind on this last Saturday before Christmas, dying had not been one of them. He was forty four years old with a wife who still lived with him and two sons who did not. Geoff was at college and called when he needed money. The older boy Chris had never finished college, but was working and didn't need money. Or wouldn't ask for it. He and Ted had fought over his decision to quit school and travel the world, and these days it was left to Corinne, Ted's wife of twenty three years, to interpret and convey such emotional traffic as passed between father and uncompliant son. The excuse of girlfriends or treks abroad had kept Chris away each December since, and last week Geoff, who was dating a fresh-faced geology major from New Brunswick, had also begged leave to stay in Canada over the holidays, then pop over in January "to stock up''. With their own elderly parents thousands of miles away in Wales and Ireland respectively, Ted and Corinne were set to spend their first ever Christmas alone. Pulling at his collar in a vain attempt to suck in more air, Ted let out a slow moan as he slid down the wall, crushing the box of lights as he sat on the bag.

"Please...help..me!'' he gasped. At least ten people went past him in both directions before a teenager in a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt stopped and asked if he was alright. By them he could only shake his head slowly from side to side. "Look at his face!'' someone said, then: "Better call for an ambulance! Now!''. Through the small crowd that had gathered around him, propping his head on a rolled up coat, he could see the double-parked cars along the street, and wondered if an ambulance would be able to get through.

"I'm going to die because somebody can't be bothered to walk up from the Number One Shed'', he thought, as he began to pass out, "People are so...so...selfish''. Other people's failings were a constant source of irritation to Ted, who liked to think of himself as being on the enlightened side when it came to "The Issues'' as he would describe them. Saturday's Royal Gazette had contained several articles which had upset Ted over his Golden Grahams, and Corinne, as usual, was the sounding board for his opinions and reactions. "Look at this!'' he had called across the breakfast table, "Somebody here is opposed to the setting up of no-go drug dealing areas around schools, because they say it will lead to drug deals everywhere else on the island! Reminds me of that old Groucho Marx song: `Whatever It Is, I'm Against It'.'' Wiping a dribble of milk from his chin he had turned to his favourite, the `Letters Page', but was disappointed. "Looks like the racists, religious zealots, and hang 'em high fans have declared a Yuletide truce this year,'' he said, searching in vain for his favourite contributors. "Perhaps they're all away on some kind of Intolerance Conference.'' Elsewhere there was a short announcement that the Anonymous Santas drive had been a success and that all requests had now been fulfilled. Ironically, it was this good news that had sent Ted spiralling into morose introspection. It always upset him to read the list of names, ages and requests and see, amongst the "Toy Train'' and "Doll'' entries the children who asked for `anything'. Anything at all.

He would recall his own childhood and the many presents he took for granted, in a family that was far from wealthy. As the ambulance sped out of town towards King Edward VII Memorial Hospital, the paramedics applied the defibrillator to Ted's exposed chest. The signs were not good. There was no pulse and his face was the colour of ash. For his part, Ted felt himself removed from the exhausting physical world, but rather than hovering above his prone body looking down on the frantic attempts to save his life, Ted found himself in a hazily-lit nursery room, where he was soon arguing with God, or at any rate with a beared ancient in flowing white robes. They were not alone.

Ted's son Chris - aged three - was holding Ted's left hand, tugging him gently towards an opened set of Leggo bricks. Paper was strewn everywhere and there was a tricycle, a drum and a pile of sweaters and pants nearby. A little black girl, about the same age, was holding Ted's right hand. She too was pulling, and when he looked down at his chest his shirt was open and there was a crack forming that ran down to his navel in a jagged, crimson lien. "And your point is?'' the old man was saying. "Why is there so much want in the world?'' said Ted. "In Bermuda, at least, there should be none. I feel terrible every time I read about a neglected child, a homeless man forced to sleep in the rain, a mother struggling to feed and clothe herself and her family.'' "And so you should'', said the old man. "Yes,'' said Ted, "but when I look in the paper, all anyone seems to care about is the effect on their lives of opening a McDonald's.'' He went on about the lack of tolerance he found in his `Letters Page', with claims of the moral high ground for man's historical crimes against his fellows, calls for tougher punishments for this and that, the clearly prejudiced railing at prejudice. The crack in his chest opened up an inch, to reveal a round, shiny muscle covered in blue veins. The old man rubbed his beard. "And what are you doing about it?'' he asked. Ted answered that they almost always bought an Anonymous Santa gift, and he smiled at the little girl, who was holding a dress set that he recognised as the one Corinne had chosen. This gesture, however, never quite felt enough. It was so hard to choose just one. His own children, he explained, had always had everything they needed. Then, looking at Chris, he explained how the boys' gifts had had to be mailed this year, to Canada and the UK. Christmas, he said, would not be the same. By this time his chest was wide open, but there was no movement inside. At the hospital he was transferred immediately to the emergency room, where the cardiac team took over form the paramedics. The latter shook their heads. The old man sighed, and took a deep breath. "What if you had bought all the Anonymous Santa gifts?'' he asked. "Do you really think that would solve everything? You are right, of course, about many things. McDonald's, for instance, a tedious business. But you are missing so much more. There will always be suffering, and you must do what you can to help, and encourage others. But never demand it of them, for there has to be a choice. And this intolerance, this lack of humanity of which you speak, conducted through the letters page. Do you know, there are places in the world where people are persecuted, and even killed because they cannot agree. There are worse fates than to be singled out by Dr. Whatsizname. You are lucky to live in a democracy with a free press, even if they do result, in Bermuda's case, in yards of political verbiage day in, day out.'' Ted pursed his lips and Children must not be neglected, warns old man have failed to attend to,'' said the old man, "and that is your own family.

First, your boys. They have grown up with a father so sensitive to social issues and fair play that they hardly dared speak in the house for fear of a finger wagging lecture from Pop. But do you have any idea now what their own beliefs are? As it turns out they are good kids, but you have driven them away, because you forgot to make them feel more important than say, poverty in Africa, a place you never went to. But your son did, against your wishes, and the two of you haven't spoken since.'' Suddenly, Ted felt his heart lurch, swell and shudder, as the gap in his chest closed itself. "Sorry, I should have warned you'' said the old man, "but your wife is here, and she looks dreadful. I thought she could use some encouragement.'' Ted looked around. The tiny children and their toys had disappeared. "Not here. There!'' said the old man, and Ted was back in his body, looking up from his hospital bed, to see the pale green eyes of Corinne, her face streaked with tears. She was holding his hand. The old man's voice continued: "One last thing, Ted, and you mustn't think me picky. You are a great one for espousing charitable ideas, but it tends to be your wife who carries them out. For instance, it was Corinne who bought the dress set for that little girl, and the toy soldier last year. Also, without sharing your noble views on the world, it is she who works for the National Trust and helps at the Womens' Resource Centre, while you, well, pontificate. You're a good man, Ted, but from now on you have to sort out your priorities. As the Beatles once sang: `Don't carry the world upon your shoulders'. That's my job. Now, I think your wife wants to speak to you. Remember what I have told you, and lay off the red meat and fatty foods from here on. Come to think of it, maybe they shouldn't allow a McDonald's in Bermuda''. Corinne pressed Ted's hand and leaned close to him, planting a salty kiss on his forehead. "Thank you for coming back,'' she said. "I hope you realise, though, that you've ruined our cosy little Christmas together.

Geoff will be here tomorrow, and Chris says he'll try to get a flight, but that they're pretty jammed. But he will be here, Ted, he promised. He was crying when he said it.'' Ted was still dazed and too weak to do anything but gaze at the face of the woman he had loved and taken for granted for a quarter century, but that was just fine. He had alot to think about. PHOTO Robert Jones, adult winner of the short story competition SHORT STORY CONTEST CPN