I can order you a copy, Mr Ransome. You might get it by next Friday.’ The librarian looked at the young curate’s face and knew that would be too late.

‘I need it before then. It’s for Advent. Reverend James is expecting me to lead the service at St George’s. The school are bringing the Advent wreath and I need to know all about the Advent traditions. I don’t seem to have covered that at college. I thought Stewart Jones’ book would tell me all I needed to know.’ He paused, then leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. ‘I can’t ask Reverend James. He told me he wants none of my “new fangled college ideas”. He wants to start the festive season with a traditional Advent service.’ The young curate picked up his two Agatha Christie novels. ‘Cheerio. I don’t know when I’ll have time to read these!’ he grinned as he put them in his bag.

On his walk home to his small rented cottage he caught sight of blue flashing lights ahead of him on the village green. An ambulance was pulled up outside Violet Perks cottage. He quickened his pace. The 80 year old was his favourite parishioner – a lovely lady, bright as a button, who always offered him a glass of sherry and a Mr Kipling cake whenever he visited her. She had told him only last week he was “a breath of fresh air – just what St George’s needed” so he was most concerned to see the ambulance parked outside her cottage. It was then he realised that the door to the neighbouring vicarage was opening and Reverend James on a stretcher was being taken towards the open back doors of the ambulance. The elderly housekeeper, Mrs Finch, was following down the path.

‘Mrs Finch. What’s…’

‘Possible heart attack, Simon. Came over all peculiar just after I’d served him his lunch. You’ll have to take over all his duties, because even if they send him home, he’ll have to rest.’ Doors were quickly closed and the ambulance sped off in a blaze of blue lights, siren blaring.

Simon raised up a silent prayer for Reverend James and then added, ‘Please God, give me strength to praise your name this Christmas.’

‘You’d better come in,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘you look like you need a drink. You’ve gone quite pale.’

Simon sat in the familiar lounge where he and Reverend James had worked together since the summer. The vicar’s chair was glaringly empty. He accepted a cup of tea, wishing it was something stronger. How was he going to cope? A knock came at the front door and Violet Perks was ushered in, leaning on her walking stick and listening intently to Mrs Finch giving her all the details of what had happened.

‘Well Simon, my dear. It’s all up to you now!’ She lowered herself gently on to the settee opposite him. Mrs Finch joined her and for a moment no one spoke. Simon was beginning to panic. The enormity of the task ahead of him could be read on his face.

‘Ladies, I don’t know if I’m up to it…’ he confessed.

‘Simon, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them”. Shakespeare wrote that I think,’ quoted Violet.

‘Twelfth Night…Malvolio, dear,’ added the housekeeper. ‘Any way young man, you must give St George’s a Christmas like it’s never had before – one we won’t forget in a hurry. And it certainly won’t be dreary old hymns and long sermons. We need jolly carols and Christmas fun. We’ll help you, won’t we Violet?’

‘Yes dear. We know what the village wants and we’ll help you deliver it.’

Simon saw the sparkle in their eyes and warmed to the way these two characters had such faith in him. He felt a glimmer of confidence begin to grow inside him. Maybe he could do it.

A month later, in the peace between Christmas and New Year, the three met again in the same room at the vicarage. Reverend James was upstairs in bed convalescing, having given Simon his blessing for taking over all his duties and admitting that perhaps it was time for him to think about retiring in the coming year. Simon was slumped on the settee exhausted after so much work. The two ladies seemed as bright as usual.

‘How did we do it?’ Simon asked, then added, ‘I couldn’t have done it without you. Four Advent services, one midnight mass, two on Christmas Day – that was epic… but you,’ he pointed his finger at Mrs Finch (whom he now knew as Bridget) you organised a service for all the pantomime cast… and you,’ he pointed at Violet, ‘you set up the pets’ service which the children just loved. And the church was full every time. I just don’t know how it all happened.’

‘Best Christmas ever,’ the two ladies agreed.

‘Keep up the good work Simon. What shall we do for Easter?’ Violet added with a wry smile.

Are you a writer? Prose or poetry? Beginner or published? Wymondham Writing Circle would welcome you at their monthly meetings held in the upstairs room at The Feathers pub in Wymondham. For more information contact Anne on 01953 571425. Come and join us.