Margaret was giddy with pain. She lay awkwardly at the foot of the stairs, a dull ache in her thigh. The bristly, worn beige and pink carpet tickled her cheek, a faint musty smell clung to its ancient fibres. An icy draft from the letterbox, where the newspaper had been pushed only halfway through, ruffled her sparse, grey perm. The vacuum cleaner lay on its side, close by.

        Margaret remembered the conversation she'd had the previous day with Lucy, her granddaughter.

        “Now, Gran, don't forget, I'll be back in a couple of days, and I'll do some more cleaning for you.”

        “But you're so busy at work. And I feel so helpless!” said Margaret.

        “I like doing things for you,” said Lucy.

        “I don't want any fuss,” Margaret replied.

        Lucy persisted, “Don't try to hoover the stairs. You might fall and lose your balance.”

        What would Lucy say now? Margaret knew she should have left the stairs to gather dust. But she hadn't. She didn't like to let her standards slip. Not like those new neighbours with the greying net curtains and dirty windows. The house next door had been empty since old Mrs. Entwistle had gone into a home, and it needed a good spring-clean. People don't bother about hygiene these days, she reflected.

        New people had moved in last week. The young woman had spiky, dyed blonde hair and a pierced lip. Whatever next! And the husband - he obviously hasn't got a job, she mused. Margaret had seen him from her vantage point of the maroon velour armchair, gardening at all hours of the day. Typical of young people nowadays- they don't want to work. Obviously a sponger, she decided. She noticed a purple scar just visible above his pointed ginger beard. Wonder how he got that, she asked herself. She had seen two little girls with him. They looked happy enough, though, she thought. Nice little things.

        Margaret tried to shift her position so that she could see her watch: 11.30am. She had lain there for two hours now. It was getting colder: the timer must have switched the heating off. She knew she must do something. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her late husband's old golf umbrella, hanging on the coat stand. After several attempts she managed to grasp its spike and pull it towards her. She lay back, panting, after her exertions.

        “There's nothing else for it,” she said to herself, “I'll have to ask the spongers next door for help!” Grasping the umbrella firmly in her work-worn hands, she struck the dividing wall with its handle, again and again.

        “Help!” she shouted as loudly as her croaky voice would allow.

        Five minutes later, an unfamiliar male voice opened the letterbox, sending the daily paper flapping towards the doormat.

        He yelled, “Hello! Anybody there? You O.K.?”

        “No, I'm not O.K.- I've fallen down the stairs and hurt my leg,” she replied.

        “It's John from next door- I'll phone for some help.”

        Margaret could hear a faint mumbled conversation on the other side of the front door. He must have one of those new-fangled mobile things, she thought.

        A few seconds passed and John called, “An ambulance is on its way!”

        “But I don't want any fuss,” said Margaret.

        Ignoring her protests, he expertly broke a small pane of glass in the front door and carefully thrusting his hands between the shards, he turned the key. Seconds later, the door stood open. Bet he's done that before, thought Margaret. She surveyed her new neighbour. A small man with smiling crinkly blue eyes and a full beard stood before her, dressed from head to toe in black.

        As if he had read her thoughts, he said, “I'm getting to be quite an expert at breaking-in. Locked myself out twice last year.”

        He knelt beside her and attempted to take her pulse. Margaret tried to pull away. John pretended not to notice. “I used to be a nurse,” he said, by way of explanation. “It was lucky I heard you knocking,” he continued. “Just got back from fetching my wife from the hospital.”

        “Is she ill?” queried Margaret.

        “Jane? No! She's been to see a couple of elderly patients who wouldn't otherwise get any visitors.”

        Margaret was lost for words at this unexpected piece of information.

        “You're cold!” he observed, as he let go of her wrist. He took off his big woollen sweater and laid its warmth over Margaret.

        Margaret sharply drew in her breath: underneath he was wearing a dog collar!

        “You're a vicar!” she exclaimed.

        “I'm the new curate at St. Luke's.”

        “I'm Margaret Smith,” said Margaret, smiling with relief.

        “Great to meet you, Margaret!”

        An ambulance screeched to a halt outside the house. The noise of the radio control link permeated the quiet, sleepy street. Two paramedics in fluorescent yellow tabards let themselves in. After exchanging a few words with them, John returned to Margaret's side.

        “Don't worry about a thing. I'll get your door fixed this afternoon,”he reassured her.

        “I don't want to cause a fuss,” she replied.

As the ambulance men strapped Margaret gently onto a stretcher, John squeezed her hand.

        On arriving at the hospital, a doctor, young enough to be her grandson, Margaret thought, assured her that she hadn't suffered any serious injuries. She had mild concussion and a badly bruised leg, and had to stay in overnight for observation.

The following day, she arrived home in a taxi to find her front door as good as new. John and Jane rushed out of their front door to greet her.

        “Thanks for everything you did yesterday,” she said. “When I think what could have happened…..” Her voice trailed away.

        “No problem, Mrs. Smith. Now come in and have some lunch with us,” said John.

        “I don't want any fuss,” she said.

        “We won't take no for an answer!” said Jane, smiling.

        Margaret was ushered through the hall into the kitchen. She sat down at the kitchen table. Her bird like eyes took in the shining stainless steel sink, the sparklingly clean tiled floor and the fresh curtains at the window. I was wrong about this family, she reflected. I have been stupid, bigoted and wrong.

        As she served crusty bread and home made soup, Jane began to chat about her search for a part-time job.

        “I can't seem to find anything local for a few hours a week that fits around the children's school day,” she said.

        Margaret made up her mind quickly. “I know of something,” she replied. “I'd be glad of some help around the house and with shopping.” She continued in a confidential tone, “The doctor at the hospital said I must take things more easily from now on. Said I'd been lucky this time.”

        “I'd love to help. Sounds great!” Jane replied.

        “That's settled then!” Margaret said, smiling at her new friends.

        “God works in mysterious ways,” observed John.