The Reverend Ivey pursed his wafer-thin lips and rubbed at the back of his wispy grey hair. ‘Yes, the early apostles were concerned that some of the people were following them and not God. I find your views interesting, Bartholomew. However, do you not think it unfair to form an opinion on what any individual or group of people do, believe or follow if you don’t participate in the proceedings or know all about them?’

‘I do, and that is why I have only thoughts and not opinions on religious matters, and my thoughts I share only with my mother,’ the young fisherman answered as if rising to a challenge.

‘I see. Do you believe in God? You never come to church now.’

‘I went into the church once, alone, a long time ago… to see if God was there.’

‘And was He?’ the Reverend prompted gently.

Bartholomew leaned back and stared at the array of theological books on a shelf behind the parson’s head. ‘I felt this strange kind of inner peace, if that was God… I’ve had the same feeling out at sea, up on the cliffs… If He is anywhere at all, He’s everywhere.’

‘You are right in that.’ The Reverend felt there was no need to say any more.

Bartholomew suddenly jumped up from his chair. ‘Damn it, Reverend, my mother should not have to live in a hovel!’ he cried angrily. ‘She deserves better. She may not have been gentry but she was a lady, she deserved far more than a life of poverty as a fishwife. I want her to have the sort of life she was born to, plenty of food, good clothes on her back, wine on the table, a big comfortable house. Look at her, Reverend, just look at her, she’s like a shrivelled-up body with the maggots already chewing on her!’ He threw up his hands, crossed the room and stared out of the window.

The Reverend Ivey went to him. ‘You love your mother very much, Bartholomew, but aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, without turning round.

‘Your mother loved your father very much too. She probably would not have lived her life in any other way if it had meant being without him.’

Bartholomew tightened his mouth. He had no more to say.

The Reverend knew when it was time to talk about something else. ‘I am pleased that at least you have the means to earn a living. I understand that Peter Blake has given you and Matthew King the Young Maid as an unconditional gift.’

‘Aye,’ Bartholomew snickered, ‘it must have half-killed him to make such a gesture. Elizabeth King believes it must be due to the kindness of that lovely wife of his.’

‘Rosina? Yes, it is the kind of gesture that gentle soul would encourage her husband to make.’