Esther smiled broadly at the vicar, her tanned face creasing with smiles, her green eyes twinkling. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Now, come again, my dear, come again. Mr Brumby, you bring this young lady to church again.’

Sam was half-way down the path and made no indication of having heard the vicar. Behind her Esther heard a muffled snort of indignation and a whispered comment between the large woman and her skinny companion. ‘Young lady, indeed!’ whispered one.

‘Fancy,’ came the twittering reply. ‘Who would have thought it of Sam Brumby?’

Esther whirled around, a stinging reply on her lips, but the retort died as behind the two gossiping women she saw Beth Hanley, her hand on the bearded man’s arm. Esther’s gaze met Beth’s and she saw the triumph written in the girl’s eyes. Esther turned away, sickened by the implications of the two women and Beth’s glorying in their insults of her. Still in front of the vicar, Esther turned back to him and said politely, but loud enough for those about her to hear distinctly, I’ll certainly come back to your church, when your congregation show a little more Christian charity. Good morning.’ Ignoring the appalled gasps behind her, she marched down the path after Sam.

It soon became apparent to Esther that Sam Brumby was no regular churchgoer and he had what some might think was a peculiar attitude towards the Being he always referred to as ‘The Almighty’. He did not believe in the prayer of supplication; he could never bring himself to pray for things to be given to him. On the contrary his sole purpose in his rare attendances at church was to give thanks. At harvest – good or bad – he would attend the Harvest Service. At Christmas he would celebrate with the Church the birthday of the Son of the Almighty, and at Easter he would give thanks for Christ’s sacrifice. But never, ever, would he ask for anything for himself. His lips hardly moved during prayer except to say such words as, ‘Thanks be to God’.

Esther was not to attend church again until Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but her first visit was not soon forgotten. The very next day when she saw Matthew, she demanded, ‘Who was the man sitting on the other side of your girl?’

‘Beth’s not my girl,’ came his swift reply.

‘She seems to think so.’

‘Well, she ain’t,’ he muttered and then he grinned. ‘You jealous?’

Esther tossed her curls. ‘I can do better for mesen than the likes of you, Matthew Hilton.’

‘Oh, Miss High an’ Mighty, chance’d be a fine thing . . .’

‘I asked you who that feller was.’

‘Well, you’ve no chance there, I can tell you. He’s eyes for no one but Beth, even though he’s years older.’

Esther blinked at Matthew. ‘Really? But who is he? I thought he were her father.’