Blood Harvest (11 page)

‘I’d look for someone different to Pete, next time,’ said Gillian. ‘Maybe someone older. I wouldn’t worry so much about how he looked. Just so long as he was nice.’

This girl wasn’t looking; she thought she’d already found him.

‘Nice is a good quality in a man,’ said Evi. ‘How are you finding the other people at the AA meetings?’

‘They’re OK. Is it too soon, do you think, for me to have met someone?’

‘Have you met someone?’ asked Evi.

The girl was actually blushing. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Maybe. You’d think I was mad if I told you.’

‘Why would I think you mad?’

‘Well, it’s like, he’s so not my type. He was just really nice. And then, the next day, he came to see me. He stayed for nearly two hours, just chatting. There was, like, a chemistry, do you know what I’m saying?’

Evi was starting to smile too, in spite of her reservations. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know about chemistry.’

All the textbooks would say the girl wasn’t ready for a new relationship but, hey, sometimes you just had to go with the flow. And she knew something herself about the difference a chance meeting could make to a life. How suddenly the darkness that was a woman’s future could let in a beam of sunlight.

‘But Christ, I mean, a vicar. It’s just so not me.’

‘A what?’

‘He’s a vicar. Can you believe it? I’d have to stop swearing, for one thing. And church every week. I’m not sure I could hack it.’

Evi’s smile was starting to hurt. She allowed the muscles around her mouth to relax and concentrated on keeping her expression interested and friendly. ‘You’ve met a vicar?’ she asked.

‘I know, I know. But there was just something about him. And he’s young and he wears normal clothes and, actually, I think you might know him, I saw you …’

Gillian was gabbling on and Evi was no longer listening. Oh yes, there was something about him all right.

‘We’re going to have to stop now, Gillian,’ she said, although there were still four minutes to go on the clock. ‘I’m delighted to see how well you’re doing.’

Gillian left the room smiling. A few weeks ago her life had been in tatters. Now she was smiling. Evi picked up the phone. Was there any possible way? None that she could see. She dialled a number and thanked the God she didn’t believe in when she got Harry’s answer machine.

26 September

A
AAH-LAY-OH!

The cry came echoing up the street. A man’s voice, loud and strong. A second later lots of voices answered him.

Aah-lay-oh, aah-lay-oh, aah-lay-oh!

Silence. Joe looked at his brother, his eyes round as saucers. Tom gave a little shrug and tried to look as if he’d heard it all before.

Aaah-lay-oh! One voice again, coming from somewhere down the hill. Two beats of silence and then the cry struck up again. Aaaylay-oh, aah-lay-oh, getting louder and faster like a drumbeat. It sounded as though a hundred men were just around the corner.

And then, just when Tom thought they couldn’t possibly get any louder, it all stopped. There was a second of peace and then an almighty crash of metal against stone. Then another and another. Crash! Crash! Footsteps coming up the hill. Tom moved a little closer to his dad, just a small step, too tiny for anyone to notice.

The Fletchers were standing in the driveway and it was seven o’clock in the evening. It was Joe and Millie’s bedtime, not far off Tom’s, but tonight was the Cutting of the Neck. A very old ritual, Mr Renshaw had explained when he’d come round to invite the Fletchers, one that dated back hundreds of years. The Cutting of the Neck. At the time it had sounded cool, and Tom could tell his mum was pleased to be asked. But listening to those footsteps and
that horrible scraping of sharp metal against rock, like knives being sharpened, he couldn’t help but think: whose neck?

He shivered and took another step closer to his dad. At his side, Joe did the same. The sun had gone now and so had the lovely golden light that had covered the countryside an hour earlier. The sky was a cool silvery pink and, on the ground, the shadows were getting longer.

Further up the hill in the middle of the lane Tom could see Mr Renshaw in a tweed jacket and flat cap. By his side was old Mr Tobias, who’d been to visit a few times and who loved to talk to Mum about painting. Mr Tobias looked exactly like his son, just much older. Actually, they were a bit like the two churches: one tall, strong and proud, the other just the same but so very old. Then there was a woman who was also tall and smartly dressed and who looked like the two men. She wasn’t so old, though, and there was something about her face that seemed to Tom sort of empty.

Next to her was Harry, looking just like a vicar, in white robes embroidered with gold and holding a large red prayer-book. Behind them stood a whole crowd, all well dressed, mainly women and girls. He hadn’t known so many people lived in Heptonclough. They stood in doorways, at the entrances to alleys, leaned against the church wall or out of open windows. Tom realized he was scanning faces, looking for one that was pale, with large dark eyes, framed by long, dirty hair.

By this time, the sound of dozens of boots thudding against cobbles could be heard. And that horrible scraping noise. Over and over again, like fingernails drawn down a blackboard, like violins tuning up in a bad school orchestra, like …

Scythes!

The men were coming now, round the corner, heading up the hill towards them, and each was carrying a scythe: a horribly sharp, curved blade like a pirate’s scimitar on the end of a long pole. As they walked, they scraped the blades against the cobbles and the stone walls.

‘Oh my,’ said Alice. ‘Stand back, everyone.’

Tom knew she was joking, but he stood back all the same, right on to his dad’s foot. Gareth Fletcher groaned and nudged his son forwards again. The leaders reached Mr Renshaw and the others at
the church gate and the procession stopped. One man at the front, who Tom thought was Dick Grimes, the butcher, gave a loud cry and every man in the crowd lifted his scythe high on to his shoulders. Then total silence. Mr Renshaw gave Harry a small nod.

‘Let us pray,’ announced Harry and everyone bowed their heads. Joe leaned closer to his brother. ‘Do you think he’s got shorts on under that dress?’ he whispered.

‘O God, who dost shower upon us the abundance of thy mercy,’ read Harry, ‘and who dost cast upon the seed in the ground both the heat of the sun and the moisture of the rain …’

‘What’s he saying?’ whispered Joe in Tom’s ear.

‘He’s thanking God for making the crops grow,’ Tom hissed back.

As Harry was talking, Tom caught sight of Gillian, the woman his mother felt sorry for, standing a little way down the street at the entrance to Wite Lane. Tom couldn’t help it, but Gillian always made him feel uncomfortable. She was too sad. And she had a way of looking at him, Joe and Millie that made him squirm. Especially Millie. For some reason, Gillian seemed fascinated by Millie. She wasn’t looking at her now, though, she was watching Harry.

‘We thank thee for these great blessings,’ he was saying. ‘Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ shouted the men with scythes and their families who’d followed them.

‘Amen,’ said Joe, a second after everyone else.

‘Men,’ said Millie from high up on her father’s shoulders.

Sinclair Renshaw nodded his thanks to the vicar and then set off down the hill. The men followed him and then everyone turned into Wite Lane, heading for the fields at the bottom. Harry fell into line and, almost at the back, so did the Fletchers.

They walked along the lane and Tom had time to notice that the blackberries were getting ripe, that rosehips and hawthorn berries were glistening and that the sky ahead of them was the colour of ripe barley.

‘All right Gareth?’ said a man who had caught up with Tom’s father. It was Mike Pickup, who lived with his wife Jenny at Morrell Farm, right up on the top of the moor. ‘Nice evening for it.’

‘Evening, Mike,’ Gareth replied.

Mike Pickup looked a little older than Tom’s dad and quite a bit
fatter. The hair on his head was thinning and his cheeks were bright red. He was dressed in tweeds like the two Mr Renshaws.

At the gate of Gillian’s old house Tom and his family had to step sideways to avoid horse droppings and then they carried on, through a stile and into a field. They crossed the field like a fat crocodile, heading uphill, only stopping when they reached the centre. Tom watched the men form a large circle, standing several feet apart. The others formed a larger circle around the outside. Still no sign of the odd little girl. If the whole town was here, where was she?

‘I think we’re going to dance,’ whispered Tom’s mum. His dad frowned at her to be quiet.

The Fletchers could just about see Sinclair Renshaw, standing alone in the centre of the circle. At his side, a tiny patch of the crop hadn’t yet been harvested. Dick Grimes walked forward and gave Sinclair a scythe.

‘Is that hay?’ asked Gareth, quietly.

‘Aye,’ replied Mike. ‘Animal feed. Only thing that’ll grow this high up. Rest of the field was cut two weeks ago. We harvest by the waning moon. Always have done.’

Tom glanced up and saw the pale moon just appearing on the horizon. ‘It’s full,’ he said.

Mike Pickup shook his head. ‘Full ten hours ago,’ he said. ‘On the wane now. Hush.’

They hushed. In the centre of the circle Mr Renshaw took hold of the last few handfuls of hay, twisted them round in his hand and pulled them tight. He raised the scythe high above his head.

‘I hav’n!’ he cried, in a voice so loud Tom thought they could probably hear it on the waning moon. ‘I hav’n!’ he repeated. ‘I hav’n!’ he called for a third time.

‘What havee?’ yelled the men in response.

‘A neck,’ called Sinclair. Then his scythe flashed down so fast Tom didn’t see it move, the last of the hay was cut and every man, woman and child in the field was cheering. Mum, Dad and even Millie were clapping politely. Tom and Joe looked at each other.

Then the women were scurrying around like field-mice, gathering up every last bit of hay that had been missed in the previous cutting. The men were crowding round Mr Renshaw, shaking him
by the hand as if he’d done something amazing, and then turning to file out of the field. Tom watched Harry help Gillian over the stile and then the two of them walked back down Wite Lane. At the gate of her former house they stopped and stood talking together.

‘When does he cut the neck?’ said Joe at Tom’s side.

‘I think that was the neck,’ said Tom. ‘I think neck means last bit of the crop.’

For a second Joe looked disappointed. Then he shook his head and, when he spoke, his voice sounded older.

‘I think there’s more to it than that,’ he said.

H
ARRY
FOLLOWED
THE
MEN
AHEAD
OF
HIM
THROUGH
A
high stone archway and down a narrow cobbled alley that ran along the lower end of the churchyard. To his left were the medieval buildings of the old abbot’s residence and the monks’ quarters, on his right the high iron railings that topped this part of the church wall. It was the first time he’d approached the Renshaw residence; his previous meetings with his churchwarden had been in St Barnabas’s vestry or the White Lion.

Unlike much of the rest of the town, the stone of the Abbot’s House had been kept clean and was the pale colour of powdered ginger. Giant urns filled with wheat, barley and wild flowers stood to either side of the front door. The door had been carved with leaves and roses and looked as old as the rest of the house. It wasn’t open and the men ahead walked past. They carried on, past candle-lanterns that would guide them home after dark.

High on the wall a black cat sat watching them go by and Harry had a moment to wonder if it was the same cat he and Evi had seen a week ago. The Abbot’s House was huge, stretching nearly a hundred feet along the alley. Just ahead, another door lay open and the men were turning into it. Harry followed them into a large hall with high narrow windows. Trestle tables, piled high with food, had been placed down the centre, and at the far end a pulpit-like structure of almost black wood stood against the wall.

‘I’ll need to see the soles of your feet, Vicar,’ said a well-spoken,
elderly voice at his side. Harry turned to see Sinclair’s father, Tobias, the oldest man in the town and, if rumour were true, the cleverest.

‘Mr Renshaw,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Harry Laycock. Good to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ They shook hands. The men who had entered the hall first were hanging their scythes around the wall. Everywhere Harry looked, hooks were fixed into the stonework. More men squeezed in behind him. Women and girls carrying loose ears of wheat were beginning to arrive.

‘And what was that about my feet?’ asked Harry.

‘A tradition.’ Tobias smiled.

‘Another one?’ There wasn’t really room for a conversation in the doorway. Harry had to stand very close to Tobias. He would have been as tall as his son when younger. Even now, he was almost Harry’s height.

‘Oh, we have plenty of traditions,’ replied the older man. ‘This is one of our least disturbing. I advise you to go along, save your resistance for when you really need it. You, being a newcomer to the town, give me your foot – this charming young lady will help you balance, I’m sure – and I scrape the sole of your shoe with the welcome stone. It’s a religious tradition, started by the monks in the twelfth century. Far be it from you to turn your back on history.’

‘Far be it indeed,’ said Harry. ‘And what were you saying about a charming young – oh, hello again, Gillian. Actually I think I’m OK so, how do I do this, facing you like a can-can girl or with my back turned like a horse being shod?’

‘What kinky jinxes are these?’ asked Alice, appearing in the doorway with Millie on her hip. The two boys followed behind. ‘Move along, Vicar,’ she said. ‘There’s a queue.’

‘The queue will have to wait, Alice,’ said Tobias. ‘You’re next. And then your beautiful daughter. Good evening, my dear.’ He reached out and ran long, brown fingers over Millie’s hair.