16

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.