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