Blood Harvest

30

10 October
‘TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON, A TIME FOR EVERY purpose under the sun,’ read Harry. His voice, rarely lowpitched, bounced around the empty church. ‘A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up …’
A scuffling noise behind him. He stopped. A quick glance over his shoulder told him he was still alone in the church. He’d said goodbye to Alice ten minutes ago, to Gillian three or four minutes after that. Both had been helping him put the finishing touches to the harvest decorations. He’d have seen anyone come in. You didn’t miss much, standing in the pulpit.
‘… a time to pluck up that which is planted,’ he continued, his eyes scanning the rows of pews although he was sure the noise had come from behind him. ‘A time to kill and a time …’ He stopped again, not liking the feeling he was getting between his shoulder blades, the feeling that any second now, someone behind him would reach out and …
He glanced down at his notes again. Ecclesiastes, chapter three, always went down well at harvest time. People liked the simple beauty of the piece, its sense of balance, of completeness.
‘Time to die,’ said a small voice from just behind him.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the gallery and waited. In the nave something creaked, but old wood does that. For a second he wondered if the Fletcher boys had crept into the church again, but it hadn’t sounded like either of them. He allowed his eyes to fall down to his hands. They were clutching the wooden rail of the pulpit rather tighter than appeared manly. Without making a sound, he spun on the spot.
The chancel looked empty, but then he hadn’t really expected anything else. Someone was having some fun with the vicar. He turned back to face the front of the church again.
‘… and a time to heal … a time to weep and a time to laugh,’ he read out, in a voice that would be too loud, even tomorrow, when the church had people in it. In an empty church, it sounded a bit crazed.
‘Time to kill,’ whispered the voice.
Oh, for the love of…
Harry didn’t bother with the steps, he swung his legs over the pulpit rail and dropped to the floor. The voice had been just feet away, he was sure of it. There was no time for anyone to disappear. Except they had. No one in the choir stalls, no one in the small space behind the organ, no one hiding behind the altar, no one in the … he stopped. Could someone be in the old crypt? Could sound be travelling upwards somehow?
‘Everything all right, Vicar?’
Harry stopped and turned to face the new voice. Jenny Pickup, Sinclair’s daughter, was standing halfway down the aisle watching him with a look of bemused interest on her face. Harry felt his own face glowing. For some reason, Jenny always seemed to find him a bit of a joke.
‘Have you ever heard of a secret way into this building, Jenny?’ he asked. ‘Maybe into the cellar beneath us? That local kids might know about?’
She shook her head. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ she said. ‘Why, has anything gone missing?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ said Harry quickly. ‘It’s just I was running through the sermon for tomorrow and I swear I heard someone repeating what I was saying.’
Jenny was wearing a pale-pink sweatshirt that suited her, and riding breeches tucked into black boots. ‘This building echoes in odd ways,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s well known for it.’
‘It really didn’t sound like an echo,’ Harry replied. ‘It sounded like a child. In which case I need to find him before I lock up.’
Jenny had walked forward. Her eyes were moving slowly round the building. ‘Let me lock up for you tonight, Vicar,’ she said.
‘You?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, a small, slightly sad smile on her face. ‘I came to have a quick word with you. And then I wanted to spend some time here on my own. Would that be OK, do you think? I promise to make sure there’s not a soul here when I leave.’
‘If you’re sure,’ he said.
‘No problem. Let me walk outside with you. It’s a beautiful evening.’
Harry collected his jacket and then the two of them walked into the vestry. Harry couldn’t resist a last look back around the nave. Empty.
‘Do you need to borrow my keys?’ he offered.
‘No, it’s OK, thank you,’ Jenny replied, as they walked outside. ‘Dad lent me his. He’ll probably pop back himself later, just to make sure I really did lock up and all the lights are out.’
A Land Rover pulling a long, low trailer had stopped outside Dick Grimes’s shop, near the church entrance. The driver jumped out, followed by a black and white collie. He went to the back of the trailer and unfastened the rear door. The dog ran up the ramp and a dozen sheep stumbled out. Harry and Jenny watched the dog herd them around the vehicle and towards the barn behind the butcher’s shop.
‘You’re not a countryman, are you, Vicar?’ she said to him.
They watched the sheep disappear into the barn, then the driver and collie reappeared and jumped back into the cab. As the vehicle drove off around the corner, a woman had to step close to the wall to avoid being hit. It was Gillian.
‘No,’ said Harry, turning back to Jenny. ‘But I’m learning fast.’
‘It’s all done humanely,’ she said. ‘And the animals don’t suffer the stress of a long journey.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’ Harry glanced up the hill. Gillian was still there. ‘Don’t think I disapprove,’ he went on. ‘I just need to get used to it.’
‘The men all come up to our house afterwards,’ said Jenny. ‘We do a supper and the pub usually provides a keg or two. It would be great if you could join us.’ Jenny was twisting her car keys in her hands. Her fingers were long and slim but reddened and a little rough, maybe from riding horses in bad weather.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry, acutely conscious of Gillian just yards away but determined not to look at her again. ‘That’s very kind,’ he went on. ‘And next year I’d love to. But I have a big day tomorrow. I probably should get an early night.’
‘Next year then.’ Jenny had been working. Her short fingernails were dirty and there was straw on her sweatshirt.
‘I wish Gillian would go home,’ said Harry. ‘It’s getting cold and she never seems to wear a proper coat.’ Evi’s fingernails had been short too, but very clean and polished. Funny, the things you noticed.
Jenny glanced over Harry’s shoulder. ‘Gillian’s been looking a lot better lately,’ she said. ‘We’ve been worried about her for some time. She really didn’t seem to be coping.’
‘She suffered a terrible loss,’ said Harry.
Jenny took a deep breath. ‘I lost a daughter too, Vicar. Did you know that?’
‘I didn’t,’ he replied, turning away from Gillian to meet Jenny’s hazel eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘In a way. It was ten years ago, so I’ve had more time, I suppose. But there’s not a day goes by when the pain isn’t there. When I don’t think, what would she have been doing today? How would she look, now that she’s eight, or nine, or ten?’
‘I do understand,’ Harry said, although he knew he didn’t, not really. No one could appreciate that sort of pain unless they’d lived through it.
‘Are you nervous about tomorrow?’ Jenny was asking him.
‘Of course,’ he replied truthfully. ‘I’ve led worship in my other two parishes and that went fine, but here’s different somehow. Probably because the church has been closed for so long. I haven’t managed to find out yet why that was.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we sit down for a second?’
Harry found himself following Jenny to the old shepherds’ bench where he’d sat with Evi. She still hadn’t called him back.
Jenny was twisting her car keys in her hand. ‘It’ll be fine tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll have a good turn-out. People are ready to start using the church again.’
‘Why did they stop?’ he asked, realizing she needed a direct question.
She wasn’t looking at him. ‘Out of respect,’ she said. ‘And also out of sadness. Lucy, my daughter, died in the church.’
And no one had thought to warn him? ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘She fell from the gallery. It was my fault. We weren’t even in the church, we were at Dad’s house and I was talking to someone – to Gillian and her mother, as it happened. They used to work for us. I didn’t see Lucy wander off.’
‘From the gallery?’ said Harry. ‘You mean like Millie Fletcher almost did the other week?’
Jenny nodded. ‘You can understand now why we were all so upset by that. It just seemed the most dreadful, stupid joke. Those boys, I don’t know what goes on in their heads …’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Harry. ‘Please, tell me about Lucy. She just wandered away when you weren’t looking?’
‘We started searching, of course, but we looked in the house – it’s a big house – and then the garden, then the lane outside. It never occurred to us that she might have made her way into the church. And up all those steps. By the time we found her, she was cold. And her skull, her little skull was just …’
The blood was draining from Jenny’s face. Her whole body was shaking.
‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ repeated Harry. ‘I had no idea. All this … opening up the church again, it must be very distressing for you.’
‘No, it’s fine, I’m ready.’ Jenny was still pale, but the trembling seemed to be slowing down. ‘I asked Dad not to mention what happened,’ she was saying. ‘I wanted to tell you myself.’
‘That was very brave of you. Thank you.’ It certainly explained a lot. He’d been told that ten years ago the parishioners had suddenly stopped using the church. When the incumbent vicar retired, the diocese had formally closed the building. Only when the parish had been united with two others had the decision been taken to reopen. He’d had no idea what had really lain behind it all.
At the top of the lane, Gillian was still hovering. Jenny saw his eyes flicker and turned her head to look up the hill.
‘I was godmother to Gillian’s daughter,’ she said. ‘A couple of months before the fire, I gave her all Lucy’s old clothes, including some really precious ones that Christiana had made. It felt like a big step forward for me, like I was getting ready to move on. And then Hayley was dead too and all the clothes were burned. It was almost like I’d lost Lucy again.’
Harry couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘There was a little pyjama set. Christiana embroidered it herself with all the Beatrix Potter characters. It was so beautiful. I thought I was so brave giving it away.’
Again nothing to say. He was hopeless, in the presence of grief, completely hopeless.
‘You’re a good listener,’ said Jenny, getting to her feet. ‘I’m going back inside now. Good luck tomorrow.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ He stood up.
‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve never been afraid of ghosts.’ She smiled at him and turned to walk back towards the church.