by S J Bolton
The boys were doing well, Alice seemed to be constantly reassuring everyone who asked. Their new counsellor kept telling them to keep talking, admit when they were scared, be honest when they were angry. Above all, not to expect miracles, it would take time.
Of all the Fletchers, only Millie seemed the same as ever. If anything, she seemed to be growing noisier and cheekier and happier by the day, as though the energy missing from the rest of her family had found a way to channel itself into her. Harry sometimes thought the family wouldn’t have survived the last few weeks without Millie.
Standing beside Alice, her oversized hand clutching Alice’s tiny one, stood her new goddaughter: Heather Christine Renshaw. Early in the new year, in his last official duty as minister of the benefice, Harry had baptized Heather. The service had been short, attended only by the remaining members of the Renshaw family: Christiana, Sinclair and Mike, and also, at their own insistence, Alice, Joe and Tom. Heather – or Ebba, as he would always think of her – was getting medical treatment now. It was too late for the damage caused by years of neglect to be entirely reversed, but the medication would help. More importantly, her days as a prisoner were over.
Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw movement further down the hill. Mike Pickup, who’d been in church earlier, hadn’t followed the mourners. He was standing instead by the grave that was Lucy’s new resting place and that now held her mother as well. Tobias lay like a fallen king in one of the stone coffins of the family mausoleum.
The priest had finished speaking. He glanced over at Harry, who forced his lips into a smile. The funeral director was handing round a casket of earth. People were gathering up handfuls, throwing the earth on to the coffin and stepping away. One by one, the mourners turned and made their way back up the hill until Harry was almost alone. A tall, heavily built man he didn’t know muttered something and then walked away a few paces. He glanced back once at the two people left at the graveside and then turned to stare across the valley.
‘When do you leave?’ asked the pale young woman in the wheelchair. Her eyes looked too large in her face and had grown dull since he’d last seen her. They didn’t look like violet pansies any more.
‘Today,’ said Harry. Then he looked up the hill to where his loaded car was parked. ‘Now,’ he added. He’d said his goodbyes over the previous few days. This one would be the last.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘Not really. You?’ He hadn’t meant to sound angry – she had problems of her own, he knew that. He just hadn’t been able to help it.
‘Harry, you should talk to someone. You need to-’
He couldn’t look at her again. If he looked at her he’d never be able to leave. ‘Evi,’ he managed, ‘I can’t talk to God any more, and you won’t let me talk to you. There really isn’t anyone else. Look after yourself.’
He turned from the grave and found the path. The other mourners had all disappeared. It was far too cold to be outside for long. As he strode up the hill, he heard the sexton begin to shovel earth on to the coffin. Thud, thud.
He thought perhaps he heard the squeak of Evi’s wheelchair, but he wasn’t looking back.
Thud, thud. Harry quickened his pace and the sound of earth falling on to wood seemed to follow him up the hill. The sexton was working fast. Before the hour was done the new grave would be complete, a soft mound of soil covered with flowers. They’d fade and die, of course, flowers always did, but people would bring others, they’d keep the grave neat. The people who hadn’t cared much for Gillian in life would look after her grave.
They honoured their dead in Heptonclough; some of them, at least.
Author’s Note
Heptonclough
Heptonclough was inspired by, but not based upon, the village of Heptonstall (from the old English hep – wild rose, and tunstall – farmstead) on the Yorkshire Pennines, not far from the border with Lancashire. Like its fictional counterpart, Heptonstall owed its early wealth to the wool trade and today boasts two churches (one old, one very old), the White Lion pub, the old grammar school and numerous cobbled streets lined with tall stone houses. Visitors should not look for Wite Lane, the Abbot’s House or the Fletcher family’s shiny new home, but teenage boys can definitely be seen riding their bikes around the old church walls. I’ve watched them do it.
Congenital Hypothyroidism
‘I see a head of unusual form and size, a squat and bloated figure, a stupid look, bleared hollow and heavy eyes, thick projecting eyelids, and a flat nose. His face is of a leaden hue, his skin dirty, flabby, covered with tetters and his thick tongue hangs down over his moist livid lips. His mouth, always open and full of saliva, shows teeth going to decay. His chest is narrow, his back curved, his breath asthmatic, his limbs short, misshapen, without power. The knees are thick and inclined inward, the feet flat. The large head drops listlessly on the breast; the abdomen is like a bag.’
Beaupre, Dissertation sur les cretins, c. 1850
Congenital hypothyroidism, which can be genetic, sporadic or endemic, is a condition of severely stunted physical and mental development, caused by a deficiency of the hormone thyroxine. In the UK around one in every 3,500 to 4,000 children are born with congenital hypothyroidism. Similar rates are reported in the USA and continental Europe. It is more common in girls than in boys, but the reason for this is currently unknown.
Without treatment, adult stature is below average, ranging from 1 to 1.6 metres; bone maturation and puberty are severely delayed and infertility is common. Neurological impairment, of varying degrees of severity, is to be expected. Cognitive development, thought and reflexes are slower. Other signs of the condition may include thickened skin, enlarged tongue or a protruding abdomen.
Fortunately, genetic and sporadic congenital hypothyroidism, caused by abnormal development of the thyroid gland before birth, has been almost completely eliminated in developed countries by newborn-screening schemes and lifelong treatment.
The endemic condition arises from a diet deficient in iodine: the essential trace element that the body needs to produce thyroid hormones. The soils of many inland areas on all continents are iodine deficient and food produced there is correspondingly deficient. Iodine deficiency causes gradual enlargement of the thyroid gland, and the resulting growth is referred to as a goitre. The endemic form of the condition continues to be a major public-health problem in many undeveloped countries.
‘Cretin’, from an Alpine-French dialect spoken in a region where sufferers were especially common, became a medical term in the eighteenth century. It saw considerable medical use in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and then spread more widely in popular English as a derogatory term for someone who behaves stupidly. Because of its pejorative connotations in popular speech, health-care workers have mostly now ceased use of the term.
Acknowledgements
One of the most rewarding aspects of writing is the opportunity to learn, and the following taught me a lot: A History of Psychiatry by Edward Shorter; Basic Child Psychiatry by Philip Barker; Crime Scene to Court: the Essentials of Forensic Science edited by P. C. White; Postmortem: Establishing the Cause of Death by Dr Steven A. Koehler and Dr Cyril H. Wecht; and Practical Church Management by James Behrens.
Avril Neal, Jacqui and Nick Socrates, Denise Stott and Adrian Summons continue to do sterling work, not only reading and correcting my early manuscripts but also patiently providing advice and information throughout the writing process. Dr Miraldine Rosser joined ‘the team’ this year, and her help in making Evi a credible psychiatrist was invaluable. Thank you, all of you, and as always, any remaining mistakes are mine.
The folk at Transworld continue to be supportive, encouraging, hardworking and wise. I’m particularly grateful to Sarah Turner, Laura Sherlock, Lynsey Dalladay, Nick Robinson and Kate Samano. In the US, my thanks as ever to Kelley Ragland and Matthew Martz of Minotaur Books.
As for Anne-Marie, Rosie, Jessica and Peter: it simply would not
be the same without you.
S. J. Bolton
S. J. Bolton was born in Lancashire. She is the author of two previous critically acclaimed novels, Sacrifice and Awakening, out now in paperback. Sacrifice was nominated for the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First novel and, in France, for the prestigious Prix Polar SNCF Award. The Blood Harvest is her third novel. She lives near Oxford with her husband and young son.
For more information about the author and her books, visit her website at www.sjbolton.com
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