The Farm Beneath the Water

by Helen Peters

  “What would you say,” Ben asked him, “to the suggestion that actually we shouldn’t be building more reservoirs at all? Many environmental experts say that building new reservoirs is just a relatively cheap, lazy and unimaginative solution to water shortages. The north-west part of the UK is one of the wettest areas in Europe and the south-east is one of the driest. So why don’t we have a national water grid to move water from the wetter areas of the country to the drier ones? Why doesn’t your company recycle water, like in London, instead of just pumping it out to sea? And why aren’t you considering seawater treatment plants, like many other islands use?”

  “All those options,” said Nick Constable, and it sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth, “are extremely expensive.”

  “So it’s all about money, then?”

  A flash of temper crossed Nick Constable’s face. “Of course not, but we have a responsibility to our customers to keep water bills as low as possible.”

  “Let’s move on,” said Ben. “You claim you need to build a new reservoir, which is debatable, but let’s assume for the moment that you do. The next question, then, is whether Clayhill Farm in Middleham is the most suitable site for your reservoir. What would you say to that?”

  Nick Constable was turning pink and his face was starting to shine in the spotlight. He gripped the edges of the table.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “This isn’t…”

  He stopped.

  “Isn’t what?” said Ben.

  Hannah held her breath as she watched Nick Constable’s face. They had decided that the best way to deal with any angry outburst would be to confront it head-on. If they weren’t intimidated, then he would be the one looking stupid.

  “You seem reluctant to answer that question,” said Ben.

  Nick Constable glared at him. He said nothing for a moment. But then he cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was as though he were reciting lines he had learned.

  “We have, of course, given very careful consideration to our choice of Clayhill Farm as a potential site for our new reservoir. The owner of the farm is highly supportive of our proposals.”

  “Could you tell us what other sites have been considered?”

  “I’m afraid we cannot reveal that information at present.”

  “But you have said you found a lot less wildlife at Clayhill than at other potential sites you have surveyed. Is that correct?”

  “That is correct, yes.”

  Was it her imagination, or could Hannah detect a trace of nervousness in his voice?

  Up flashed a slide of the farm in all its autumn glory. Over the image a line of text appeared.

  Clayhill Farm: a poor landscape with little wildlife?

  Classical music swelled, and a succession of Jack’s photographs appeared on the back wall: contented cows, pigs and sheep; hedgerows bejewelled with berries; the ancient apple trees in the orchard laden with fruit. As the images appeared, the black-clad chorus positioned themselves around the stage in groups of three.

  Words appeared over the photographs and each group spoke a phrase in turn to the audience. A single drumbeat separated each statement.

  “Ten miles of ancient hedgerows.”

  “Over four hundred trees, including two hundred oaks.”

  “Nine ancient copses.”

  “Eleven ponds containing a multitude of aquatic life.”

  The whole cast spoke the next sentence in unison.

  “This landscape has been a working farm for over seven hundred years.”

  As the slideshow played, Ben robed Harry in the black gown in exactly the same way as Jonah had done to him.

  The music stopped. A panoramic view of the meadows appeared on the back wall. The cast stepped forward and spoke together:

  “If Aqua gets its way, all this will be lost.”

  The music changed to birdsong: hundreds of birds singing in a dawn chorus. On the back wall, the slideshow showed bird after bird after bird. Under each photograph was written the name of the bird and the date it was last seen at the farm. Next to some of them was written, in red, Rare, Very Rare, or Endangered. As those words appeared, groups of actors whispered them aloud, like a ghostly echo.

  Harry walked towards Nick Constable. The chorus fell silent.

  “I would be very interested to know,” said Harry, “at which other of your potential sites there have been documented and verified sightings of over one hundred species of bird in the past year.”

  Nick Constable’s face presented a perfect blank, as though he were wearing a mask.

  “As I said, we cannot reveal any survey results at present.”

  “And would you happen to know the results of your bat surveys at Clayhill Farm?”

  His face seemed to show some relief.

  “I can reveal that our bat expert found five species, all of which are common in this country.”

  “Five species, all common,” repeated Harry. “Thank you, Mr Constable.” He turned to Priya. “I would like to call a witness to the stand, your honour.”

  Priya nodded. Nick Constable frowned.

  “Sophie Gardner, please.”

  Heads swivelled all around the hall as, from an aisle seat halfway back, Sophie, in a smart red suit, walked on to the stage and stood behind the lectern. Priya handed her a Bible.

  “Name?”

  “Sophie Gardner.”

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  Sophie swore the oath. Harry asked her why she had chosen Clayhill for her research and Sophie explained why Clayhill was a particularly good environment for bats.

  “Ms Gardner,” said Harry, “seventeen species of bat breed in England. Aqua’s survey found five species at Clayhill, all of them common. Do these findings tally with yours?”

  “No,” said Sophie. “They do not.”

  A slide entitled “Bat Capture Data” appeared on the screen. There was a column of Latin names and several columns of figures and Latin words. Nick Constable stared at it, frowning.

  “My surveys,” said Sophie, “have revealed thirteen of Britain’s seventeen bat species at Clayhill Farm, two of which, the barbastelle and Bechstein’s –” she pointed to them on the sheet – “are critically endangered.”

  There were gasps from the audience. Nick Constable’s face was crimson with rage.

  “I have not been given access to the official bat survey,” said Sophie, “although I have put in a request to see it under the Freedom of Information Act. I shall be very interested to see how thorough it was and in what conditions it was carried out. Until then, I will say one thing. Aqua may try to claim that they can provide alternative habitats for these bats. But I can tell you that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, any disturbance to the hedgerows or trees of Clayhill Farm, which has been so carefully and thoughtfully managed for hundreds of years, would have a devastating effect on the native wildlife for which it is a haven and a sanctuary.”

  “Thank you, Ms Gardner,” said Harry. “That is all.”

  Priya turned to Katy. “Would you or the defendant like to say anything in response to Ms Gardner’s findings?”

  Katy turned to Nick Constable, scarlet-faced and tight-lipped.

  “I couldn’t possibly comment,” he said, “until Ms Gardner’s work has been properly analysed by experts.”

  “That’s not a problem,” said Sophie. “My work has been verified by the University of Linford and all my photographs, sound recordings and data will be freely available to you.”

  As Sophie left the stage there was a burst of applause. Heads turned and there was a swell of conversation. Hannah was filled with gratitude.

  Marie moved forward and faced Harry, who robed her in the barrister’s gown. Marie moved downstage centre.

  “Mr Constable,” she said, as the chatter in the hall died down, “have Aqua’s archaeological surveys at Clayhill Farm found anything significant?”

 
Nick Constable’s face was grim. “I cannot comment until the surveys have been analysed by experts.”

  “These surveys did not include South Meadow, is that right?”

  “As I do not have the data to hand,” he said, with a trace of impatience in his voice, “I couldn’t possibly say.”

  Jack’s photograph of South Meadow appeared on the screen.

  “Sam and Jo Roberts,” said Marie, “have been monitoring the archaeologists’ movements on a daily basis, and can confirm that no surveys have been undertaken in South Meadow. However, Sam and Jo have conducted extensive metal-detecting surveys in this field. I would like to call to the stand Dr John Moffat, from the Archaeology Department of the University of Linford, who has analysed their finds.”

  A tall, balding stranger bounded up the steps on to the stage and grinned at Marie. He gave a friendly nod to Nick Constable, whose face was getting redder and redder. He sat rigid and grim-faced and did not return the man’s greeting.

  The archaeologist took the stand and swore the oath.

  “Were you surprised, Dr Moffat,” asked Marie, “to find that Aqua’s archaeologists did not include South Meadow in their survey of Clayhill Farm?”

  “Very surprised.”

  “And why was that?”

  “A few years ago,” said Dr Moffat, “the local archaeological society conducted an exploratory dig at the bottom of South Meadow. There is evidence to suggest that, in medieval times, when Clayhill was part of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s deer park, the Archbishop’s hunting lodge might well have been sited in that field. During our dig, we found pottery from the eleventh century and a piece of medieval metalwork. So we were most surprised to learn that Aqua’s archaeological survey did not plan to include South Meadow, particularly as it has long been thought that an even older building might be sited there.”

  A close-up picture of four coins appeared on the screen.

  “All these coins,” said Dr Moffat, “are Roman. The earliest is from the time of Julius Caesar –” he pointed to the elephant that Hannah had admired – “and the latest from the time of Hadrian, in the first century AD. They were all discovered in South Meadow by Jo and Sam Roberts.”

  There was a stirring in the audience. People shifted in their seats.

  “The coins are exciting enough,” the archaeologist continued, “but Jo and Sam also discovered these little beauties.”

  On to the screen came another close-up photo, this time of the cockerel, tortoise and ram that the Beans had found.

  “Aren’t they in the most perfect condition?” said Dr Moffat. “You can see why the Roberts children assumed they were part of a recent set of toy farm animals. But these copper animals have a special significance. The god Mercury was very popular with the early Romano-British. People often placed statues of him in their household shrines and temples. And he was usually accompanied by statues of a ram, a cockerel and a tortoise.”

  A murmur swelled through the audience.

  Dr Moffat smiled. “I wonder, Mr Constable, whether these finds might give your archaeologists food for thought. Perhaps it might be worth them exploring a little further, before Aqua applies for planning permission to flood South Meadow and bury its secrets forever.”

  “Thank you, Dr Moffat,” said Marie. “No further questions.”

  Applause broke out as Dr Moffat left the stage.

  James walked downstage and Marie robed him ceremoniously. He turned to Nick Constable, who looked as though he might explode at any moment.

  “Mr Constable, at the meeting you held in Croxton Village Hall recently, you said that Clayhill is a perfect site for a reservoir because it will only affect one farm and one family. Have I quoted you correctly?”

  The sweat on Nick Constable’s forehead gleamed in the spotlight.

  “We at Aqua realise, of course, that it is never an easy thing for anybody to have to relocate, but people need water, and reservoirs have to be sited somewhere. And it is of course correct that this proposed site does only affect one farm and one family.”

  Music swelled: Hannah recognised Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending, which they had listened to in music recently. On the screen appeared old photographs of the farm, beginning with the black and white pictures that Hannah’s grandfather had taken when he took on Clayhill in 1945: a weed-infested, overgrown mess, with mud right up to the back door and no running water or electricity. Then Grandfather and his farm workers laying the hedges and repairing the buildings. Next, men ploughing with horses and bringing home the harvest on wagons, followed by photos of Dad at work on tractors and combine harvesters.

  Over the photographs were the names of all the groups of people who regularly used the farm: walkers, cyclists, riders, birdwatchers, Scout and Guide camps, school parties: the list went on and on. There were also figures showing the crops produced last year. The chorus groups spoke these aloud:

  “350 tonnes of corn, oilseed rape and linseed.”

  “200 tonnes of hay and haylage.”

  “8 acres of wild flower meadows.”

  “11 acres of wild bird seed.”

  “With an ever-growing world population,” said James, “does it really make sense to flood a productive working farm?”

  The chorus lifted their heads and spoke the next line together.

  “The wheat alone that was produced at Clayhill last year was enough to make one hundred and fifty thousand loaves of bread.”

  On the back wall appeared the video footage of Dad and Grandfather. As it played silently, the chorus groups spoke the next lines in turn.

  “In 1950, there were forty farms in Middleham. Now there are three.”

  Photos of road names from around the village appeared.

  Field Lane. Meadow Drive. Little Paddock. Farm Road. The Pasture.

  “In 1950, all this was farmland,” said Hannah’s group.

  Backstage, a door slammed.

  Hannah’s whole body clenched. Oh, no. Please, no.

  Lottie’s group spoke.

  “Once our farms have all gone and our food is imported from across the world, will these road names be only faint echoes of our rural past?”

  Footsteps clattered up the stairs. On to the stage, her hair pulled into tufts, her make-up smudged and her cheeks flushed, burst Miranda.

  The cast froze. Hannah’s heart was hammering so hard she thought she might die.

  Miranda looked wild, like a crazed animal.

  “You traitors! You traitors! Plotting and planning against me, going behind my back, after everything I’ve done! How dare you? How dare you!”

  Hannah looked at Miranda, absolutely beside herself, and she felt a twinge of pity and guilt.

  Miranda’s wild eyes found Hannah’s. She pounced on her and shook her by the shoulders. Trails of mascara ran down her cheeks. Hairpins hung adrift on clumps of hair sticking out at strange angles all over her head.

  “And all for your stupid little farm!” she yelled into Hannah’s face. “Oh yes, I know what this is all about. They told me. I made them tell me. Your stupid, stupid little farm that nobody cares about!”

  From somewhere in the audience, Hannah thought she heard booing. But she couldn’t be sure what she was hearing, because Miranda was shaking her so hard that her teeth rattled.

  “Nobody cares!” she screamed. “They wanted to see Romeo and Juliet, not some pathetic play about a reservoir. Nobody cares about the reservoir. Do you really think you can stop it with your stupid, stupid little play? And I had all these beautiful costumes and everything!”

  She burst into furious tears. The crying seemed to make her shrink somehow. The actors glanced at each other uncomfortably. Nobody appeared to know what to do.

  It was Priya who moved first. She walked over to Miranda, put an arm around her and started to lead her off the stage.

  But Miranda gave Priya a violent shove that almost sent her flying into the audience. She wheeled around and her furious eyes lit on Hannah again.r />
  “You wait, Hannah Roberts! You just wait! Your life won’t be worth living after this. You wait and see.”

  Priya advanced on Miranda again, but more warily this time, like a keeper approaching an enraged beast.

  “Get off me!” snarled Miranda. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  Suddenly, she seemed to become aware of the audience. She stared out into the hall. They were booing – yes, definitely booing.

  Her face a mix of fury and bewilderment, Miranda gave Priya a final shove and stalked off the stage. She clattered down the backstage stairs. The door to the corridor slammed.

  In the hall, there was an echoing silence. On stage, nobody moved. Had she really gone? Or was she just going to get reinforcements?

  Dimly, Hannah became aware of Jack, from the back of the hall, waving madly at her. She caught his eye.

  Keep going, he was mouthing. Keep going.

  Photographs of wildlife appeared on the screen: a hedgehog, a lesser-spotted woodpecker, a great-crested newt.

  The next line was Bea’s. Hannah nodded at her to take her cue. Bea faced the audience and said, in a slightly shaky voice:

  “More than half of British native species are in decline.”

  “One tenth, including those pictured here, are at risk of disappearing,” said Grace.

  The chorus turned to face the audience, and they all spoke together.

  “All these animals thrive at Clayhill Farm.”

  Hannah felt weak. The worst had happened. Miranda had invaded the stage. And somehow, they had got through it and beyond it.

  Unless she came back. She wouldn’t come back, would she? Well, there was nothing they could do about that. All they could do was carry on.

  More video footage appeared on the screen. Hannah stared. She hadn’t seen this before. It was filmed at sunset and Dad’s herd of dairy cows, the herd he had been forced to sell last April to pay the rent, were plodding along the back track from their field towards the milking parlour.