The Farm Beneath the Water

by Helen Peters

  Hannah’s eyes prickled with tears. Dad had loved his cows. Where were they now?

  She blinked the tears away. She couldn’t afford to get emotional. She made herself concentrate on the text on the screen instead, even though she knew it by heart. She had written it, after all.

  The rich and varied landscape at Clayhill has evolved over many centuries under the stewardship of farmers.

  The camera panned out to show a back view of her dad walking behind the cattle. But he wasn’t alone. Beside him was a young woman, wearing a white puff-sleeved blouse and a red peasant skirt. She had thick, wavy dark-blonde hair.

  “Look at those clothes,” Hannah heard Lottie murmur behind her. “Classic early eighties.”

  The woman turned and smiled straight into the camera. Hannah drew in her breath.

  “Oh, my stars,” whispered Lottie. “That’s you.”

  A few of the cast stole sideways looks at Hannah. Hannah couldn’t speak. She stared hungrily at the moving image on the screen. She had seen plenty of photos of her mother, but never before had she seen video footage. She hadn’t known that any even existed.

  Mum had turned away from the camera now and her back view was fading into the distance. Hannah wanted to rewind and look, over and over again, at that smiling face, so full of life. She wanted to absorb it, hold it close, make it part of her.

  But the film faded into darkness. In the centre of the blank screen, a sentence appeared in heavy type.

  If farmers disappear, so too will the English countryside as we know it.

  This was Hannah’s cue to start questioning Nick Constable about leisure opportunities. She knew that, and yet she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t get the picture of her mother’s smiling face out of her head. She wanted to see it again. She had to see it again.

  Lottie reached over and touched her arm.

  “I’ll do it,” she whispered. “Go into the wings until you feel better.”

  Hannah still couldn’t speak, but she nodded and slipped backstage into the darkened wings. She felt shell-shocked. She stared vacantly into the audience and her eye was caught for the first time by somebody standing at the side of the hall.

  It was Martha. She was staring at the now-blank screen, brushing her cheeks with her hands to wipe away tears.

  “Mr Constable,” said Priya, in a voice dripping with politeness, “we have heard extensively about the wildlife and the archaeological remains that would be lost if a reservoir were to be built, but of course that’s only one side of the story. Could you tell us more about the leisure opportunities a reservoir would provide for our community?”

  On the screen appeared a photo of a beautiful lake. Nick Constable’s expression flickered between suspicion and relief. Finally it settled into its default position of smug complacency. He stood up. He seemed to relax a little as he talked about windsurfing and angling, sailing and walking, cafés and stunning views over the woods and downs.

  Lottie was wearing the prosecution barrister’s robes now. “Thank you, Mr Constable,” she said sweetly. “That’s all really interesting. There’s only one problem as far as I can see.”

  “Problem?”

  “Yes, one problem. None of these leisure activities are actually going to happen, are they?”

  Nick Constable looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard. You know perfectly well that there won’t be any ‘leisure opportunities’ at this reservoir, don’t you? Because it isn’t going to have its own water supply, is it? It’s not going to be a lovely lake fed by rivers and streams all year round.”

  She turned to the audience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you read the small print in Aqua’s glossy brochure, you might have noticed that this reservoir is going to be what they call a ‘winter storage reservoir’. You might not have thought anything of that. But we contacted a local councillor who also happens to be an engineer. He explained to us what a winter storage reservoir is. Water will be pumped into it from the river in winter when the river is high, and pumped out in the summer when stocks are low. Therefore, in the summer, the reservoir, far from being a beautiful place to relax and enjoy aquatic activities, will be a sea of mud or, in a dry season, a giant dust bowl.”

  There was a murmur from the audience as a slide appeared of a vast sea of mud stretching into the distance.

  “Clayhill Farm is barely a valley at all,” Lottie continued, “so the reservoir would be extremely shallow. So shallow, in fact, that Aqua plans to use half a million cubic metres of soil to create vast banks around the edges.”

  Pictures flashed up on the screen of bulldozers moving enormous heaps of earth.

  “Not such a pretty picture now, is it?” said Lottie.

  Hannah walked towards Lottie, who took off the black gown. Priya turned to Nick Constable, whose face was contorted with rage.

  “Do you have anything to say in response to this, Mr Constable?”

  There were angry mutterings from the audience as Nick Constable stood up. But he shot Priya a strange look as he walked downstage. It seemed to be a look of triumph.

  “Let me say just one thing, ladies and gentlemen. Our job is to provide water to you. A clean, safe, steady supply of drinking water to every house in this area. That is a huge responsibility. Never mind electricity or gas: as these children said themselves, our most precious resource of all is water. Without it, we would die. Without it, millions do die, all the time, in less fortunate parts of the world. And we at Aqua manage that water. We provide you with all the water you need – no, all the water you want – every single day of your lives. As the children have pointed out, we don’t even routinely meter water in this country. You can take as much as you want, all day, every day.”

  He paused and surveyed the audience. “So it strikes me as slightly strange that you’re taking remotely seriously the rather hysterical arguments of a group of schoolchildren who, let’s face it, have a highly vested interest in this reservoir not being built.”

  He gestured towards Hannah, now wearing the lawyer’s robes. “Of course Hannah Roberts doesn’t want her family’s farm to be flooded, despite the fact that her family has been offered a more-than-generous compensation package, which, interestingly, she forgot to mention. Of course her friends are going to support her and I’m sure we all applaud their loyalty. But we’re grown-ups, ladies and gentlemen. We’re not ruled by the emotions of children. We know full well that the most important thing for our health and the smooth running of our daily lives is a plentiful supply of clean drinking water. We only have to watch the news to see what devastation is wreaked when that supply is not available. But in this country we take it for granted. And why? Because the water companies do their job so well that our water supply is never threatened. And part of that job, ladies and gentlemen, is making tough decisions. Tough decisions like this one. I’m sorry about the birds and the bats, I really am. But in the end it comes down to this. Do you want the birds and the bats, or do you want your family to have water?” He paused and looked around the hall. “It seems to me, ladies and gentlemen, that sometimes we can’t afford to be sentimental. Sometimes, as hard as it is, we have to take the grown-up decision.”

  There was a burst of applause. Hannah stood there, gaping. How had he done that? How had he turned the audience around?

  But there was one thing still to be said. And it was her job to say it. She stepped downstage and stood level with him.

  “You’re right, Mr Constable. Your company is responsible for supplying us all with water. And we should be more grateful for what you do. This reservoir, for example. How many million litres a day will it provide, did you say?”

  Nick Constable looked at her slightly warily.

  “We calculate fourteen million litres a day on average.”

  Hannah turned to the audience. “Fourteen million litres a day! And would that solve the water shortages in the region, Mr Constable? If we had those extra fourteen million litres
a day?”

  His confidence seemed to be growing. “It would go a long way to providing what we need.”

  “Fourteen million litres a day,” repeated Hannah. “Well, maybe that is worth flooding a farm for. If that’s the only way to get that extra water. And how much will it cost to build the reservoir?”

  “Well, it’s hard to put an exact figure on it,” he began.

  “Oh, don’t worry if it’s too hard,” said Hannah kindly. “We found the figures in your brochure. Around a hundred and fifty million pounds, is that right?”

  “Somewhere in that region.”

  There was a murmuring in the audience.

  “It sounds like a lot of money,” he said, “but it’s a reasonable amount for a project of this scale, and a highly worthwhile investment to ensure a steady supply of water for the future.”

  “Could I ask you one last question, Mr Constable, before you go away and build your reservoir?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much water leaks out of your company’s pipes every day?”

  Nick Constable looked unruffled, firmly back in charge. “An element of leakage is, of course, inevitable, but we do everything we can to fix our leaks promptly and efficiently.”

  There were murmurs from the audience that sounded very like disagreement.

  “Can I ask you the question again, Mr Constable? How much water do you lose in leakage every day?”

  “Well, of course, as you will appreciate, that is very difficult to calculate exactly.”

  “Oh, really?”

  There was complete silence in the hall.

  “Maybe you should try reading your own brochure. I know it looks dull beyond belief, but if you get down to the figures buried in the small print, there’s some really interesting stuff there. Shall we have a look?”

  A slide with two numbers on it appeared on the back wall. Nick Constable wiped sweat from his forehead as he looked at it.

  “As you’ve just told us,” said Hannah, “you expect to be able to draw an average of fourteen million litres of water a day from your proposed reservoir. That’s a lot of water, isn’t it? Now, here are some figures from your brochure. This,” and she pointed to the top figure on the screen, “is the number of households in your region. And this –” pointing to the bottom figure – “is the amount lost in leakage per household per day. If we multiply these two figures, I wonder what we’ll get?”

  Another slide flashed up. One long number, in bold black type.

  “That, Mr Constable, calculated using your own figures, shows the amount of water that your company loses every day through leaking pipes.”

  There were gasps from the audience.

  “Over fifty million litres,” said Hannah. “Fifty million litres. Lost, through leaking pipes. Every single day.”

  The noise level rose. Nick Constable, his face shiny with sweat, opened his mouth and closed it again. Emotions scudded across his face like clouds.

  Hannah stood facing the audience, feeling strangely calm. People started shushing each other and the noise died down.

  “Let’s look at one more number, shall we?” said Hannah. “How much do Aqua calculate that it would cost to repair their leaking pipes?”

  Jack flashed another slide on to the screen. There was a collective gasp and a babble of conversation from the audience.

  “Three hundred million pounds, ladies and gentlemen. Could that figure possibly – possibly? – give us a clue as to why Aqua are choosing not to mend their leaks? Because it would be cheaper and easier for them to flood a productive working farm, home to hundreds of species of wildlife, and destroy a family’s home and livelihood?”

  Nick Constable suddenly let out an extraordinary noise that was somewhere between a snort and a bellow.

  “This is an outrage!” he shouted. “An absolute outrage!”

  “You’re an outrage!” shouted someone from the audience.

  Someone else called, “Hear, hear!” People clapped and laughed.

  Nick Constable stared into the audience, purple in the face. Then he whipped round and stamped down the steps at the side of the stage. Someone started booing and people from all around the hall joined in. To a chorus of jeers, boos and insults, he marched down the side aisle and out of the hall. Matthew trained the spotlight on him the whole way.

  On the back wall appeared a slowly moving, sweeping panorama of the farm. Birdsong played in the background. And then a hand moved across the picture and ripped a huge hole out of the middle of it.

  The birdsong stopped. The image faded to black. Another slide appeared. It was a photograph of a winter storage reservoir in summer: a vast bleak desert of cracked brown mud.

  At every exit, Hannah saw Jonah’s security guards appear, each holding a bundle of Lottie’s leaflets.

  The cast moved into position on the stage, facing the audience. Marie stepped forward.

  “As you leave the hall, you will receive an information leaflet. If you would like to have your say, please write to the Environment Minister at the address on the leaflet.”

  “Every letter counts,” said Hannah. “The letters will be read and they will make a difference.”

  The whole cast dropped on to one knee.

  “If good people do nothing, evil wins;

  If lies remain unmasked, then truth lies dead.

  Go hence to have more talk of all these things;

  Our play today and all you’ve heard and read.

  If we unite, then we can we show our strength;

  Together, we can make a difference.”

  The lights faded to black. The curtains closed. And the applause began. Not the ripple of polite applause which was the most Hannah had dared to expect, but a roaring and shouting and stamping of feet. A raging torrent of applause.

  They stared at each other, wide-eyed. Was that really for them?

  The lights went up again and Ed opened the curtains.

  The hall was filled with smiling faces and clapping hands. Somebody in the second row stood up. Then the person next to them stood, too. And then the people behind them. And then people started standing up all over the hall, in ones and twos and groups and waves, until every single person in the room was standing.

  A standing ovation! Hannah couldn’t take it in. It didn’t feel real.

  She looked at the front row. Surely Mr Collins and the judges weren’t standing?

  Her stomach lurched.

  The judges and Mr Collins were walking out of the hall.

  Were they leaving to discuss the prizes? Or were they walking out in disgust?

  Lottie suddenly pulled her hand away from Hannah’s and ran down the steps at the side of the stage. Hannah stared after her. What was she doing?

  Lottie ran down the side aisle and grabbed Jack’s arm. He looked so taken aback that he let her start to lead him to the front of the hall. Then he must have realised what she was up to, because he tried to pull away. But Lottie had his arm in a firm grip. She dragged him up the steps on to the stage. Jack was looking more embarrassed than Hannah had ever seen him, but, as the audience roared its approval, he gave an awkward little bow.

  Wow, thought Hannah. Never, ever, ever would I have believed that Lottie would drag Jack on stage for a curtain call. It just shows, absolutely anything can happen.

  They took a final bow and then, with the audience still on its feet, Hannah led the cast off the stage. So many thoughts and emotions were whirling around in her head that she felt dizzy. She needed time on her own to think about everything.

  She opened the door from the backstage stairs to the corridor and came face to face with Mrs Young.

  The Deputy Head stood in the middle of the corridor, her arms folded and her mouth set in a thin tight line. The others, clattering down the steps behind Hannah, all talking at once, ground to a halt as they saw her.

  After a long, terrible silence, Mrs Young spoke.

  “Follow me, all of you. The Head wants to speak to
you. In his office. Now.”

  They were ushered through empty corridors towards the Head’s office. Hannah’s mood had gone from exhilaration to dread. She was definitely going to be expelled.

  Mr Collins wasn’t in his office. As they shuffled into the bare, grey room, Hannah’s mind went back to the time she had been sent there last summer, for attacking Jack in the dining hall. She wouldn’t have believed then that, this time, she and Jack would be there together, on trial for the same crime.

  Mrs Young told them to stand facing the Head’s desk. There was nothing on it except a computer. Mr Collins was fanatically neat.

  Nobody spoke. Not even Jack, who was standing directly behind Hannah. Mrs Young didn’t take her eyes off them and her expression didn’t change.

  Behind them, the door opened. Mr Collins walked in and sat at his desk. He had one of those office chairs with little wheels at the bottom. He placed his palms on the edge of the desk and pushed. His chair rolled backwards. From his new position, he leaned back and tilted his chin upwards, surveying the group of black-clad students from beneath lowered eyelids.

  Hannah suddenly had a strong urge to giggle. She made herself think of Dad, and how he would react when she had to tell him she’d been expelled, and the urge disappeared.

  The silence seemed to go on forever.

  “Well,” said Mr Collins eventually. “Well, well, well.”

  Hannah’s stomach cramped in fear. She wondered how the others were feeling. She didn’t dare sneak a glance at any of them. She kept her eyes fixed on the bare grey desk.

  “It is difficult,” said Mr Collins, after another long pause, “to know where to begin.”

  His eyes travelled over the group, resting on each of them in turn. Hannah knew she had to say something. It wasn’t fair that they were all being treated as though they were equally responsible.

  “Sir,” she said, forcing herself to look Mr Collins in the eye, “it was all my idea. The others just did it to support me. Please don’t punish them. They were just being incredibly loyal.”