The Farm Beneath the Water (8 page)

Chapter Ten

Letters and Liars

Hannah dumped her bag on the scullery freezer and ran up the bare wooden staircase. She could hear the clack-clack-clack of typewriter keys from Dad’s office. She edged past the dusty filing cabinets in the corridor, dislodging another lump of plaster from the wall, and pushed at the office door. It opened a couple of feet and then ground to a halt against the heap of files stacked on the floor behind it.

Dad was sitting at his desk in the centre of the room. The floor around him was covered with piles of folders and sheaves of paper that had spread and multiplied over the years as though they had a magical life of their own, like the briars around Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

“Have you seen all those water people swarming over our fields?” demanded Hannah.

Dad looked up from the big black old-fashioned typewriter that he still insisted on using, even though Adam had recently installed a second-hand computer in the downstairs office.

“Seen them? You could hardly miss them.”

“Did you know they were coming?”

He flicked a hand dismissively at the pile of post on his desk. “I dare say they sent one of their stupid letters.”

“But you didn’t say anything about it. Why don’t you tell me anything?”

Dad looked at her with a puzzled frown. “What do you want to know?”

Hannah felt as though she might burst with frustration. “Everything, of course! I want to know everything about it! I want to help, Dad. And I don’t want any more horrible surprises.”

Dad stared at her. Then he sighed. He pushed his chair back, stood up and walked between the heaps of paper to one of the several filing cabinets randomly scattered around the room, like self-seeded trees. He opened a drawer, pulled out a slim blue ring binder and handed it to Hannah.

“Have a look through that if you like.”

Hannah took the folder.

“What is it?”

“It’s all in there. Everything I know about the whole darned business.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

She took the file to her bedroom. Sam was kneeling on the floor, pushing a model tractor and plough very slowly over the threadbare carpet.

“Hi, Sammy. How’s the ploughing going?”

“Not bad. The ground’s a bit heavy after all that rain, but I’ve only got two more fields to do.”

Hannah propped her pillow against the end of the
bed. “What are you going to plant in here?”

Every room in the house was a field on Sam’s farm. He kept a field plan under each carpet with a record of what was planted there.

“Winter wheat.” He moved the tractor steadily across the carpet. “It’s a new strain.
Farmers Weekly
says it’s really good at resisting disease.”

“Great,” said Hannah. She settled the file on her lap and opened it.

The first document was a glossy brochure from Aqua, one of those incredibly dull quarterly magazines that companies send out to their customers. Hannah’s heart sank.

Well, she had asked for more information, and now she had it. So she had better read it.

She opened the brochure. Phrases like “demand management” and “supply side options” swam up from the dense mass of black type on page one. What on earth did it all mean?

She read the first paragraph three times, but it was like trying to read a foreign language she’d barely studied. Half the words made no sense to her at all. If I keep reading, she thought, maybe it will become clearer.

She struggled on, making a huge effort to concentrate. Twice, Sam asked her when tea would be ready and twice she told him vaguely that she’d get it in a minute. She mustn’t stop now. Somewhere in all this gobbledegook, surely there would be some information about the reservoir.

But she got to the last page and she still hadn’t
found anything. It was just unintelligible water-board jargon. With a sigh of defeat, Hannah closed the brochure and turned to the next document in the file.

It was a copy of a letter from Dad to the landlord’s agent, dated five months ago.

The next letter in the file was also from Dad, dated two weeks later.

A month later, the land agent had replied.

In other words, thought Hannah, they’re telling him nothing. Horrible people.

After several letters along the same lines, in which Dad asked for information and got none, he seemed to have given up on the landlord’s agent. The next letter was to Lottie’s dad, thanking him for the “excellent and extremely detailed results of your bird surveys”. Then he had written to the Middleham Ecology Group, inviting them to survey the flora and fauna at the farm. This letter had a prompt and enthusiastic reply. They must have been the people at that disastrous tea party.

Hannah had nearly reached the end of the file. The next letter was addressed to “Nick Constable, Assets Director, Aqua”.

As with all the others, this letter was followed by another from Dad, dated three weeks later, asking for a reply to his first letter.

The final piece of paper in the file was from Aqua, dated just a few days ago.

Hannah gasped.

“The liars!”

Sam looked up from his tractor. “Who are liars?”

Hannah didn’t answer. She picked up the file, jumped off the bed, ran to Dad’s office and shoved the door open as far as it would go.

“Dad, you are going to the meeting, aren’t you?”

“What meeting?”

“The one next week, on Thursday. Aqua’s meeting about their plans. You have to go. You’ve got to meet those Aqua people and ask them questions to their lying faces.”

He looked at her. “What’s got you so fired up?”

“They’re lying to you, Dad. In this letter they say they don’t have a map of the reservoir, but they do. I’ve seen it. And it’s dated a year ago. You’ve got to go to that meeting and tackle them face to face. And I’m coming with you.”

Chapter Eleven

Stage Combat

“You’re joking,” said Jonah, staring at the thicket. “This theatre you’ve told us all about is in
there
?”

Ben laughed. “Is it an invisible theatre?”

“Imaginary theatre, more like,” said Jonah. “I reckon Hannah’s built it all in her own head.”

Hannah said nothing. She pulled the curtain of brambles aside and slipped through the gap on to the secret path.

As the boys jostled and shoved each other into thorn bushes, Hannah began to wonder whether inviting twenty people to rehearse in her theatre had been a really bad idea. And to learn sword fighting, of all things! What had she been thinking?

Each house only had one after-school rehearsal a week in the hall. Woolf House’s first slot was tomorrow. Hannah knew it would take a long time to choreograph the fight scenes, so she had wanted a head start. But suddenly she was terrified. What if the boys just went berserk and her first rehearsal turned into a massive fight? What if nobody took the slightest notice of her? After all, why should
Year 9 students show any respect to someone a year younger than them?

She looked at the beautiful sign on the stage door and it gave her strength. She took a deep breath and slid the door open along its metal runners. And when the actors stepped into the long, low shed, the jostling and the laughing stopped.

All along the left-hand wall, Lottie had pinned costume designs for every character. On the opposite wall were several typed sheets under big headings saying
Cast Notices
and
Backstage Notices
.
A heading above a large hand-drawn poster on the far wall said
Stage Combat Positions.

“Wow,” said James Talbot, the gangly Year 8 boy playing Mercutio. “Is this really yours?”

“It’s amazing,” said Amy Perello.

Hannah’s heart swelled with love and pride for her theatre. Amy was in Year 9 and so incredibly pretty that Hannah had always been a bit in awe of her. To have Amy praise her theatre was quite overwhelming.

Several people were looking at the diagrams of stage combat positions. Others were studying the costume designs.

“Are our costumes really going to look like this?” asked Marie, trying to extract a thorny twig from her thick blonde hair.

“Yes,” said Hannah. “Lottie’s brilliant at sewing.”

Katy Jones, Marie’s tall, dark-haired best friend, was looking at Lottie’s sketch for Lord Capulet.
“Wow, these are amazing. Did you really do them, Lottie?”

Lottie looked awkward, as she always did when someone was paying her a compliment. Instead of answering, she pointed to a sketch further along the wall. “That one’s yours. It uses some of the same fabric as Lord Capulet’s, to show the link between you. And this one’s yours, Priya.”

Priya turned her attention away from the props list and came to look at the design.

“That’s stunning.”

“It’s a similar design to Lord Capulet’s and Lord Montague’s,” said Lottie, “but because you’re the Prince, you show your status by a fuller cloak that trails on the floor and has more jewels on the collar.”

“Are you really going to make them all?” asked Marie. “Where will you get the material?”

“Jumble sales and charity shops, mostly,” said Lottie, “and then I chop things up and reuse them. Old curtains, throws, dresses, anything. There’s a notice on the backstage board to sign up if you want to help with sewing.”

Hannah clapped her hands. “OK, everyone, let’s get started. So today this space is our fight studio. We’re going to learn the basic stage-combat techniques, and then use those moves to choreograph the fight scene at the beginning of the play.”

“To do what to the fight scene?” asked Jonah, who had gelled his fringe into a quiff today.

“Choreograph, you plum,” said Marie.

Jonah shook his head. “Means nothing to me.”

Hannah wrenched open the stiff bottom drawer of the rickety dressing table and pulled out an armful of decorative silver swords made from moulded plastic. Jonah lunged for a sword but Hannah swiped his hand away.

“OK, can everyone sit on the carpet, please?”

“Ooh,” said Jonah, “are you going to read us a story, miss?”

People laughed, but they moved away from the costume designs and settled themselves on the big rug in the auditorium.

Hannah had a moment of amazement as she watched all these people, half of them older than her, following her instructions without a murmur. Never in a million years would she have ordered them about like this in normal life. It’s like I’m playing a part, she thought. I’m playing the part of director. And when I’m playing that part, somehow I can do this.

She took two swords from the pile and a battered pack of plasters from the drawer, and moved into the auditorium.

“So I’m going to show you the five basic cut targets and two thrust targets, and then I’ll teach you the fundamental techniques of the French system. That’s the one they use to choreograph fight scenes for films.”

She was quite pleased with the way that sounded. No one would have guessed she had only learned it from the Internet last night.

“Can I have a volunteer, please?”

Owen Griffiths, the freckled, red-haired Year 8 boy playing Lord Montague, jumped up, grinning. Owen was always willing to put himself centre-stage.

“OK,” said Hannah, “so these are the five basic cut targets. Two here.” She stuck a plaster on to each of Owen’s upper arms. “A few centimetres below the shoulder. You don’t want to aim right at the shoulder, because the sword can easily slip and get the neck.”

She peeled another plaster and stuck it on the side of Owen’s trousers.

“One either side here, halfway between the waist and knee. These are called the flanks. And the final one is straight down from the top of the head.” She stuck a plaster at the top of Owen’s forehead, on his hairline. “Although I don’t think we’ll use that one. It’s a bit close to the face, and you must never touch the face.”

She stuck two more plasters on Owen, in the centre of the chest and at the belly button. “These are the two point targets, where you would aim to thrust your sword in to kill someone.”

Owen pulled a shocked face. “Steady on. I didn’t come here to be sacrificed.”

“Too late, mate,” said Jonah. “You volunteered.”

“Right,” said Hannah, “now I’m going to show you the seven basic attack and parry moves in the French system. Attack number one is a thrust to the stomach. Keep your sword hand extended and look for your target.”

She thrust her sword at the plaster on Owen’s belly
button. Owen groaned and staggered backwards theatrically. Several people giggled.

“OK, now you do that, Owen, and I’ll show you how to parry it.”

She handed Owen a sword. Owen struck a dramatic pose and thrust his sword out. Hannah parried it away.

“See? We’ll do it again, in slow motion. Great. Now, you can all take a sword and practise in pairs with the person you’ll be fighting with in the scene. When everyone’s got it, I’ll show you the second move.”

An hour later, they had all mastered the seven basic moves of the French system and Hannah asked everyone to sit on the carpet again.

“Now that you know the moves by number, we can choreograph a fight just by using those numbers, you see? And I’ll write the numbers down so we have a record for future rehearsals. So can you all choreograph a one-minute fight in your pairs, using those seven moves? When you’re done, show me and I’ll write down the numbers.”

Everyone sprang to their feet again. Hannah weaved her way between the duels, ducking the plastic blades and attempting to write down moves as she tried to keep order.

“Jonah, not near the face!”

“Elsie, extend your arm. You’ve got to look like you mean it.”

“Always look at the target, Nathan.”

The theatre was a whirl of parrying and clashing
swords. It wasn’t until Lottie tapped her on the arm and said, “Hannah, it’s after five,” that Hannah even remembered that time existed. She called the rehearsal to a halt and thanked everybody for coming. The cast tumbled out of the theatre, laughing and chatting.

“I don’t know why you were so worried,” said Lottie. “That was brilliant.”

“It was such good fun, wasn’t it?” said Hannah, glowing with energy and excitement. “And it felt great, having so many people in the theatre.”

But as they emerged from the secret path, her happiness evaporated instantly. A swarm of fluorescent-jacketed wasp people stood a few metres from them, holding equipment and clipboards and gesturing across the fields.

What were they doing now?

“Look at that!” squealed a curly-haired Year 7 girl called Millie.

“Oh, that is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” cooed her friend Bea.

Hannah followed their gaze. The Beans were walking up the track from the farmyard, and behind them plodded Jasper, with Lucy swaying on his back.

“Is that really a duck sitting on that sheep’s back?” asked Katy.

“What?” said Ben. “No way.”

The Beans ducked under the electric fence into the field, followed by Jasper and Lucy.

“He’s my sister’s pet sheep,” said Hannah. “He was an orphan lamb she bottle-fed, and he lived in a stable with a family of ducks. And one of the
ducklings kind of adopted Jasper. She started riding around on his back. And she still does it now she’s fully grown. It’s like they’re best friends.”

There was a chorus of oohs and aahs from the girls. “That is sooo cute,” said Amy. “Can I stroke him?”

“Sure. He’s very friendly. Although watch out for my brother and sister. They’re a bit loopy.”

People crowded round Jasper. “Careful,” said Jo. “He bites.”

Amy withdrew her hand.

“He doesn’t bite,” said Hannah.

“He might,” said Jo. “I’m just saying be careful, that’s all.” She approached the wasp woman nearest to her. “Are you the archaeologists?”

“We are,” she said.

Hannah stared at Jo. How did she know that?

“Are you looking for treasure?” asked Sam.

The woman smiled. “We’re working on behalf of Aqua’s environmental consultants. We’re doing field walks of the area.”

All the girls were cooing over Jasper now. Lucy, unused to crowds, flapped off his back and waddled away to a safe distance.

“If you find treasure,” said Sam, “do you get to keep it, or does it belong to us?”

“It’s not really about finding treasure. We’re looking for any significant surface finds. Then our work will be followed up by geophysic specialists.”

“What’s that?” asked Jo.

“Well, they use scanning equipment called
magnetrometry, which helps identify any buried archaeological features.”

“Like treasure?”

“Generally things like ditches, pits, postholes…”

“Ditches and pits?” Jo screwed up her face in disgust. “You don’t need to
dig
to find ditches and pits. There’s ditches and pits everywhere.”

“Why aren’t you digging in South Meadow?” asked Sam. “That’s where we found our Roman coins. Look.” He grabbed the archaeologist’s arm. “I’ll show you the place.”

The woman looked uncomfortable. She shrugged her arm out of Sam’s grip. Jasper licked her shoe and she stepped backwards.

“Do you want to see my coin?” asked Sam.

“Another time, maybe. We need to be getting on now. Nice to meet you.” She gave an awkward wave and hurried across the field to join her colleagues.

Sam turned to Hannah. “Do you want to see my Roman coin?”

“Is it the same squashed piece of tin you showed me last time?”

“No, we found another one.”

“I’ll look at it later, when you’ve cleaned it.”

“You’ll have to pay the entrance fee, though,” said Jo. “Once it’s in the museum.”

“What museum?” asked Lottie.

“The Bean Museum of Archaeology, obviously.”

“And where’s that?”

“In Sam’s wardrobe. All our finds are there. It’s 50p entrance, or two pounds for a season ticket. We
think you’ll find that’s a very reasonable price.”

“Sounds like a bargain,” said Lottie. “I mean, the British Museum’s free, but what’s that compared with the Bean Museum of Archaeology?”

“Exactly,” said Jo. “Manu went to the British Museum and he said it’s really boring. And nobody’s said that about ours. See you later.”

They trotted off up the field, with Jasper plodding behind them.

“Wow,” said Owen. “They really are wacko.”

Hannah bristled. It was one thing for her to question the Beans’ sanity, but it was quite another thing for other people to do so.

“Hey, Hannah, is that your granddad?” asked a Year 8 boy called Harry, who was playing one of the Capulet servants.

Hannah glanced to where he was pointing, beyond the wasp people to the ancient oak tree in the middle of the field. Somebody was standing in front of it, dwarfed by the tree’s enormous trunk.

Her granddad?!

“That’s my dad,” she said, and gained some satisfaction from the look of mortification on Harry’s face.

“Oh, sorry,” he muttered. “He’s quite far away. I just thought…” He tailed off.

A couple of people giggled and others glanced at Hannah, looking embarrassed on Harry’s behalf.