The Farm Beneath the Water (9 page)

As they came closer to him, Hannah suddenly saw her father as the others must see him. She had always known, of course, that he was older than
her friends’ dads, but in his torn and tattered jacket, he looked as windblown and weather-beaten as the hawthorn bushes in the hedge. Hannah felt a sudden rush of guilt. What was she doing, messing about with plays, while he was shouldering all the worry of the threat to their farm on his own?

Well, at least after she had been to the meeting next Thursday, she would know more about what they were up against. Then she could help him fight Aqua’s plans.

Dad looked round as they approached. “Ah, Jo, er, Martha, er, Hannah, give me a hand with this, would you?”

He passed Hannah one end of a tape measure. “Hold that firm on the trunk there.”

“What are you doing?” Hannah asked.

“I need to measure the girth.”

Lottie laughed and Hannah had a sudden vision of Dad fitting the oak tree up with a new frock.

Rags bounded into the centre of the group and planted her front paws on Ben’s chest. This prompted another chorus of oohs and aahs, as people surrounded her, patting and stroking her. Delighted by the attention, Rags rolled over on to her back to be tickled.

“Why are you measuring the tree?” asked Hannah, holding the end of the tape measure firm with her thumb as Dad wound it around the trunk. The rough bark was deeply creviced and loose in places. Holes in the trunk looked as though they might be homes for owls or bats. Huge mushroom-type fungi
sprouted from one side of it.

“It’s a good way to tell the age, they say.” He read the measurement at his end of the tape. “Six metres twenty-eight centimetres.”

He took a little blue notebook from his coat pocket and wrote the number down.

“Six metres?” repeated James, who was slightly less distracted by the puppy than most of the others. “Six metres around the trunk? That’s massive!”

“So how old does that make the tree?” asked Hannah.

Dad took a folded piece of paper from his other pocket and straightened it out. It was a photocopied page from a book.

“One of those ecology people gave me some information.”

He ran his finger down the paper. “Here we are. Six metres twenty-eight centimetres means this tree dates roughly from the time of Elizabeth I.”

Lottie gaped at him. “Elizabeth I? Really?”

“So this tree was alive,” said Hannah, “when Shakespeare was writing
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“Wow,” said Priya. “Imagine that.”

“Imagine what?” said Jonah, straightening up from playing with Rags.

“This tree is over four hundred years old,” said Hannah. “Imagine all it’s lived through, all it’s seen.”

“It’s probably seen a lot of grass and cows. It looks half dead, anyway.”

“It is half dead. Oak trees take hundreds of years to grow and hundreds of years to die.”

“Are you cutting it down?” Jonah asked Dad, his eyes lighting up. “Do you want some help with the chainsaw?”

Dad turned to him with a look of horror. “Am I
what
?!”

“Of course he’s not cutting it down,” said Hannah. “Old trees are habitats for masses of rare wildlife.”

“All right,” said Jonah, “keep your hair on.”

“It’s amazing when you think about it, isn’t it?” said Lottie. “We just take trees for granted, but a tree lives longer than anything else on earth. Did you know there are yew trees still living in England that were planted when the Romans were here? Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah, well, if they could talk, it might be interesting,” said Jonah. “But as it is, they’re never going to tell us anything, are they, so what does it matter how old they are?”

Dad was frowning at Jonah as though trying to place him. Suddenly his frown cleared.

“Are you Jim Hadley’s son?”

Jonah looked surprised. “Yes.”

“So Ted Hadley was your grandfather.”

“Yes. Why, did you know him?”

“Knew him well. Used to come up here in my father’s time and help with the harvest. Old Middleham family, the Hadleys. Been here generations.”

“So your great-great-grandfather might have climbed this tree,” said Hannah. “Imagine that.”

Jonah looked up into the leaf canopy far above
them, tinged with orange and gold. “I guess so.”

“And yet Aqua want to destroy it.” She turned on Jonah with a fierce rush of anger. “But that’s OK, isn’t it? Because you’ll have all the windsurfing and scuba-diving you could want, right on your doorstep. So everything’s fine.”

Jonah shifted his gaze.

“Nobody would allow a seven-hundred-year-old cathedral to be destroyed, would they? But this farm,” Hannah said, and she flung out her arms to take in the hedgerows full of berries, the enormous parkland oaks and the sweep of meadows leading up to the ancient wood, “this farm has been here at least that long. And if things turn out the way you want, every single tree, every hedge, every plant you can see right now will disappear forever. Do you really think that’s right?”

Chapter Twelve

The Man from Aqua

Hannah looked at her watch. “It’s two minutes to seven. Isn’t anyone else going to come?”

Lottie glanced up from an information board headed
Water Resources Demand Management Strategy.
There were several of these boards placed around Croxton Village Hall. For all the sense Hannah could make of them, they might as well have been written in Ancient Greek.

“Well, it’s hardly the most fun way to spend an evening, is it?” said Lottie. “I mean, would you be here if it wasn’t about your farm?”

“No, I wouldn’t. But that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Who else is going to care?”

There were four other people, including Hannah’s dad, looking at the information boards. One of them was the excitable fuzzy-haired woman who had been at Dad’s tea party. Several rows of plastic chairs had been set up to face a trestle table and screen at the front of the room. Apart from one old lady in the second row, every seat was empty.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” said Lottie.

“Yes, you are. And I’m really grateful.”

“There’s nothing about the reservoir on these boards. Maybe they won’t even mention it.”

“It’ll probably be just like that brochure,” said Hannah.

A glossy Aqua brochure had arrived in the post on Tuesday. On the cover, in bold black lettering, were the words:
Draft Water Resources Management Plan.
The photo showed a laughing girl in shiny wellies splashing in a puddle. The puddle water sparkled with cleanliness. There wasn’t a speck of mud anywhere.

Hannah had flicked through the pages, looking for information about the reservoir. The brochure was full of graphs, tables and columns of print with headings like
Supply Demand Balance
and
Base Deployable Output.

Wow, she thought. They’re really doing everything they can to make sure people don’t understand what they’re up to.

When she did eventually find the one tiny paragraph about the reservoir, all it said was that Clayhill Farm had been identified as a possible site and investigations were being carried out.

She had brought it to that day’s rehearsal to show Lottie, but Lottie had seen it already.

“They must have sent them to every house,” said Katy.

“Yeah, my dad was reading it at breakfast,” said Jonah. “No idea how. It’s the dullest thing I’ve ever seen. And I do geography with Mr Turner, so you can imagine.”

Now, the village-hall door opened and a tall, slim man with thick shiny dark hair walked in and sat at the trestle table. He wore a smart black suit and he looked very pleased with himself. He took a laptop from his briefcase and opened it up.

“If you’d all like to take a seat,” he said, in a smooth voice that made Hannah prickle with irritation, “then we’ll make a start.”

Lottie and Hannah went to join Hannah’s dad, who had sat, as he always did, in the back row.

The door banged and another man walked into the hall. He looked vaguely familiar.

Hannah nudged Lottie. “Who’s he?”

Lottie looked at him. “Jonah’s dad,” she whispered.

Of course. He wanted to find out more so he could get the catering contract. So did everybody else here support the reservoir plans? Hannah felt even more depressed.

“Thank you for coming along to this Public Consultation Evening,” said the man at the front, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Nick Constable, Aqua’s Assets Director.”

He pressed a button on his laptop. A slide appeared on the screen. It said:
Supply and Demand Analysis.

Lottie groaned. “Just kill me now.”

Hannah’s heart sank. This might turn out to be the longest evening of her life.

Nick Constable didn’t mention the reservoir. Instead, he droned on about “demand forecasts” and “projections” and “long-term strategic planning.”

“I’m actually going to die of boredom in a
minute,” Lottie muttered.

But Hannah forced herself to concentrate. He
wants
us to switch off, she thought. He’s using these words on purpose, so we won’t understand. But I
have
to understand.

Nick Constable put up a slide showing a graph. He said that people were using a lot more water than they used to, and that there was also a big demand for more houses in the south-east of England, so even more water would be needed to supply those houses. Millions and millions more litres of water every day.

“And so, as part of our strategy to meet projected demand, we are proposing to build a new reservoir on the outskirts of Middleham, three miles east of here.”

Hannah’s stomach contracted. She nudged Lottie and sat up very straight.

“This proposed reservoir will be an extremely valuable resource, providing the essential extra fourteen million litres of water per day to the local area.”

Hannah was filled with a deep, dull despair. It was exactly as Miranda had said, wasn’t it? People needed water, and this reservoir would provide that water. What right did they have to object to that?

Nick Constable clicked the remote again to show a picture of a beautiful lake on a summer’s day. Geese pecked on the banks and weeping willows trailed their leaves in the water. Smiling couples strolled around the perimeter.

“The reservoir will also,” he said, “provide
excellent leisure opportunities, as well as being a highly attractive landscape feature.”

He clicked the remote to show a happy group of windsurfers.

“We envisage the reservoir as a focal point of the community in terms of leisure and relaxation.”

The next slide pictured children in sailing boats. The one after that showed anglers fishing from the banks. With each slide, Hannah’s despair deepened.

“The land on which we are proposing to site the reservoir,” he continued, “is currently a tenanted farm.”

Another slide appeared. Hannah frowned. It was a photo of Springbank Meadow, a field below the wood. In the spring and summer, it was a mass of wild flowers. But this picture had clearly been taken in midwinter, and the field looked like a sea of mud.

“As you can see,” he said, “the land is of poor quality and unproductive.”

He clicked to another picture, this time of Bracken Field, again bare and muddy.

“That’s so unfair,” Hannah hissed to Lottie. “If they showed those fields in summer they’d be completely different.”

The next was of Stream Field in the same state.

“The site,” he said, “is currently unattractive…”

Hannah gasped in indignation.

“…as can be seen here.”

Up flashed a slide showing the heap of junk behind the old cow stalls, a rusting mess of tangled barbed wire, old plastic containers and scrap metal.

Hannah seethed with rage. How dare he just show the mud and the mess? All farms had mess. All farms were muddy in winter. What about the hedgerows full of blossom, the sheep with their lambs, the kingfishers by the stream?

The next slide showed an area of ground covered with ash and blackened steel struts. It was the remains of the burned-out barn.

“The buildings are neglected,” he said, “and the house is practically uninhabitable.”

Up flashed a series of pictures of the farmhouse: close-ups of the exterior, showing peeling paint, loose guttering and crumbling mortar.

Uninhabitable? How
dare
he?

Hannah glanced at Dad’s profile. His cheeks were red and his eyes were creased in a deep frown.

The next photograph showed the muddiest gateway on the farm, the one where half a gate hung jagged off its hinges and the ground was completely churned up by animals’ hooves.

“As can be seen,” Nick Constable drawled, “what we have here is poor-quality, poorly maintained agricultural land…”

Poorly maintained! Hannah thought of how hard her dad worked every day of his life to look after his farm and she wanted to punch Nick Constable very hard where it would hurt him most.

“…but which, being a heavy, clay-based soil, is ideal for water storage.”

Ideal for water storage? Hannah felt sick.

“In conclusion,” he said, “the site has been
carefully chosen to have minimum impact on the environment and the local population.”

Hannah wanted to scream at him. Minimum impact! What right did he have to stand up there and say things like that?

But a part of her, a part she didn’t want to listen to, knew there was some truth in his words. It wouldn’t really affect anyone except them, would it? She could see why, in many people’s eyes, it would be an ideal site for a reservoir.

“We are, of course, still at the beginning of the process,” continued Nick Constable. “The surveys which we are undertaking may well identify further social and environmental benefits which a new reservoir scheme could deliver.”

Dad snorted. “Environmental benefits, my foot,” he muttered.

Up flashed the opening picture again, the one of the tranquil sunny lake surrounded by happy couples and frolicking water sports enthusiasts. Nick Constable left it on the screen while he turned to the eight people in the audience.

“And now,” he said, “I shall be delighted to answer any questions you may have.”

Jonah’s dad raised his hand.

“What I want to know,” he said, “is what opportunities there are going to be for local people to get involved in this reservoir project. Are there going to be jobs?”

Nick Constable smiled. “That’s an excellent question. Thank you, sir. And yes, I’m happy
to say that there will be many jobs created in the construction of the reservoir. It’s a multimillion-pound project and will provide considerable employment opportunities.”

“In the short term, maybe,” Dad called out, making Hannah jump. “But those jobs won’t be there any more once the reservoir’s built.”

“I would appreciate it,” said Nick Constable, “if anybody wishing to comment could raise their hand.” He turned back to Jonah’s dad. “And, of course, the leisure facilities that the reservoir provides will also create long-term employment opportunities, providing a real economic boost to the local area.”

The fuzzy-haired lady raised her hand.

“The land that you want to destroy to build your reservoir is absolutely full of wildlife as well as being a productive working farm. There’s no way a reservoir could possibly provide any ‘environmental benefits’ that outweigh what’s already there.”

Nick Constable smiled his fake smile again. “We are of course undertaking extensive surveys of flora and fauna at the site. To date, however, our findings have shown no wildlife of any significance.”

“No wildlife?” whispered Lottie. “What about the birds?”

Hannah felt deflated. Maybe the birds that Lottie’s dad raved so much about weren’t so rare after all. Maybe every farm had the same sort of birds.

Dad stood up.

“Having spent all my life farming the land you’re proposing to flood,” he said, his voice tight with
anger, “I’d be very interested to see these surveys.”

Nick Constable smiled again. Hannah itched to smack his smooth, smug face.

“As our surveys are still ongoing,” he said, “we are unable to make any results available to the general public as yet.”

“I’m not talking about the general public,” said Dad. “I’m talking about common courtesy. That land is my home and my livelihood. It was my parents’ livelihood. It ought to be my children’s livelihood.”

Nick Constable’s mouth was fixed in a thin smile. “As soon as the findings are properly analysed, they will of course be made available to all interested stakeholders. And we shall, of course, actively seek to maximise the opportunities that a reservoir presents to create wildlife habitats and enhance the biodiversity of the area.”

Dad gave an incredulous snort. “Enhance the biodiversity of the area! You’re talking rubbish and you know it.”

Jonah’s dad put up his hand. Dad sat down and folded his arms.

“Will there be fishing?” asked Jonah’s dad.

Nick Constable’s smile widened. “Absolutely. We are proposing to stock the reservoir with a large number of freshwater fish, thus providing an unrivalled environment for anglers.”

The couple in the third row, who had been quiet so far, turned towards each other, and Hannah saw the interested looks on their faces.

“And windsurfing and sailing?” asked the youngish
man in the middle of the room.

“Indeed. Our past experience indicates that there is likely to be considerable support for the enhanced leisure opportunities that a reservoir can provide, not to mention the enormous benefit to the local economy in a rural area like this.”

“
Leisure
opportunities?” said Dad, in a tone of utter disgust. “It’s a working farm, not a leisure opportunity.”

Hannah sat silent, buried in misery.

The old lady in the second row raised her hand.

“Yes?” said Nick Constable. His smile made Hannah want to knock his gleaming white teeth out.

“There’s been a leaking mains pipe at the end of my road for more than three months now. Shouldn’t you be fixing your leaks before you destroy a farm to build a reservoir?”

Nick Constable’s reply was full of technical terms and figures and statistics. Hannah didn’t listen. She couldn’t get the picture out of her head of her farm buried underwater.