The Farm Beneath the Water

by Helen Peters

  Paws skittered on the path and a blur of wet fur and waving tails shot past the hedge. Tess and Rags had clearly been swimming. Mud and pondweed clung to their saturated coats.

  Nick Constable indicated the thick brown envelope in the agent’s hand. “I’d think very carefully before you reject this, if I were you.”

  Rags skidded to a halt in front of the men and shook herself vigorously, sending pond water spraying in all directions. Tess bounded up to the agent and planted her filthy front paws squarely on his chest.

  The agent yelped and stepped backwards. “Call your dogs off me!”

  “Rags, Tess, sit down,” called Dad, but he didn’t seem to be trying very hard.

  Tess gave the agent’s hand an affectionate lick. He made a disgusted noise and looked around in vain for something to wipe it on. Rags nibbled at the bottom of his trouser leg.

  “Will you get your dogs under control!” he yelled.

  “Rags, Tess,” called Dad again, and this time the dogs knew he meant business. They sat down beside him. He ruffled the backs of their heads. “Good girls,” he murmured.

  The agent swiped at his suit with his hands.

  “Sooner this place is underwater the better,” he muttered.

  Dad whipped his head up.

  “Give me that envelope.” His voice was harsh.

  The agent smiled. “I knew you’d see sense.”

  He handed the envelope, now soggy and mud-spattered, to Dad.

  Looking him hard in the eye, Dad ripped the envelope in half.

  “What the heck are you doing?” spluttered the agent.

  Dad tore each half of the compensation package in half again. He screwed the sodden pieces into a ball and tossed it on the dung lump. Then he pushed his wheelbarrow right between the two men, forcing them to jump aside, and emptied the barrow full of manure on top of the ball of screwed-up paper. He righted the barrow and faced the men.

  “I won’t have anything to do with your weaselly compensation package,” he said. “If this farm drowns, I’ll drown with it. Now, get out.”

  There was a pause before Nick Constable said, “You might want to rethink your attitude before it’s too late, Mr Roberts. I don’t think you’ll have many allies. From past experience, I can tell you that I think you’ll find the village will be very supportive of Aqua’s plans.”

  Dad’s voice had a hard edge to it. “You think so, do you?”

  “What the reservoir project will achieve, you see,” said the agent, “is to transform this place from a third-rate farm into a first-rate leisure facility.”

  Hannah gasped. Powered by the force of her fury, she burst from the hedge, scattering twigs and leaves all around her, and ran to Dad’s side.

  “How dare you?” she said to the startled agent. “How dare you call this place a third-rate farm? This is a first-rate farm and we’re not going to let you destroy it.”

  “And there’s loads of wildlife here,” said Lottie, emerging from the hedge. “We know that and we can prove it.”

  Nick Constable’s mouth was hanging open. The agent stared into the blackthorn, as if to see how many more children were hiding there.

  “You’re all a bunch of thieves and liars,” said Hannah. “But you can’t steal from us and lie to us and get away with it. You’ll see.”

  They turned and marched down the path, leaving all three men staring, speechless and motionless, after them.

  Hannah was shaking as they strode to the house.

  “How dare they come up here and say that stuff to Dad? Third-rate farm? How dare they?”

  “We should make leaflets,” said Lottie. “Post them through everyone’s doors. Tell the whole village what liars they are.”

  Hannah slowed down. “Yes, that would be good. But we need more evidence. All we’ve got is your dad’s bird lists and my word against theirs about the map. It’s not enough. We need evidence that this isn’t the right place to build a reservoir – that it would actually be wrong to flood this land. Otherwise people like Miranda can just say we’re being selfish.” She opened the back door and threw her school bag on the freezer. “I printed out a newspaper article I found on the Internet. About whether we actually need reservoirs at all. I’ll read it tonight.”

  In the kitchen, the Beans were spreadeagled on the tiles, drawing comic strips.

  “What we really need,” said Lottie, stepping over Jo, “is more evidence that there’s loads of wildlife here. To prove their surveys are wrong.”

  Hannah was rummaging for biscuits in the cupboard. “It’s pretty suspicious that they’re not showing anyone their survey results, isn’t it?”

  “Totally,” said Lottie. “My dad’s seen over a hundred species of birds on this farm. And that’s because your dad hasn’t killed the soil with chemicals and he’s left all the old hedges and trees. Dad says it’s a perfect habitat. And if it’s a perfect habitat for birds, it must be the same for other wildlife. Some of the birds that live here are globally threatened, Dad told me.”

  “Globally threatened?”

  “Yes. They’re on the international red list. Red for danger. So they’re really rare.”

  “Like the bats,” said Jo.

  “What about the bats?” asked Hannah.

  Jo picked up a green pencil. “Sophie thinks there might be really rare bats living here.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “She told us. Because we’re professional batologists. That’s why she’s doing this survey tonight. She said it’s an incredible habitat. It’s because of all the old oaks and hedgerows. What did she say the hedgerows were, Bean? Wildlife something.”

  “Wildlife corridors,” said Sam, who was colouring a kidney bean with a purple felt-tip.

  “Yes, wildlife corridors. Animals use the hedgerows to travel from the Downs through the fields into the wood. The hedgerows protect them from predators, you see. If the hedges were destroyed then the bats wouldn’t be able to roam. And they need to roam to hunt for food.”

  “But Aqua said their surveys didn’t find any rare wildlife,” said Hannah.

  “Probably looking in the wrong place,” said Sam. “Like the archaeologists.”

  “Those archaeologists are so stupid,” said Jo. “We keep telling them they should be digging in South Meadow. But they’re just digging by the wood.”

  “Oh, and you would know,” said Lottie, “because you two are professional archaeologists, right?”

  Jo gave Lottie one of her hard stares. “That’s right.”

  Lottie laughed. But Hannah was frowning.

  “What?” asked Lottie. “What are you thinking?”

  Hannah said nothing for a minute. Then, still frowning, she looked at Lottie.

  “What if,” she said slowly, “the surveyors are looking in the wrong places on purpose?”

  Lottie’s eyes widened. “You mean, because they don’t actually want to find anything.”

  “Exactly. Because if they did find rare birds or bats, they might not be allowed to flood the farm. So they’re deliberately not finding stuff.”

  “Do you really think they’d do that?”

  “Of course they would. We know they’ve lied about the map, don’t we? It’s exactly what they’d do.”

  “But even if they are, how could we prove it?”

  “We have to get evidence. We know some stuff already. All your dad’s bird surveys are written down. And Sophie’s doing a bat survey tonight. That’s the kind of evidence we need. So that people know what’s really here. Not just – what did Nick Constable call it? – an unattractive, poor-quality, poorly maintained farm. Horrible man.”

  “Is that what he said?” asked Sam.

  “Oh, don’t be upset, Sammy. He’s just a nasty liar.”

  “Sounds like he was talking about himself,” said Jo. “He looked very unattractive and poor-quality to me.”

  “Exactly,” said Hannah. “And what we need now is the evidence to prove it.”
/>   As Hannah said goodbye to Lottie in the yard after tea, a little red hatchback came bumping down the track. Hannah remembered Sophie’s last visit and guilt washed over her.

  The Beans tumbled into the yard, both talking at once.

  “Where’s your equipment?” asked Jo as Sophie opened the car door.

  “Are you going to be staying all night?” asked Sam. “Can we stay up with you?”

  “Hello, everyone,” said Sophie, smiling as she got out of the car. “Well, not all night. I’m going to do a sunset-emergence survey of the colony – that’s to count the bats leaving the attic – and then I’ll be going home for some sleep, but I’ll be back before dawn to do a sunrise-re-entry survey.”

  Now that Hannah knew Sophie wasn’t a potential stepmother, she thought what a nice face she had. Sophie smiled at her and she felt even more guilty.

  “So you’re not staying all night?” asked Sam, clearly disappointed.

  “No. Sorry. But I do have some very cool equipment.”

  She opened the boot and took out a large plastic box. “Come into the garden and I’ll show you everything.” She looked them up and down. “First, though, we’re going to be in the garden for a good couple of hours, so you’ll need to wear warm clothes. As soon as the sun goes down, it’ll get pretty nippy.”

  “I’d better get home,” said Lottie. “I’d love to help, but my mum’s expecting me. I really hope you find rare bats.”

  Hannah gave Lottie a meaningful look. She knew the real reason Lottie was leaving. Lottie wasn’t at all keen on flying mammals.

  “Right, let’s get set up,” said Sophie. “We need to start fifteen minutes before sunset.”

  Martha was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine.

  “Do you want to do the bat survey, Martha?” asked Sam. “We’re going to count the bats flying out of the attic.”

  Martha looked at Sam as though he’d just invited her to feast on tarantulas.

  “Are you mad? Bats are evil.”

  “Bats are amazing,” said Jo. “I’ve been reading about them. Their wings are actually hands they’ve adapted for flying, so they’re really flexible.”

  “Really?” said Hannah.

  “Yep. They’re even better at flying than birds.”

  Martha shuddered. “Hands turned into wings? That’s like a horror film.”

  “So cool,” said Sam. “If I could choose a superpower, it would definitely be flying.”

  “Bats are gross. They’re just flying mice.”

  “Actually,” said Jo, “they’re more closely related to humans than to mice.”

  Martha snorted. “To you, maybe. Not to me.”

  “And they can live up to thirty years,” said Jo. “Mice only live about two years.”

  “Thirty-year-old bats?” shrieked Martha. “That is so disgusting.” She shuddered. “Imagine a thirty-year-old bat tangled in your hair.”

  “There’s no way a bat would get tangled in your hair,” said Jo. “If they can sense a teeny-tiny insect in pitch darkness, they’re hardly going to miss your massive head, are they?”

  “Whatever,” said Martha, turning back to the problem page. “Have fun with the rodents, weirdos.”

  “Shall I catch one for you?” asked Jo. “A long-eared one. It would be such a cute pet.”

  “Get lost,” said Martha, head down in her magazine.

  The others went outside. Dad was standing by the garden gate talking to Sophie.

  “Are you going to be helping with the bat survey, too?” asked Sam.

  “I certainly am,” said Dad. “Should be very interesting.”

  Sophie smiled round at them all. “So, what I propose is that we split into two groups and stand at opposite corners of the house. That way, we should be able to see most of the bats flying out. But don’t worry if you can’t count every one. I’ll be doing several more surveys. This is just to give us an idea of how many bats roost here.”

  She crouched down and opened her box. The Beans peered in. Sophie took out a pair of headphones plugged into something that looked like a TV remote control. She gave it to Jo.

  “That’s for you two.” She handed a clipboard to Sam. “You can take turns with the bat detector and the clipboard.”

  Jo looked at the black object in her hand. “Is this really a bat detector? How does it work? Has it got a camera?”

  “I’ll show you how to use it. I’ve got one for your dad and Hannah to share, too. But actually your most important piece of equipment is the clipboard.” She handed one to Hannah. “I’d like you to make a note of the time you see the first bat, and then record, using a tally chart, how many bats you see. Arthur, if you and Hannah could station yourselves at the opposite corner of the house, we’ll cover this side. Oh, one more thing.”

  She handed Hannah and Jo a sheet of paper each. It had six different silhouettes of bats on it, with information about their flight patterns. “That might help you identify the species. Write it down if you think you know what species it is, but don’t worry too much about it. It’s the kind of thing that takes practice. Same with interpreting the calls on the bat detector. But it’s fun to have a go.”

  The bat detectors had two dials on the front. Sophie explained that one was a volume dial and one was a frequency dial.

  “It’s actually a myth that bats are blind. They can see nearly as well as we can. But because they fly and hunt for insects in the dark, they use a high-frequency system called echolocation. They make calls as they fly and they listen to the returning echoes to build up a sound map of their surroundings. The bat can tell how far away something is by how long it takes for the sound to return to it.”

  “That’s so clever,” said Jo.

  “We can’t normally hear their calls because they’re too high for the human ear. But the bat detector catches them and translates them instantly to a frequency we can hear.”

  “So we’ll be able to hear the bat calls live?” asked Hannah.

  “That’s right. And the bat detector also records the calls, which can be very useful. This one can pick up most bats within about ten metres. Now, different species of bat echolocate at different frequencies, but to make it simple, I’ve tuned your detectors to the frequency at which you can hear the most common bat, the pipistrelle. Its echolocation call is a kind of snapping sound.”

  She looked at the pink-tinged sky. “OK, sunset’s in about fifteen minutes. This is a waiting game, I’m afraid. We may not see any bats until half an hour after sunset, but we want the survey to be as accurate as possible, so we need to be prepared.”

  “Do we have to be completely silent?” asked Hannah.

  “You can talk quietly. Just no loud noises if possible. Good luck! We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Hannah and Dad made their way to the far corner of the house, by the orchard and the farmyard.

  “Do you want the clipboard or the bat detector?” Hannah asked Dad.

  “Whichever you like.”

  Curious to hear what a bat might sound like, Hannah took the detector and placed the headphones on her ears. But then she realised there was no need to put them on until the first bats emerged. She should take this opportunity to talk to Dad.

  “Lottie and I were thinking,” she began, “that maybe we could make leaflets about the wildlife on the farm and deliver them round the village. So people know what will be lost if they flood the farm. We don’t trust Aqua’s surveys, you see. We thought people should know what Lottie’s dad’s seen in his bird surveys. And put other things in, too, like the age of the trees, that sort of stuff.”

  He nodded. “Good idea. Once we’ve got these bat results.”

  “Do you know when that will be?”

  He shook his head. “Sophie’s putting a lot of survey equipment in the loft and in some of the oak trees. Depends how long it takes her to go through everything once she’s got the recordings, I suppose.” He started rummaging in the inside pocket of his jack
et. “Right, better find a decent pen, if we’re going to record these bats.”

  Hannah sighed. It looked as though the process of fighting Aqua’s plans might take a very long time.

  The last trace of the sun sank behind the hills. The sky was reddish pink above the blue-grey outline of the Downs. The landscape had flattened in the evening light, so that only the shape of things was left.

  Hannah was starting to think that maybe they wouldn’t see anything at all when Dad said softly, “There it is.”

  Hannah followed his gaze just in time to see the black silhouette of a bat flutter into the orchard. Dad looked at his watch and wrote on the clipboard, “First bat 7.36pm. Pipistrelle.”

  Hannah looked at him in surprise. “How can you tell?”

  “Well, it’s the right shape. And see the way it flies, with those downward swoops and turns. Now that one’s come out, there’ll be plenty more.”

  Hannah put the headphones on. A couple of minutes later, another black creature fluttered past them. Through her headphones, Hannah heard the most extraordinary series of loud popping noises. She turned to Dad, lit up with excitement. “I can hear it echolocating!” she whispered.

  Dad looked just as excited as she felt. “Really?”

  Hannah slipped the headphones off and handed him the bat detector, swapping it for the clipboard. Just as she took the clipboard, another bat flew past, and then, immediately after, another and another. She added the lines to the tally chart and then looked at Dad. His face as he listened through the headphones was lit up with excitement. He caught Hannah’s eye and grinned like a little boy. “Incredible sounds they make,” he murmured. “Completely different from birds. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  Painted across the pale-blue sky were deep red-pink streaks and strips of watery grey clouds. As the bats continued to emerge, the red faded like a fire dying down to its last embers, leaving only the domed silhouettes of the oaks standing tall above the hedgerows. Birds chattered in the orchard. Rooks flew out of the wood. A dog barked. From the main road came the distant hum of traffic. And from under the overlapping roof tiles, bats continued to fly out of the attic.