The Farm Beneath the Water

by Helen Peters

  “Did Amy explain about the cue to remove it?”

  “Yes. Sounds a bit unorthodox, I must say.”

  “Well, we wanted to do something slightly different, you know? Modernise things a little. We know you like modernisation.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m all in favour of modernisation. Good idea. And Amy here was saying that you want me on stage the whole way through, is that right?”

  “Yes, please,” said Hannah. “We’re all going to be on stage the whole way through. Amy will be beside you all the time, so just follow her lead.”

  Suddenly, the backstage doors were flung open. A torrent of noise flooded into the corridor: yelling, chanting, clapping, whooping, stamping. The cast of Twelfth Night surged down the stairs and spilled into the corridor, chattering and laughing. Hannah’s heart was hammering so hard she felt it might burst out of her ribcage.

  As the last few Milne House actors tumbled through the backstage doors, Hannah turned to her cast and forced a smile. It felt tense and false.

  “We’re on,” she said, and her voice didn’t sound like her own. “Let’s go up there and give it all we’ve got. And whatever happens, thank you, all of you. Thank you so much. You’ve been amazing.”

  The noise from the hall was crazy as the Woolf House group took their places on the darkened stage. Peeping through the gap between the closed curtains, Hannah saw for the first time the four blocks of colour in the front half of the hall. Guilt flooded her as she stared at the chanting block of blue. All those people who had bothered to put on their blue PE shirts to support Woolf House’s play. And she was about to betray them.

  “Woolf House! Woolf House! Woolf House!”

  People at the front of the Woolf House area got to their feet, raising their arms above their heads and clapping in time with the chanting. Other houses started doing the same, all trying to drown out each others’ chants. The noise was deafening.

  In the very centre of the front row was a trestle table, at which sat the three judges: Miss Summers, Mr Lawrence, the Head of Key Stage 3, and, in the middle, Josephine Baxter, the London theatre director. Her silver hair was swept up in a bun. She wore a grey wool jacket with bright-red buttons and a long patterned scarf, draped artistically round her neck. One day, thought Hannah, I want to look like that.

  Next to the judges’ table sat Mr Collins, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the rising levels of anarchy. Beside him sat Lottie’s mum, elegantly dressed as always, a serene smile on her face.

  Hannah thought of Miranda, at this minute sitting in a classroom waiting to speak to the director, and her stomach lurched. How long could Miranda be fobbed off with excuses before she realised something was up? And when she did realise, how would the brave souls who had volunteered to hold her in the room be able to contain her?

  At the far end of the hall, Jack sat at the lighting and sound desk, looking completely in control. Hannah felt a bit better.

  Then she saw her father, sitting between Sam and Jo in the back row, and her insides felt as though they had dropped down a lift shaft. How would he react to all this? Would he be completely furious? And what if she got expelled? How would he feel then?

  Beside Sam sat Granny. Sam turned and said something to her and she smiled and squeezed his arm. They both looked excited.

  Miss Summers left her seat and walked up the steps on to the stage. She held up her hands for silence. Gradually, the hall calmed down to a fidgety murmur, but the pent-up excitement was palpable.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Miss Summers to the calmer back half of the hall where the parents sat, “and students,” she continued, addressing the front half of the hall and the crowds of actors standing around the walls, some still in costume, many bearing traces of their performances – glittery cheeks, hair in odd unnatural styles – “we come to the final performance of the day.”

  Her palms damp with sweat, Hannah moved to her place upstage, at the back of the Chorus. The entire cast stood in position in their Elizabethan splendour, their backs to the audience.

  Downstage centre, in pride of place, stood Nick Constable, in his purple cloak and hat.

  “Without further ado,” said Miss Summers, “may I introduce Woolf House’s performance of Romeo and Juliet.”

  The eruption of cheering and stamping drove nails of guilt into Hannah’s heart. What would the audience do when they realised? Would there be a riot? Would they all walk out?

  She couldn’t think about that. She had to do this. She had no choice.

  Gradually, the noise subsided. Taking one last gulp of air, and feeling as though she were about to dive into a shark-infested ocean, Hannah gave the thumbs-up to Ed, the Year 9 boy in the wings who was operating the curtains. Then she stood with her back to the audience and her arms by her sides, her hands screwed into fists.

  The curtains opened, the lights came up and medieval music played over the speakers. Hannah opened her hands. On cue, the entire chorus turned to face the audience. Hannah heard an appreciative murmur from the hall. That must be for Lottie’s costumes, she thought, with a little glow.

  On cue, the cast raised their heads to look at the audience. On cue, Nick Constable took a step forward. The audience hushed as the music faded and Nick Constable declaimed the opening speech that Hannah had written for him.

  “The players of Woolf House hereby present

  An entertainment for your hearts and minds.

  Forgive us if we err, for our intent

  Towards you is most true and most benign.”

  He gave a little bow and took a step back. Somebody clapped loudly (Hannah couldn’t be certain, but she was pretty sure it was Lottie’s mum) and other people joined in. Mr Collins applauded enthusiastically, smiling up at the stage. Sucking up to Nick Constable, clearly, thought Hannah.

  Nick Constable looked delighted. With a broad flourish of his arm, he made a deep, theatrical bow. Then he stepped forward again and waited for the applause to end before beginning the Prologue to Romeo and Juliet.

  “Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona, where we set our scene…”

  Hannah could feel the audience settling back to enjoy the show. In the front row, Mr Collins smiled and nodded approvingly.

  On the third line of the Prologue, the rest of the cast joined in, exactly as they had rehearsed it. Medieval music played softly and images of Verona appeared on the back wall of the stage. At least, Hannah hoped they were images of Verona, and not of Lottie’s head on a dancing gnome. Judging by the audience’s reaction, Jack had resisted that temptation.

  When the chorus finished the final line of Shakespeare’s Prologue, they bowed their heads and turned their backs to the audience as the lights faded to black. A smattering of applause broke out, but it died away as a drum began to beat in the wings. On the first beat, the lights started to fade up. This time, though, the light wasn’t warm, bright and golden, but blue, eerie and dim.

  On the second drumbeat, Priya turned to face the audience and began speaking Hannah’s Prologue. With each slow, portentous beat of the drum, another member of the cast turned to face the audience. And as each actor turned, they joined in seamlessly with the words.

  “A secret plan, long hidden in deep vaults,

  For this fair village where we lay our scene,

  Has surfaced at a meeting held nearby,

  Where civil lies make civil hands unclean.”

  There was a slight movement in the hall, like a breeze blowing through a field of wheat. Hannah’s heart thudded. She glanced at Nick Constable, but his expression was as self-satisfied as ever. He clearly hadn’t yet realised that anything was wrong.

  On the dim, blue-lit stage, a single spotlight picked out Bea, standing downstage left. As she continued to recite the Prologue in chorus, Bea reached her hands around to the back of her dress and ripped the Velcro open. She pulled the dress off her shoulders and it slid to the floor. She stepped out of it and threw it into the wings
, speaking the lines the whole time. Then she faced the audience again in her black vest and leggings as though nothing had happened.

  The spotlight picked out James, downstage right. He shrugged off his brocade jacket and stepped out of his Tudor breeches. He tossed them into the wings and faced the audience in black T-shirt and black jeans, speaking the lines all the while.

  One by one, the actors stepped out of their costumes and resumed their positions dressed all in black, as they spoke the next four lines:

  “From forth those secret vaults emerged these plans

  To flood the ancient fields of Clayhill Farm:

  To bury trees, streams, meadows, all the land

  But reassure us it will cause no harm.”

  At the mention of the farm, Hannah saw Nick Constable give a slight start. He glanced around at the actors, a look of alarm on his face. Their composure seemed to reassure him, though, and, to Hannah’s enormous relief, he turned back to face the audience. The spotlight fell on him and, at an encouraging nod from Amy, standing beside him, he unfastened his cloak, plucked the ostrich-feathered cap from his head and tossed his costume into the wings. Somebody in the audience wolf-whistled and there was a ripple of laughter. Hannah saw, to her amazement, that he appeared to be flattered.

  Now only Jonah, Priya and Katy, standing at the back of the stage, still wore their costumes.

  Jonah, Priya and Katy walked slowly downstage, as the chorus recited the next four lines:

  “The fearful passage of their gross deceit

  And the increasing of indignant rage

  Which, but this stealth-planned play, nought could defeat,

  Is now the half-hour’s traffic of our stage;”

  Jonah, Priya and Katy turned to face the audience. At the exact same moment, they ripped open the Velcro fastening on their cloaks and let them fall to the ground in three puddles of blue, gold and scarlet.

  At a nod and a smile from Amy, Nick Constable joined in with the last two lines of the Prologue:

  “The which if you with patient ears attend,

  What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.”

  Nathan, Zac and Harry bent down and picked up the cloaks. They fastened them back around Jonah, Priya and Katy’s necks, only this time they were worn on the reverse side, so they all wore black cloaks with brightly coloured linings. Harry placed a judge’s wig on Priya’s head.

  All the cast except Jonah, Priya and Katy turned and walked slowly to the sides of the stage, where they stood in two lines with their backs to the audience.

  Millie and Bea brought out a small table from the wings and set it centre-stage. Grace carried on a chair and placed it behind the table, facing the audience. Owen, Nathan and Elsie brought on another table and chair, which they set up stage right, on a slight diagonal. James and Marie carried on the carved oak lectern that was occasionally used in assembly. They placed it stage left.

  Hannah scrutinised Nick Constable’s face as he stood in the line stage right. He didn’t seem to suspect anything. The smug smile was still in place.

  All the Year 7s moved downstage, stood in a row and addressed the audience in unison.

  “We humbly ask you, friends and countrymen,

  To play the part of jurors, sound and true.

  We pray you hear our evidence today

  And weigh it in your hearts once we are through.”

  They bowed to the audience and moved back to their lines.

  Hannah felt a restless shifting in the hall, a murmuring and whispering, like leaves rustling in the wind. She saw Lottie’s mum lean towards Mr Collins, presumably saying something reassuring. With the house lights down, Hannah couldn’t make out the expression on Mr Collins’s face.

  The drum beat its slow, solemn beat again as Priya took her seat at the central table. Her hands were trembling.

  Go on, Priya, Hannah thought. They haven’t stopped us yet. We just might get away with this.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” said Priya to the audience, and though her hands were shaking, her voice was steady, “in view of rising demand for water in this, the driest part of the country, our local water company, Aqua, has decided that a new reservoir is needed, and that Clayhill Farm, in Middleham, is possibly the best site for this reservoir.”

  Nick Constable jerked his head round, his forehead puckering into a frown.

  “We are here today to determine two things,” Priya continued. “One, whether a new reservoir is really the solution to our water needs. And two, if a reservoir is needed, whether Clayhill Farm is the best place to site it. Mr Constable, could you take your place, please?”

  By the last sentence, she had to raise her voice to be heard over a rising murmur from the audience. Hannah’s throat felt unbearably tight. She had to force herself to breathe.

  Amy took Nick Constable’s arm. His movements were stiff and his eyes cast wildly around the stage as Amy took him to the other table and drew out the chair for him.

  On the white back wall of the stage, two words appeared in large black type.

  MIDDLEHAM RESERVOIR

  Matthew shone the spotlight on Nick Constable. Confusion, anger and embarrassment passed across his face as Katy walked towards him.

  “Mr Constable,” said Katy sweetly, “could you possibly tell the residents of Middleham about the exciting new leisure facility you are planning for our village?”

  Amy, standing next to his table, smiled at him encouragingly. He gave a nervous laugh. His features appeared to be fighting with each other as he made a huge effort to pull himself together. He cleared his throat.

  “Well,” he said to the audience, “this is a bit different, eh? Not exactly the Romeo and Juliet you were expecting, I bet?”

  There was a slight, uncertain laugh from the audience.

  “What would Shakespeare say, eh? He must be spinning in his grave.”

  There was another little laugh. He seemed to relax slightly.

  “But times change, don’t they, ladies and gentlemen? And we have to change with them. We have to modernise.” He paused. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up. “Which is why I’m delighted to be given this opportunity to talk about the exciting new leisure facility that we at Aqua are proposing for your village.”

  Dread seeped into Hannah. He was too good at this. He was taking control. What if he got the audience on his side? What if this turned into a replay of that awful meeting in Croxton?

  Nick Constable walked downstage and addressed the audience confidently, as though they were old friends. He said exactly the same things he had said at the Croxton meeting, about how much the reservoir was needed and the many benefits it would bring to the local community. Katy encouraged him with nods and smiles.

  Finally, when he seemed to have reached the end of his speech, Katy said, “Thank you, Mr Constable. No further questions.”

  With a smile, he sat back down at the table.

  “Does the prosecution have any questions?” asked Priya.

  At the word “prosecution”, Nick Constable gave a slight start. Jonah, in his long black cloak, moved centre-stage.

  “Mr Constable,” said Jonah, adjusting the shoulders of his gown importantly, “you mentioned that people are using more water than they used to. But isn’t it part of your job to encourage basic water-saving measures like rainwater butts in gardens, and dual-flush toilets, which use three litres of water per flush instead of nine?”

  “These are measures that we actively support,” Nick Constable said.

  “So why aren’t you doing anything?” asked Jonah. He turned to the audience. “Were you aware, ladies and gentlemen, that Aqua’s demand forecasts are the highest of any water company in the country? Which means, Mr Constable, that you are actually doing less than every other water company in England to encourage people to use less water. Isn’t that correct?”

  Nick Constable stared at the slide that had appeared on the back wall: a graph, clearly showing that Aqua’
s predictions for people’s water use were higher than those of every other water company in England. His eyes darted wildly around the hall as if to see where it had magically appeared from.

  Great work, Jack, thought Hannah. He had done an amazing job with those statistics from Jonah’s dad’s councillor friend.

  “Also,” said Jonah, “shouldn’t you be installing water meters in all the homes in your area?”

  Nick Constable seemed to remember that he was performing in public and, with what looked like a considerable effort, he focused on Jonah again.

  “The evidence shows,” Jonah continued, “that people use an average of ten per cent less water when they are metered. We don’t expect to be allowed to use as much gas and electricity as we want, so why should we expect to use as much water as we like and not pay any more for it? Why is the UK the only country in Europe that doesn’t routinely meter domestic water supplies?”

  Hannah had found this information in the article she had read about whether new reservoirs were necessary. She waited with interest to see how Nick Constable would answer the question.

  “All new homes in our area,” he told the audience, “now incorporate water-saving measures, including meters. We at Aqua take water conservation very seriously.”

  There was a murmur of what sounded very like disagreement from the hall.

  “Most homes aren’t new, though, are they?” said Jonah. “And if you put meters and other water-saving devices into all the homes you supply, maybe you wouldn’t need to build a new reservoir.”

  Nick Constable smiled an oily smile around the hall. “Our primary duty is to our customers, to ensure that they have at all times an adequate supply of water. And, after extremely careful consideration and expert analysis, we have concluded that the best way to ensure this is to build a new reservoir.”

  Ben stepped out of his line and stood facing Jonah. Jonah ceremoniously removed removed his cloak and fastened it around Ben’s shoulders. They bowed to each other. Jonah moved into Ben’s place in the line and Ben turned to Nick Constable.