Free Haweswater by Sarah Hall

There was a silent pause, immaculately executed by the man. He might have been about to wheel out a marvel of the modern world from behind him. He smiled widely then, at the crowd of working men, and frowning women, as if to encourage confidence in him. Then his expression changed and was replaced by concentration, he began speaking softly, shallowly, and at the same time his accent heightened and became mannered. It was a voice for addressing others regarding serious matters, a well-oiled public-speaking voice. As he spoke, he moved his words out and away from himself, and it was as if he was speaking of another place, another land, as if this was in accordance withsome eventual reckoning that reaches all quiet and secluded areas in time. The modern world was just behind the man. What he was selling was the end of their valley.
     
    It began as a simple proposal. Manchester City Waterworks had been hunting in the Lakeland and the borders for a site suitable for special development. This valley had been considered among others. For the past fifteen years geologists and engineers had surveyed the area, boring holes in the rocks of the valley and testing the water. Their results, when they reported back to MCW , had been favourable. The valley had been excavated by glaciers, which melted away to leave the small lake in the basin. The rocks along the sides and floor of the valley consisted of compacted slates and grits, layers of volcanic ash and lava which became hardened by subterranean heat and pressure and could not be eroded by the passage of water, an aspect vital to the scheme. In the words of the geologists and the surveyors, it was an old, firm valley, the site was admirably suited for development of the kind that the Waterworks was considering. In fact, this valley, with its own natural shape, created as the earth’s muscles cramped and pulled with ferocious sloth millennia earlier, was perfect. Six miles down, at the bottom of the dale, where the fells curved towards the ground and flattened inwards, hard volcanic rock came to the surface, and it would be possible to lay down a flat arm of cement and brick. An arm belonging to a colossal stone god, capable of holding back a full valley of water. It would be a dam unlike those built anywhere else in the country. A wonderful piece of architecture and engineering, megalithic, inspired. Yes, the site was perfect, but for one thing.
    On the damp boards of the valley floor was a little village. The smallest of places.

     
    For a moment, there was another silence, except for the trickling, cold river under the bridge. The man paused in his speech, suggesting that it would take a new turn. His face of many layers was now stacked with compassion, concern. He paused. The water trickled past, bringing finished snow from the hills. Not another sound. As he began speaking again, his forehead became overlaid with sadness, his voice was a song almost dying of it. Perhaps these pieces of language had been harder to move out and away than the rest, or perhaps the man was letting himself in on the meaning of being insignificant against the weight of a stone god. But at the same time his dark eyes were telling something else. It was magnificent, this blueprint of his words, this vision, an endeavour of capacious proportions. Moreover, it was progression, personal. It was somehow his, he had written the story. And his eyes were wholly filled with agitation and incense, amid his face of many layers, and he just could not invert their light.
     
    The country desperately needed more water supplies, the cities of the mid-north were practically drying up, rainy country or no. Manchester needed more water for its ever-expanding mouth, for its thirsty people, for its industries which had tripled in size since the start of the century. This was a city leading the way of modernity in the north, a city of new industry, a city which would roar out metals for the manufacture of cars, buildings,