33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed...

by Isabel Ashdown

  The child’s early schooling was based around a schedule of activities which included reading and writing, basic arithmetic, cooking, gardening, art and meditation. Play was naturally woven into all of these things, as each teacher was as delighted as the next to welcome her into their sphere of work, setting her to tasks which they knew would both inform and delight. So many women came here having left their own children behind, and, while Seed might be a sore representation of what they had given up, her status as ‘child of all’ meant that everyone benefited from her sunlight.

  On this particular morning, after cleaning her teeth and changing into a fresh tunic, Seed ran along to join Sandy in the art studio, a large purpose-built shed at the end of the garden where the light was good. I waved to her as she disappeared through the studio doors and set to my own task of planting out sunflowers in the borders, something Seed had suggested at our last monthly around-the-table ideas meeting. ‘Sunflowers,’ she’d replied simply when she was asked, as every sister was, if she had any ideas for the improvement of the community. Everyone had laughed and smiled at the time, and it was added to the list. Together, we’d been growing the seedlings ever since.

  I decided to start at the far end of the garden, where the flowers would be most appreciated, around the wood store and bordering the greenhouses where many of the women worked. New window boxes had been installed outside the art studio, and after I’d planted out the borders I decided to place some dwarf varieties there, so that our residents could look out and see the sunny plants from the art trestles as they worked. Waving at Seed and Sandy through the window, I pulled up my step stool and began to fill the boxes with compost. Inside, Sandy was laying out card along the workbench, getting Seed to fetch the blocks and inks required as they prepared to print. She was lucky to have such a teacher, I thought, because Sandy had blossomed into a quite exceptional artist. She had attracted a few complaints for her argumentative nature, but she’d proven herself to be someone with something valuable to contribute. She’d even spent time training me to use the tattoo gun, a new skill I’d perfected over recent months, practising on fruit in the evenings to the point at which Sandy said I was ready to take on a real ‘victim’.

  Smiling to myself at this wonderfully absurd thought – me, a tattooist – I dropped the seedling plugs into the holes I’d thumbed and glanced up to see Seed uncapping a bottle of indigo printing ink. But, distracted by the sight of me through the window, she let the bottle slide on the tabletop, and it up-ended, instantly drenching her yellow tunic and pouring across the floor. Sandy shrieked in alarm, throwing old rags over the blue puddle on the ground and whipping the ruined tunic over Seed’s head to plunge it beneath running water. Unsteadily, I stepped down from my stool and hurried round to the front of the studio, stumbling on the damp path in my rush to help.

  ‘NO!’ I could hear Seed shouting, her tone uncommonly defiant.

  Righting myself, I reached the studio door to see Seed, stark naked beside the workbench, head down, her little fingers gripped around her blue-stained knickers as she engaged in a tug-of-war with Sandy.

  ‘I have to rinse them!’ Sandy insisted, rolling her eyes at me. ‘That ink will never come out if we leave it!’

  Heart in my throat, I snatched up an apron, hoping to cover Seed’s modesty, but I was too late because, as Seed’s complaints turned into hysterical screams, Sandy released her hold on the knickers, and Seed fell backwards, sprawling across the floor like an upturned beetle. I threw the apron over her poor exposed little body, my heart breaking as she covered her face with her hands, sobs racking through her.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ I shouted, causing Sandy to start. ‘You don’t just strip a child down like that!’

  Sandy’s face was set in an expression of shock. She pointed towards the child. ‘But Seed – she spilt the ink – she—’

  ‘I don’t care what she did! Are you her guardian?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Gently, I helped Seed to her feet, wrapping the large apron around her like a sari, pulling her close to my leg where she stood, face lowered in shame. ‘I want you to apologise, Sandy. You should never humiliate another human like that.’

  ‘But I – how was I meant to know? She—’

  I simply shook my head in reply, desperately trying to quell my own anger.

  For a few seconds we stood like that, and I watched as Sandy’s remorse shifted into something else: outrage.

  ‘Fuck you, Bramble!’ she yelled when I stood my ground, her accent emerging rough and hard-edged. ‘Fuck you and your freaky little cult baby! You all think you’re so special – but you’re just warped.’ She stared at Seed. ‘That poor fackin’ kid. Jesus.’

  I was so staggered by this outpouring of fury that it was as much as I could do to stand back and watch her march across the lawns towards the main house, still ranting. Beside me, Seed shivered and sniffled, and I wondered how much she understood of what Sandy had just said.

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ she murmured sadly.

  I knelt down and took her chin between my thumb and forefinger and I gave her face a firm little shake. ‘Seed, you are beautiful. You are strong. You are special.’

  She nodded sadly, as her tongue darted out to lick at a tear.

  I stood and held out my hand for her to take it. ‘I don’t think we should let Sandy live here any more, do you?’

  Cautiously, Seed shook her head. And then, hand in hand, we too marched across the lawns, and up the stairs to Fern’s office, where I presented our half-naked, blue-stained child and explained the events that had just played out.

  Fern’s steady gaze travelled over Seed’s body, and I felt the little girl shrinking at my side. After a few moments in which she turned away and gazed through her window to the gated entrance beyond, Fern unlocked her desk drawer and counted out several notes. ‘Help Sandy to pack her bags and give her this for her train fare. Tell her we’re keeping the tattoo kit – there’s an extra hundred there to compensate her. And then see her off the property, would you, Bramble?’

  From the distance of her desk, she turned her attention fully on our daughter. ‘Well done, Seed,’ she said as though she were talking to any adult one of us. ‘Sandy’s been growing more and more restless and quarrelsome of late. We don’t need that kind of cancer at Two Cross Farm, sisters. Now, leave me while I look through our waiting list. We have a vacancy to fill.’

  That evening, Seed refused to leave our room to join the sisters for supper, instead curling up beneath her bedcovers and pretending to sleep.

  ‘You’ll feel fine tomorrow,’ I told her, but I didn’t really believe it. I could see it in her scared little face.

  She was five years old, and already the doubts were starting to creep in.

  12. CELINE

  Present day

  The 6pm press conference has been set up on the large grass verge at the front of Two Cross Farm, with the imposing iron security gates separating the world from the house and gardens of the commune beyond.

  By the time they have walked the woodland mile from Delilah’s place, the narrow lane is buzzing with news crews, police officers and general gawkers. The sun is low in the sky, throwing long shadows through the iron railings and painting a radiant hue over the faces of the assembled.

  ‘Jeez, there must be a hundred people here,’ Pip says, taking up Olive and Beebee’s hands and looking around the crowd distractedly. ‘Listen, we’ll hang back if you don’t mind. It looks like a bit of a bunfight at the front and I don’t want these two getting trampled.’

  Celine and Una push through the crowd until they’re close enough to get a good view, as a tall woman dressed in a full-length claret tunic and leaf-print headscarf ascends the makeshift platform, while a younger woman stoops behind the wooden lectern, running leads out towards two huge speakers. The former can only be Seed. From this distance, it seems as though her face is slightly out of focus, and it gradually dawns
on Celine that the woman’s skin is discoloured in some way, by a birthmark perhaps, the tone of her chin and neck appearing more pink in tone than the upper half of her pale face. Celine watches as Seed waits, passive-faced, arms relaxed at her sides, while the other woman checks over the microphone and gives it a solid tap. ‘Can everyone hear me? Put your hands up at the back, please? Good, thank you.’ She gives the thumbs-up sign and descends the steps, leaving Seed standing behind the lectern, alone.

  As Seed looks out over the throng, her gaze on some distant point, Celine has the strangest feeling, somewhere between déjà vu and foreboding. Seed hasn’t moved an inch. She’s elegantly built, quiet and still, and under her calm gaze Celine is aware of the crowd gradually falling to silence. It feels like a set piece, something rehearsed, and Celine is certain that Seed has choreographed every element of this display, from the audience’s first sight of her to the tiniest pause or glance; from the slight tilt of her head to the rich tangerine backdrop of sky which now shrouds her.

  From somewhere inside the gardens, there is the sounding of a hand bell, rung six times, perhaps to signify the hour of the day. Seed raises her palms now, messiah-like, and speaks into the microphone, her amplified voice low and lyrical.

  ‘Thank you for coming, all of you. My name is Seed, and I am the custodian of Two Cross Farm women’s community.’ She pauses long enough for her audience to grow uncomfortable, and there is some shifting of feet and clearing of throats before she continues. ‘Looking around now, I sense some degree of mistrust, misunderstanding perhaps, as to what we do here and what we are.’

  She smiles at this, inviting a ripple of amused agreement.

  ‘Well, let me tell you. This community first opened its doors to women in 1976, at a time when ordinary women and girls were really starting to fight for something of their own. Our Founding Sisters came from a variety of backgrounds. Some had money; others had nothing. Some were educated; others had been kept ignorant. One or two were unhappily married or tethered to family, while others had been cut loose, set adrift whether they wished for it or not.’

  Next to Celine, a news reporter tuts and checks her watch, as a pair of wood pigeons breaks through the canopy overhead, casting their shadows as they pass the crowd. Celine feels like slapping the journalist, and she’s shocked by her own strength of feeling.

  ‘While these first women were different and varied, they had one thing in common: they wanted more for themselves. They wanted more, but on their terms – as individuals – as women without men. And so it was that Two Cross Farm was conceived, as a place where women were welcome to come and stay in safety, to work and learn and contribute, and in many cases to escape and start again. It was to be a place where women could reinvent themselves in their own image; a place where the voiceless could choose their own names.’

  ‘Why the history lesson?’ A male voice cuts across Seed, and she turns her head slowly, effortlessly locating the source.

  ‘Because, despite our successful forty-four-year existence, there are – sadly – still those among you who doubt the need for a women-only community like ours. Those who are suspicious of our intentions and seek to undermine the peace we have created here.’ She smiles her captivating smile again, and raises a balletic arm. ‘If you’ll indulge me, I’d like a show of hands, please,’ she says. ‘Would you lift your hand if you have ever heard us called, or thought us to be, a CULT?’

  The strength she puts behind this last word is so powerful that a number of people close to Una and Celine gasp a little. Celine raises her hand, as does Una, as do dozens and dozens more.

  Seed nods serenely. ‘Young man,’ she says, now singling out that earlier heckler. ‘This is “why the history lesson”.’

  From behind Seed, through the iron railings separating the press crowd from the gardens of Two Cross Farm, a line of women snakes out through the front door of the property, in a vibrant array of coloured tunics: women of different ages, colours, shapes and postures. One by one, they line up on the far side of the gate, looking out, facing the crowd. There is strength in their number, in their shared expression of peace and solidarity.

  ‘God help us,’ the journalist next to Celine whispers to the guy filming at her side. ‘If I didn’t think they were a cult before, I certainly do now.’

  ‘There are thirty-three of us at full capacity,’ Seed says, raising her voice to subdue the crowd. She gestures to the assembled women behind her. ‘We are currently three down. Two of them departed a month ago, with our blessing, to return to their native New Zealand. And one of them left us less than a week ago, to meet up with a man she had known some years earlier – her ex-husband. That woman’s name was Robyn Siegle, and to our great sadness it is a name you will all be familiar with, and the reason you are gathered here this afternoon.’

  To a barrage of questions and the frenzied jostle of cameras, Seed holds a framed photograph aloft, a black and white portrait of Robyn. It is designed to gain their attention, but something has shifted in the crowd and Celine suspects Seed is losing them. They’re growing impatient.

  Una nudges her, animated. ‘I’ve just spotted Dave Aston on the far side,’ she says. ‘We’ll grab him at the end, introduce you properly.’

  Seed taps the microphone, sending a sharp squeal through the speakers. ‘I will answer your questions in a moment. But first, I must make this firm statement in relation to Robyn’s time here.’

  She’s got them back, Celine thinks, just like that.

  ‘Robyn’s body was found a mile down the river from Two Cross Farm. We – the women of this community – are devastated. I am devastated. Robyn was our friend. She was a beautiful soul, a gifted, kind, warm person, and the world is a poorer place without her.’ For the first time, Seed shows signs of struggle as her voice falters. Long seconds pass while she composes herself, her eyes downcast. But when she looks up again there is fire in them. ‘However, our mourning at the loss of a sister will not divert us from the heart of our work. Like many others, the police are made nervous by matriarchal communities, and they are now, once again, harassing us to open our doors to them. They say they want to inspect Robyn’s old quarters. For what? She took everything with her. They say they want to search the property for evidence. Why? Robyn wasn’t killed here. Nor was she found at Two Cross Farm. They say they want to interview the women. To what end? I have answered all their questions, sat behind that desk at the local police station for eight hours or more, volunteering my fingerprints, co-operating without reserve.’ A pause, a slow-sweeping assessment of the audience. ‘Furthermore, the police have confirmed, to me personally, that the women of Two Cross Farm are not suspects, and it is for this reason that I have forbidden them access.’ She gestures towards a woman in the front row with her arm in the air. ‘I’d like to invite your questions now.’

  The noise is deafening as reporters shout out, waving notebooks and microphones in a bid to gain Seed’s attention. Celine scans the crowd, surprised to catch a glimpse of Harry the gardener over on the far side, next to Pip and the kids. He leans in and says something to Pip and she breaks into a smile, nodding, holding out her hand to shake his. After this brief exchange they both turn their attention back to the stage. Perhaps Harry was on his way to their place but couldn’t get past this lot, she thinks, making a mental note to catch him before he leaves, so she can ask him what he’s owed. She turns back towards the podium as Seed’s voice takes command of the crowd once more.

  ‘Please,’ she says, ‘if you could repeat the question so everyone can hear?’

  The woman raises her voice, and her question lifts on the evening air. ‘You say the police are harassing you, but surely if you let them in to look around they’ll find nothing, and they will leave you alone?’

  Seed’s expression is calm, yet steely. ‘We take the peace and safety of Two Cross Farm very seriously. Imagine, if you will—’ Seed addresses this directly to the young woman asking the question ‘—that you have taken r
efuge here, perhaps afraid for your life or freedom in some way. Perhaps escaping violence or oppression. Imagine the overwhelming sense of relief you might experience when you realise that all you fear is safely locked outside of this gate here, and that you are now surrounded by sisters whose only concern is to harbour and support you. It’s a nice vision, isn’t it?’ she asks with that customary smile. ‘And then, I want you to imagine that vision blown asunder, destroyed, as police – male police for the most part – trample through the place, opening cupboards, turning out drawers, raking through your personal possessions, uninvited. Shattering your peace of mind.’ She leans in so that her lips touch the microphone and her low voice transmits loud and crystal-sharp from those huge speakers. ‘Raping your peace of mind.’

  There’s a collective shock of silence, like an electric current undulating through the crowd.

  Seed raises those palms again, her tone gentle. ‘The women here have appointed me their custodian, their gatekeeper if you like. This is my duty. The police have no reason to enter and destabilise the sanctity of our community without due cause – without a search warrant. And of course, they have no grounds for a warrant.’

  Another question: ‘The deceased might not have been found here, but how can the public be sure Robyn’s killer is not being harboured inside your community?’

  Seed is impassive as she turns her attention to the uniformed officers closest to the stage. ‘Have the police actually confirmed Robyn was murdered?’

  There is no reply, and the officers look away, made awkward.

  ‘At any rate,’ Seed adds, ‘no man has set foot inside Two Cross Farm in forty-four years, so, if there is a killer to be sought, he’s not here.’

  ‘You assume it’s a man?’ the journalist beside Celine calls out.

  ‘Isn’t it always?’ Seed counters.

  ‘She’s got a point,’ Celine mutters, her irritation at this jumped-up girl starting to get the better of her.