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

by Isabel Ashdown

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Seed replies, allowing her hand to linger on that one image. ‘Though she’s taken her last picture, we think. She’s fading fast.’

  Celine glances at Una, feeling frustration at the slow pace of their meeting, at the way in which Una seems to be slavishly following Aston’s instructions to ‘tread carefully’. Sure, they don’t want to lose Seed’s co-operation by being too pushy – but still, Una’s restraint is maddening to Celine’s restless sensibilities.

  ‘Is there a photograph of—’ Celine starts, but Una shoots her a look which tells her it’s too early. Vanessa, was the word she’d wanted to end the sentence with.

  Seed nods her head sadly, obviously assuming Celine is asking about Robyn. But, before she can expand, there is a creak as the door from the hallway opens and an elderly woman enters, wearing a navy artist’s smock and loose trousers, a smudge of ink marking one of her round pink cheeks.

  ‘Bramble, you’re here!’ Seed says, extending her hands and drawing her in. ‘Una, Celine, this is Bramble. Bramble is one of our Founding Sisters – one of the first six women who set up Two Cross Farm in 1976. She was at the initial meeting when the vision was conceived, when the Code of Conduct was drawn up, before our first residents were welcomed into our arms. She really is the backbone to this place.’ Seed pauses to smile at Bramble, and there is real affection there.

  ‘Welcome,’ Bramble says, and she is friendly, though less expansive than Seed. ‘Seed, it’s stopped raining now,’ she says. ‘I thought our guests might like to see the garden and the workshops?’

  Pushing open the French doors, Bramble leads them out on to the garden path, where the sun is now breaking through.

  ‘I’ll join you shortly,’ Seed says as she heads back towards the heart of the house. ‘There’s some paperwork I must attend to. Thank you, Bramble.’

  Outside, despite the screened rear of the garden, Celine can sense the river just beyond, the sky above it now clearing as the rain clouds drift away. At the end of a brick footpath, a wood store dominates one corner, while greenhouses run the width of the garden, punctuated by two large compost piles heaped like burial mounds, and a patchwork of raised vegetable beds. To the left is the miniature windmill, as featured in Vanessa’s postcard to Delilah all those years ago.

  ‘We try to grow as much as possible,’ Bramble explains, plucking at a few weeds as they walk. ‘At the side of the house we also have a fruit orchard. We make jams, ciders and juices – some of it we keep for the occasional treat and celebration, but most of it goes to the local farmer’s market, to bring an additional income.’

  ‘How do you make ends meet?’ Celine asks. ‘It must be hard, with so many of you?’

  Bramble is silent for a few seconds, and it seems clear she’s trying to decide whether this is a question she’s happy to answer. ‘There are thirty-three of us in total. We live simply and we work hard. We own the property outright, and over the years we have benefited from a small number of bequests. We get by. It’s hand-to-mouth, but, arguably, that’s how it should be. Enough for our needs, but no excess.’

  ‘What’s that building?’ Una asks, pointing to what looks like a summerhouse to the far right-hand side of the garden.

  ‘That’s our print workshop. Our art studio.’

  ‘Can we see?’ Celine asks, feeling a whole lot more at ease with the older woman than she had with Seed.

  ‘Are you a keen artist?’ Bramble replies, her interest piqued.

  ‘Kind of,’ Celine lies, her mind on the linoprint postcard sent by her sister fifteen years earlier. ‘I love handprinted design – though it’s been years since I picked up a paintbrush. I did lino-cutting when I was at school.’

  Inside the studio, several women sit at workbenches, bent over watercolours or carvings. Rows of picture rails run around the walls, displaying old print blocks, new paintings and the occasional photograph.

  ‘Do you sell any of your prints?’ Una asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Bramble says, pulling open a drawer and bringing out a shoebox of postcards. ‘These do quite well at the farmer’s market. Seed was the one who really developed that side of our business – it’s grown considerably over the years.’

  ‘Was that when she first became leader?’ Una asks, casually.

  ‘No, no, she’d been doing it long before then. She’s only been custodian for the past ten years.’ Celine can see Una is desperate to delve further, but she lets the silence roll, as Bramble picks out two or three different postcard images, holding them out to her. ‘The most popular ones are of the castle, naturally – but also the river landscapes and the swans. You know there’s a wildfowl trust nearby? They take some of our cards, for their tourist centre.’

  ‘This one’s nice,’ Una says, picking out the windmill from a separate box on the worktop. ‘Isn’t that the windmill from the garden?’

  Bramble picks it up, pleased. ‘That’s one of mine – I did it years ago. We don’t sell many of these. We let the residents help themselves to anything that doesn’t sell – lots of them have family elsewhere in the country or around world, so we encourage them to keep in touch. Unless they have reason not to, of course.’

  ‘What kind of reason?’ Una asks.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you, officer, that some women—’ Bramble says.

  ‘Oh, I’m not a serving officer,’ Una interrupts swiftly. ‘I’m retired – please, it’s Una.’

  Bramble scrutinises Una carefully, suddenly shrewd; she’s sizing them up. Has Seed handed them to Bramble merely to suss them out? ‘Of course. I don’t need to tell you, Una, that some of our women have come to us from very difficult situations.’

  ‘Like domestic abuse?’ Una asks.

  ‘Yes. At least two-thirds of our women have experienced some kind of violence or control before coming here. And that’s only counting the ones who want to talk about it. I believe the number is probably much higher.’

  ‘Would you describe Two Cross Farm as a refuge?’ Celine asks.

  ‘No. Because “refuge” is connected to words like “victim” and “hiding”, and we don’t want our women to start life here seeing themselves in that way. It’s for that reason we encourage the use of “sister” from the outset – it integrates the women instantly, gives them a sense of belonging, of family. They don’t have to follow the old rules laid out for them any more. They’re independent, while at the same time supported.’

  ‘But you do have rules here, don’t you?’ Celine says. ‘A Code of Conduct. Seed mentioned it earlier.’

  Instead of answering, Bramble gestures towards the door and they step out of the workshop into bright sunshine, as a faint rainbow arcs over the roof of the house, vanishing into distant dark clouds. Two women cross the lawn, each pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs. There’s something so peaceful about the image that for a moment Celine allows herself to imagine life here, without her laptop or phone, her business suits and haircuts. What must it feel like to arrive here with nothing – to simply move in, and live?

  ‘Will you join us?’ Bramble asks when the community bell rings ten o’clock, and for a moment Celine wonders if she’s read her mind. ‘For tea?’ she adds at Celine’s startled expression. ‘You can meet the other women and ask them about the Code of Conduct yourself?’

  She leads them via the orchard, past stone steps down to a basement laundry and in through a different entrance, to a large dining room dominated by a huge oak table. Mugs and plates are being laid out by a young woman, barely out of her teens.

  ‘What are the crosses for?’ Celine asks, noticing the plate-sized white crosses painted on the surface of the table.

  ‘They’re place settings.’ Seed joins them through another internal door, startling Celine with her presence. ‘Thirty-three in total, one for each resident.’

  As she pushes the door wide, a stream of women enters, chatting amiably while they each take a place at the table. Two much older women are wheeled in and situated at the far en
d, opposite Seed at the head, and the last woman to arrive brings a hostess trolley carrying five teapots, jugs of milk and three large fruit loaves. Once all are seated, Bramble directs Celine and Una to two of the empty crosses, and, when she herself takes a seat, two more crosses, and two empty seats, remain. One more vacancy than Seed had previously mentioned.

  ‘One of our number is unwell,’ Seed explains, gesturing to the space beside one of the older women. All at once, her eyes brim with tears. ‘And the one beside me was Robyn’s place.’

  After tea, the women go back to work and Seed invites Celine and Una to her office on the first floor. It’s at the front of the property, looking out towards the iron gates and grass verge where the press conference was held only days ago. Bramble stands with her back to the window, her arms lightly folded beneath her bosom, each hand nestled inside the opposite sleeve.

  ‘I expect you’re burning with questions,’ Seed says, taking a seat behind the large desk, with Bramble to her rear. In front of her is a national newspaper which she nudges with her index finger, disdain in that tiny movement. ‘It seems the rest of the world is, wouldn’t you say?’

  Una and Celine sit on the other side of the desk, like clients.

  ‘Listen, Seed,’ Una replies, ‘the police are not the media – and they’re not responsible for what the gutter press writes. Why don’t I ask you some direct questions now, so I’ve got something to take back to DI Aston? If the police are satisfied with what I feed back, I’m sure it won’t be long before they give a press statement of their own – and the media will eventually leave you in peace.’

  Seed turns to look up at Bramble, who nods her approval. The dynamic between the two is fascinating: while Seed is clearly in charge here, Bramble seems to be some kind of close aide, a silent advisor of sorts. ‘Yes,’ Seed says. ‘Let’s try that.’

  ‘Can I start with some general questions, about the way the community is run?’ Una asks, taking a small flip-over notepad from her inside pocket.

  A nod.

  ‘You say there are thirty women resident at the moment?’

  ‘That’s right. We never exceed thirty-three, which is our optimum number.’

  ‘Can women leave of their own accord?’

  There is a moment’s delay, before both women laugh. ‘Of course!’ Bramble replies, a little too brightly.

  ‘Are they paid for their labours?’

  ‘Money has no meaning here,’ Seed replies. ‘Women work a normal eight-hour day, and in return they receive room and board. No single activity is valued over another, and so everyone is equal. In a way, it’s no different from the Poor Clares convent down the road, or any other religious order.’

  ‘Is this a religious community?’ Celine asks, her attention falling on the word ‘cult’, emblazoned across the front of the newspaper.

  ‘No, it is not. But it is a belief system. Only women who sign up to our particular way of life may stay. That’s why we have the Code of Conduct displayed in every room here – it’s a mantra, a reminder if you like. If a woman finds she can’t abide by the Code, she must leave to make room for another who can.’

  ‘You said you’re interviewing for a new resident today,’ Una says. ‘How do women get admitted? Do they have to stay for a minimum period?’

  ‘We are very selective,’ Bramble answers. ‘When a vacancy comes up, we only take a woman with something to offer the community, one who has some need, and who we feel will fit with our values.’

  ‘What do you mean by “something to offer”?’ Celine asks.

  ‘It’s very practical really. We have a doctor and a lawyer,’ Seed says. ‘We have several gardeners, a carpenter, two carers, a music teacher – all offering something unique and valuable, you see?’

  Una chews on the end of her pen. ‘What did Robyn Siegle bring?’

  Seed appears to study her own hands closely for a moment, long fingers splayed wide on the desk before her, fingertips pressed white as though anchoring her to the room. ‘She was a cook.’

  ‘There are no children here,’ Celine says, her thoughts drifting to her sister Pip, who has taken the girls home to Kingston for a night, to see their father and pick up some fresh clothes and belongings.

  Seed fixes her with a strangely hard gaze. ‘No, there are not.’

  ‘Why not?’ Una asks.

  Bramble puts a hand on Seed’s shoulder. ‘It was written into the original Code of Conduct. Children are a distraction – and, sadly, often another weapon for men to use against women. Maternal love is our greatest burden; our greatest weakness.’

  A weakness. A burden. Was that how Celine’s own mother, Delilah, had viewed motherhood? Was that how she justified so easily abandoning her children? The fallout from that decision still resonates, and Celine fears she might never forgive her mother, even now that she’s dead. ‘But many of these women will have left children behind, surely? Is it right, keeping women from their children?’

  In answer, Seed rises from her seat, so that she’s now looking down on Celine and Una, with Bramble to her side. ‘I feel as though we’ve met before?’ she says to Celine, and she appears genuinely perplexed. ‘Have we met before?’

  Celine can feel a vein in the side of her neck pulsing so hard that she wonders if it’s visible to the other women in the room. All at once she’s desperate to ask about Vanessa, and she grips the side of the desk just to hold on to something solid. ‘No, we haven’t,’ she says, ‘but perhaps you—’

  And thank God for Una, who stops her in her tracks. ‘I imagine you keep a record of the women who have stayed at Two Cross Farm over the years?’

  Seed shakes her head, and turns to Bramble. ‘No,’ Seed says, quite firmly.

  But Bramble reaches out and lays her hand on a thick, leather-bound journal which lies on the desktop. It looks like an ancient bible, aged and broken-spined. ‘We have nothing to hide, Seed. Let them see it.’

  As Seed reluctantly sits again, Una pulls the book across the desk. ‘Does this date back to 1976?’ she asks, reverentially opening the journal to the first entry.

  Celine leans in too, and at speed she scans the page, fearful that the cautious Seed could change her mind at any moment. In the left-hand column is each woman’s ‘original name’, and for some, in the next column, is a ‘chosen name’.

  ‘The women take new names?’ she asks, remembering how Seed alluded to this in her speech from the podium. ‘Who chooses them?’

  ‘They do,’ Seed replies. ‘Not all change their names, but those who wish to are supported in their decision. For some, it’s important to reinvent themselves when they start afresh here. For others, it’s the only way to move forward.’

  ‘You both changed yours?’ Celine says, instantly fearing that Una will think she’s pushing too hard.

  ‘No,’ Seed responds while Bramble remains silent. ‘Seed is my birth name. I had nothing to leave behind.’

  She smiles at Celine now, and it is a peaceful expression, full of warmth, and Celine is disarmed.

  ‘Can you show us Robyn’s entry?’ Una asks, perhaps sensing the shift in atmosphere and bringing it back to the subject at hand. ‘When did she arrive?’

  ‘Three months ago,’ Bramble replies, leaning over the ledger and turning to the more recent entries, three quarters of the way through. ‘Here she is.’

  There, in February, is Robyn Siegle’s name and date of arrival. ‘She kept her own name,’ Celine observes.

  Celine notices how Bramble still stands with a hand on Seed’s shoulder, unconsciously massaging it with the pad of her thumb, like a mother reassuring a child.

  As Una guides the end of her pen along Robyn’s line, she pauses at the last column, headed ‘Departure Date’, but there is none listed for Robyn. It’s still blank. She turns to the previous page, running her finger down the list of women, pausing at those where the departure date has been filled in.

  ‘Bramble, all these ones with no departure date – is it safe to ass
ume they’re still here?’

  The older woman reaches for her reading glasses, secured about her neck on a string. She peers down the list, nodding them off slowly, ‘Yes … yes … yes … yes,’ until Una turns the page and she reaches the blank departure column for Robyn. ‘Oh, dear,’ Bramble says.

  Obviously perturbed, Seed reaches across and retrieves the journal, spinning it to face her.

  ‘You said Robyn had moved out two days before she was found dead, Seed,’ Una says, failing to keep the accusation out of her voice. ‘So why, when you are clearly meticulous in your record-keeping, is there no departure date listed for her?’

  Neither woman speaks for a second, and all eyes are on Seed, as she stares at that glaring empty space where Robyn’s departure date should be.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Bramble says, breaking the silence. ‘I told you I’d do it, Seed, and I must have forgotten. I’m getting so old and forgetful these days,’ she says, but she’s fooling no one. From the little they’ve seen and heard from Bramble this morning it’s clear she’s as sharp as anyone forty years her junior, and, as she leans over the desk and writes the date in, it’s also clear she’s not the one who usually updates this book. The handwriting is different, the swoops of her educated pen-work quite unlike the simple block print of the other entries.

  As the bell for eleven o’clock sounds out, it takes every ounce of Celine’s willpower to stop herself from launching across the desk and raking through those pages for evidence of Vanessa’s stay fifteen years ago. All she can do is pray that they’ve done enough to earn a follow-up invitation, so that she might get a second chance.

  At the front gate, Bramble stands at some distance while Seed hands back their mobile phones and embraces them each in turn. As their shoulders meet, Celine feels the strength of her in the lines of her shoulders. Her physique is lean and unyielding, and yet she is so elegant and so warmly in control.

  ‘I didn’t ask you what you do for a living, Celine?’ she enquires as she slides the iron gate between them.

  ‘I’m a solicitor,’ Celine replies.

  Seed flashes that charming smile of hers again. ‘Oh, we could do with another of those at the moment, couldn’t we, Bramble? There’s a vacancy or two, for the right women,’ she says, and she winks to show Celine she’s joking. On the charm offensive.