by Susan Thomas
I had stayed the night in a small but very attractive motel. Now it was morning and time to complete the last stage of my journey. I stood in the fresh, clean air of morning, admiring the surprisingly pretty grounds. The small town of Wheelton was close to the railway and the main highway but my destination was deeper into the surrounding rolling farmland. I stood still... almost reluctant to move. It would be so very easy to get in my car and go back the way I had come, to walk away before I got in too deep. The moment of hesitation passed; I had come so far I might just as well go the rest of the way. Once I got there it wouldn't be too late to back out. If it really freaked me... if he really freaked me, then I would leave. I began the last stage of my journey.
It was a journey that had, in a sense, begun a year earlier. I worked in finance in New York. I'd been sent by my British bank to the New York office and had simply changed jobs. I worked at a heady level where my decisions could make millions for my employers or lose them even more. It was a cocaine and alcohol-fuelled existence and I was good. My bonuses were eye watering to those in more sedate employment but I sensed I could not go on long. Deep within me I despised what I was doing but I couldn't think what else to do. What was the point of life if not to pursue success in every way and acquire the trappings that went with it? Then my sister-in-law called me.
She was nigh on incomprehensible, babbling, crying and screaming. Eventually a calm male voice took over from her. It was simple enough: my parents, my brother and his wife and two small children were on holiday at a beach resort popular with Europeans although it was not in Europe. A small group of men came to the beach and simply opened up with automatic weapons firing randomly at the holiday makers. Old or young, male or female, it made no difference; all were cut down if they were in the path of the bullets. My sister-in-law was not on the beach. She had taken the children (two and three years old) for an ice cream but my parents and brother were dead.
I took leave of absence and the first available plane out. Anne, poor thing, was distraught and incapable of anything. I took over the children and managed everything with the help of the British consulate. The bodies were repatriated and we flew home to my parents' house. Anne could not face her own home without my brother. Again, I did everything, for Anne by now was in a sort of tranquillised dream. The funeral had huge attendance with the media as intrusive as usual in these situations. When they ask you how you feel they don't want an answer for they will report it as 'devastated' whatever you say.
There was much to do of course - Wills to be found, probate sought and houses put up for sale. Throughout Anne was incapable of anything. I resigned my post in New York for I could see this was going to be a long job. My employers were very good... kind and supportive; but if I wasn't coming back soon then I thought it best to go. Anne's parents were going to sell their business and she could move in with them and have their support but it would take time. So it was I became mother to two small children, a nurse to Anne, and managed everything else on top. I was not short of money. Apart from my own I inherited half my parents' estate. In all I was six months with Anne and the children and in that time I re-evaluated my life and found it wanting. What is success in life? That is the question I could not answer but getting richer and better known wasn't it.
When at last Anne's parents were ready to take over they invited me to come too. I could be sucked into their large family with ease but I declined. Parting from the children was hard, but they were so young they'd soon forget me, and I had my own life to rebuild. I went back to New York. That was part of my physical journey.
Once there I had no idea what to do. I ran each day, went to the gym and swam; becoming very fit in the process. I began attending churches; seeking something I suppose but never quite finding it. Finally, one Sunday I attended a sort of simple fundamentalist church. The congregation was the most mixed in race and age of any I found. I was welcomed but no one really bothered me. After the service, coffee in hand, I stood looking at a notice board. Only one notice caught my attention.
I am thirty-eight years old, fit and solvent. I have a three-year-old daughter who does not remember her mother. I am part of a small community in a rural area. The community abides by moderate, domestic discipline or Christian domestic discipline principles.
There was also an email address but nothing else. That advert caught my attention and filled my mind as had nothing else. I had an idea what domestic discipline and its Christian counterpart meant but an hour's research told me more. It was interesting how many articles and video blogs there were denouncing all types of domestic discipline but particularly the Christian variety. 'Weird' and 'abusive' were two frequently used words. None of them seemed to consider the simple fact that the women had made a free choice. In Victorian times women were expected to follow a certain path in life; if they didn't they met the disapproval of society, but how was that any different now? If women were still only free to follow a path approved by society, then they were not really free.
I suppose the whole thing should have scared me off immediately. Surely anyone with sense would have been? Perhaps I had no sense, but when you've lost your family as I had, and re-evaluated your life and found it wanting, nothing seems off limits. I wrote an email and got a quick response. It said very little: Thank you for your enquiry. If you wish to know more, please use this one-time password to access the link below.
I used the password and found a website about the community. There was a video with a conducted tour. It was indeed a rural area. It seemed the community owned a very large valley sheltered by hills. It was all perfectly normal. There were farms, much of the produce from them going to high-quality jams, jellies, pickles and preserves which were sold far and wide. There was a workshop making furniture from reclaimed wood, and another workshop making smaller wooden articles, with another making a wide variety of fancy leather goods. Some members worked outside but however they earned a living all contributed to community funds. It was well set up. There were solar panels, wind turbines and an independent Internet connection. A small medical centre run by a pair of married doctors was used by other people not in the community. A dentist and a veterinary surgeon also served a wider community. All that was quite normal... it was the domestic discipline aspect that was different.
Every couple living there had to be in a domestic discipline relationship or its Christian cousin. The man was the leader in his home and his wife (or partner) had to accept his right to 'correct' her if it was necessary. Other than the correction was always moderate it did not say what was involved. My research told me that in some DD relationships it could be quite extreme; correction really meant physical correction and mainly meant what most people call corporal punishment. However, there was also mouth soaping (a real danger for me since when working I had learnt to swear constantly), corner time and other physical punishments such as unpleasant jobs.
The video included an interview with the widower who had placed the advert. He was tall and strong looking but was an accountant with a practice that went beyond the community. His eyes looked mild but his jaw told me he'd not be a wimp. He had his little girl with him but she was clearly a bit younger than three in the video. She was being shy and he had that air of amused exasperation parents get when their small child is playing up like that. However, I could see by the way he held her and looked at her, that he was a gentle and loving father. I decided to apply to be his wife. Please don't ask me why. I have no real idea.
I sent a long email outlining my history in brief and why I was changing my life entirely. I sent a collection of photographs including just one of me on a beach in a bikini. Next I outlined my thin portfolio of hobbies. In truth that was pretty well zero as I'd never had time for them but I made a lot of the swimming and running. To finish, I explained how I had the care of my two- and three-year-old nephew and niece for six months. None of the motherly things had fazed me. I had potty trained one and toilet trained the other without any tears or problems. I also tagged on a question asking whether his was the simple domestic discipline type or its Christian counterpart.
He wrote back saying he would like to meet me with a view to marriage. He was, he explained, not especially religious and his headship was pure and simple domestic discipline. He offered money for the journey but I declined. I had plenty and it would keep me independent until the last. I had no car (bad idea in New York) so I flew to the nearest airport and then hired a car. That was how I came to be standing outside my motel room having a last minute attack of nerves.
The attack of nerves grew as I drove towards my destination. What on earth was I doing? Corporal correction indeed? I had no kinky desire to have my bottom walloped. In spite of that I drove on and arrived at the only way into the valley. They had made sure that every visitor either had to come across country hurdling the hills or come along this one road. They had dug deep ditches on either side of the road to ensure you couldn't drive around. There was a gate and it was manned. I later found at night there was a security system that allowed the gate to be opened remotely. The guard on duty was neither armed nor unfriendly. I was expected and he wished me a good visit and opened the gates. Much later I found this was not because the community wished to be exclusive but simply to provide peace of mind for residents.
The road led straight to the physical heart of the small community. There was a sort of square and there was my possible husband waiting for me. I pulled up and got out.
"Are you Sally Anderton?"
"I am, and you are Sam Alden."
We both stood unsure how to proceed. He was tall, much taller than my five feet four inches, but with a lean and rangy look that somehow suggested strength. He had curly chestnut hair and soft green eyes but with a strong jaw and a look that told me that although he was not quick tempered, he was not to be messed with.
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