Saving Starlight Hall (Starlight #2)

Chapter One

‘Are you okay, Jen?’

‘Er…’ I trailed off.

My sister wound an arm around my shoulder. Sally tried to pull me towards her to deliver a comforting hug, but my body was rigid. Instead, she gave me a gentle squeeze as I took in our surroundings.

My eyes swept over the no-fuss beige walls of a functional prefabricated construction.

It was a building straight out of the nineteen sixties.

Starlight Hall. My village’s community centre.

It played host to many events on Starlight Croft’s social calendar.

From bi-annual fetes and local dog shows to the occasional gymkhana in the sizeable grounds beyond.

It also was a popular venue for local weddings, parties and sometimes – like today – wakes.

‘Sis?’ Sally prompted. ‘Talk to me.’

‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘As okay as one can ever be on an occasion like this.’

‘Of course.’ Sally’s voice was low. Caring.

Last year, both our parents had demised within weeks of each other.

In their absence, my sister had quietly elected to step into the parental role of now providing nurture and comfort.

I was tremendously grateful. She looked at me kindly.

‘It’s hardly surprising you feel out of sorts,’ she sympathised.

‘After all, it’s not every day you bury your husband. ’

I gave her a tight smile. Peter’s funeral had been a cremation, not a burial. Sally’s words had simply been a figure of speech.

Two hours earlier I’d been inside a black limo.

The car had followed an immaculate hearse.

My husband had been neatly boxed up in the back.

Peter’s coffin had been visible through the car’s large rear window.

On public display, so to speak. A sizeable bouquet of white roses and trailing ivy had rested upon the coffin’s lid.

Their milky-coloured petals had perfectly matched the clouds that had been puffing across a bright blue sky on this mild Friday morning in early May.

As the family had followed the hearse, it had been a dark source of fascination to watch the reaction of passersby – to observe other motorists as they’d gently braked. Momentarily stared. Even pedestrians had slowed their gait to gawp.

Some people – like a young mum pushing her baby’s buggy – had hastily averted their eyes to look the other way.

Others – like the smart executive heading on foot towards the station – had even appeared unnerved.

An old lady, pulling a shopping trolly, had paused, eyes full of morbid interest. To me, her expression had mirrored her thoughts; Who is in that coffin? How old were they? How had they died?

Almost everyone had subsequently checked out the black cars bringing up the rear.

I’d been given the once over too, along with my kids.

They’d stared at the middle-aged woman dressed in black, her shoulder-length blonde hair partially obscured by a dark hat.

They might even have spotted my tired blue eyes, the whites bloodshot from sleepless nights, before moving on to study the young man and woman sitting alongside me.

No doubt the onlookers had then deduced that the deceased was a middle-aged man and that the little group in the first black car were his wife and children.

There had also been a noticeable frisson of energy as those same people had concluded that the deceased must have exited the planet somewhat prematurely.

After all, if the widow was in her middle years, it stood to reason that the deceased must have been too – and a middle-aged man should have had many more years ahead of him.

One pedestrian – a guy of about fifty – had openly crossed himself in the street.

He’d then stopped to watch the passing procession.

His eyes had briefly rested upon Peter’s coffin.

His expression had been an open book; there but for the Grace of God go I.

A strange saying if you paused to think about it.

I seemed to remember once learning – probably at school – that someone called John Bradford had supposedly uttered such words while watching criminals go to their execution.

In short, he’d been saying, ‘Thank fuck that isn’t me. ’

Perhaps the guy had sensed my eyes upon him because he’d turned. Met my gaze. Flashed a look of pity. Sorry for your loss.

My heart had given a peculiar flutter, then twisted under my ribcage. Guilt? Because I didn’t feel particularly sad about Peter’s death. More… furious. Anger at his abrupt departure. At unanswered questions. And the sad realisation that the man whose bed I’d shared in marriage, had been a stranger.

After Peter’s coffin had disappeared behind the crematorium’s curtain, everyone had returned to the village of Starlight Croft and piled into its tiny church for a remembrance service.

I’d declined taking to the pulpit to deliver any eulogy in case venom had spouted from my mouth. I’d not wanted to upset our twin children, James and Joy. Their faces had been pinched as they’d sat on the hard pew alongside me.

Instead, my brother-in-law had taken to the podium.

Never a natural orator, Alec had warbled nervously about Peter Armstrong’s finer points.

The reputable businessman – a lawyer no less.

The husband and father who’d lived a seemingly respectable life with his well-thought-of wife and children.

A man who’d occasionally enjoyed a lager at the Starlight Arms – the village pub.

A guy who’d always attended the annual carol service at The Church of the Holy Innocents – although locals referred to it as Starlight Chapel. Such a magical name.

Indeed, all the properties in Starlight Croft had delightful names.

There was a thatched cottage known as Honeysuckle House.

If you walked further along Starlight Street, you’d find Fern Farm.

Next door to that was its farm shop, The Strawberry Shed.

Keep going and you’d eventually pass Bluebell Barn…

Lilac Lodge… Poppy Place… Starlight Cottage and then – grouped like gossiping old dears around the village duckpond – some twenty houses collectively known as Jinglebell Terrace.

Even my house had a beautiful name. Moonlight Manor – located between Poppy Place and Starlight Cottage.

Starlight Croft sits at the highest point in the North Downs.

It seems to almost touch the stars – hence its name.

Dwellings huddle against a backdrop of weathered woodland interspersed with grazing land.

In winter, both cattle and homesteads are battered by wind and snow.

In autumn, smoking chimney tops graze the clouds adding to the shroud of fog that the village always wears like an OAP’s pearl rinse.

In spring, the hamlet is always awash with bluebells and buzzing bees, while summer brings golden sunshine that bakes the farmer’s fields to saffron gold and threatens to dry up the duck pond.

That all sounds rather poetic and like something straight out of a fairytale.

And whilst my marriage had certainly started out similarly, in time it had shifted to something else.

But Peter and I had stuck it out. Held it together.

For the sake of the twins if nothing else.

Until that one night when everything had changed in a heartbeat.

It goes without saying that in a village like this one, everyone knows everybody – and that often includes their secrets too.

And I sincerely hoped that nobody ever discovered mine.