Page 10 of Secrets of Starshine
I am both glad to hear from her, and annoyed that it has taken so long – I’ve been trying to get hold of her since first thing this morning, regularly updating her on how far we’d travelled, where we were, and how lovely it would be to have a clue as to where to go next. I know that this was insane, and I know it’s my fault we’re stuck here, not hers, but I couldn’t have predicted that she was going to ignore me like this. It is such a complete about-turn from what I’m used to.
I open it, and read:
Sorry, love. You know I don’t like talking about those days, but Kenneth says I’m being a bit of a baby. Hope you’re both okay. The place was called Starshine Cove, and it’s in Dorset, like you thought. It’s hard to find, I remember, and I just tried to look it up on a map and I couldn’t spot it. Basically, head west out of Dorchester on the A35, I think, and then look for a sign. Not a sign for the cove, that won’t exist, but a sign sign. If you get as far as Devon you’ve gone too far. Love you xxx
I shake my head, and type a quick reply telling her I love her too. I can’t stay angry with her – there just isn’t any point. She is what she is, and none of us are perfect, are we? At least I now finally have a name – but I have no idea what a “sign sign” might be. I glance up at the dark skies and see nothing but snow – certainly no celestial clue to guide me on my way. Those Three Kings had more to go on.
I quickly open my map app and can find no trace of anywhere called Starshine Cove. I fiddle with the sat nav, and it’s not on there either. I google it and only come up with a weird collection of things – it is the home of Two Betties Bakery, which sounds promising, and also a pub, even more promising. Now if I can only find it, I’ll have the two essentials of life covered.
None of the references include directions, though, and when I try the postcode on the sat nav, I’m told by the snotty woman who lives in it that it doesn’t exist. I switch her off before she can tell me to perform a U-turn when possible, like she inevitably does. The mood I’m in, I’d see it as life coaching, not navigation.
A small Christmas gift does land in my lap, though, when I see that the road I am on – or the layby I am on, to be more precise – is actually the A35 west from Dorchester. This is frankly the best news I’ve had all day, and I wonder if that in itself is a sign sign. I feel revitalised enough to get going again, at least – now I have a name, surely I will be able to find the place? Even if I just stop off and ask random strangers at garages, there is now some hope. I could even phone the pub and ask them for help.
I re-join the traffic, and drive as slowly as I can without being rear-ended. I see signs – normal signs – for many places. Places that have the kinds of names that only exist in the English countryside – Maiden Newton, Bradpole, Burton Bradstock, Nettlecombe, Winterbourne Abbas. Nothing at all for Starshine Cove. I am heading in the direction of Lyme Regis, keeping out an eagle eye, wondering if I should wake up Sam so he can be my scout and deciding against it – he’s in a bad mood anyway, and that rule about sleeping dogs applies even more to sleeping teenagers, I’ve found over the years.
I get as far as Lyme, and know from looking at the map that I am almost in Devon, and have gone too far. Exhausted, I use a roundabout to double-back on myself, and carry on in the direction I came from. I repeat this again at the other end, circling Dorchester and retracing my miles, all the time trying to stay alert for a sign. A road sign would be good, but frankly by this stage I’d settle for a neon light that said “Go Home Now, You Loser!”.
It is on my second crawl along the main road that I spot it, and then only because there is a lorry ahead of me that is not only going very slowly, but has a huge amount of power in its headlights. I blink, and make sure I’m not having some kind of hallucination – but it is still there. A giant inflatable snowman on top of a tall hill, wobbling and waving in the wind, its jaunty top hat covered in snow. His dangling arm is lifted by the air, and his big black mittened hand seems to be pointing off towards the coast.
We had an inflatable Santa in our front garden one year, and I had to tie it down with ropes and stakes. Even then, in a sheltered suburb, when the breeze got up it always looked like a flight risk – I used to lie awake at night imagining Mr Claus escaping into the night sky, floating over the houses of Liverpool like a jolly angel. This snowman is massive – much, much bigger than that. And it’s on a hill. I can only wonder at the feat of engineering it must have taken to get it into place and make sure it stays there.
I decide that this is the closest thing I have seen to a sign sign, hit my indicators, and take the next turning. I drive slowly and carefully down a steep slope, my visibility reduced to nothing but a small circle of clarity amid the thick flurries of snow. It’s the kind of snow that will settle, that will make everything clean and white, that will be perfect for turning into snowmen. The kind of snow I remember from that holiday, all those years ago.
As I reach the end of the road, I see a small car park, next to a sprawling building that is lit up bright against the night. I turn in, find a space, turn off the engine and sigh with relief. Right now, I don’t care if this is the right place or not – I am simply pleased to not be driving any more. I gaze out of the car windscreen, already getting coated in snow now the wipers are off, and see that the building is, in fact, a pub.
It looks so pretty and welcoming that I almost cry with happiness – the mullioned windows, the big wooden door bearing a Christmas wreath, the ivy trailing around the stonework. I glimpse an old-fashioned wooden board swinging above it all, and squint my eyes against the darkness. I can’t see what the picture is, but I can make out the name – the Starshine Inn.
I gasp out loud, and hold my hands to my cheeks. I am so happy, so relieved, so surprised – I have made it, almost by accident. My mum was right after all – there was a sign sign. I have done it. I am here. I have no idea what will happen next, and I choose not to worry about that – I will just have some faith that things will work out.
EIGHT
I nudge Sam firmly, and repeatedly, until he wakes up with a start.
“We’re here!” I announce excitedly. “At the place!”
“Congratulations,” he mumbles, apparently not quite as excited as I am. “The place. Yay. Let me know when you find me a bed. Until then, I’m staying put.”
He closes his eyes, and ignores me when I tell him it’s time to get out of the car, time to explore Starshine Cove, time to entirely possibly build a snowman. None of these things seem to interest him. Weirdo.
Eventually I give up, and decide that if he wants to sit outside in a car that will very quickly cool down, then that’s his choice. I get out of the car, grab my puffer coat from the back seat, and stand for a moment looking at my surroundings. Within seconds, my hair is covered in snow, which makes me feel like a little kid again. I laugh at myself, get my bag, and head towards the Starshine Inn.
I pause before I go in, suddenly a little nervous. I’ve been single for a long time, and walking into places like this on my own is not a new experience, but there is always that split second where I don’t want to do it. Where I feel worried and off-balance, knowing that I am about to enter a world that is mainly designed for couples. Where being alone is usually okay, but sometimes awkward, and sometimes seems to act as a beacon for every drunk man in the room.
I tell myself that it will be fine, that this is rural Dorset, not a club full of stag parties in town. That I will probably only be greeted by polite older people wearing tweed and accompanied by spaniels called Rupert. That it is nothing I cannot handle.
I push open the door, and walk inside. I pause, staring, frozen in place as I adjust. It is blessedly warm, full of light and laughter, and smells like a heavenly combination of baked goods and booze. There is a long wooden bar, crammed with spirits and real-ale pumps and glasses reflecting in the mirrored background. I spot a jukebox, a big old one that looks like something from a movie. There are little booths with deep red-velvet seats, and nooks and crannies set off in different parts of the room that only have space for one table. I see a roaring log fire, orange flames dancing in a huge hearth, the mantlepiece draped with boughs of holly. There is a tree – as big as the one back at my house – covered in baubles, all in the shape of stars. The carpeted floor feels like it is gently sloping, encouraging me to come inside.
I register all of this in a few seconds as I enter – and all of that is perfect. What is slightly more off-putting is the fact that I seem to have walked into the middle of some kind of party. The room is packed, and as I stand blinking in the doorway, it feels like every eye in the place turns and looks at me. The eyes, incidentally, belong to bodies that are dressed head to toe in either a princess or a pirate costume. It’s like a really strange version of a kids’ birthday party.
Music is playing on the jukebox – something Motown-ish – and a few people are dancing. Even they freeze mid-move, and look at me. I am suddenly reminded of that scene inAn American Werewolf in London, where all the locals stare out the new arrivals. That, of course, did not end well for the visitors.
I am considering turning right back around again when a woman strides towards me. She has wavy multi-toned dark-blonde hair – looks natural, not balayage – and she is wearing an eye patch and a red bandana, a plastic sword swaying at her hip.
“Aye aye, me hearties, what have we here?” she says, as she gets closer. She gives me a friendly wink, and runs her eyes over my body. When she’s finished her inspection, she turns back to the rest of the crowd and announces: “She’s not pregnant! She’s just wearing a really chubby coat!”
That seems to break some kind of spell, and they all burst out laughing. The dancers carry on dancing, the chatters carry on chatting, and the drinkers carry on drinking. I have yet to utter a single word, as the weirdness of it all seems to have frozen my jaws shut.
“Hi!” says the pirate lady as she stands beside me. “You look freezing. What would you like to drink? And do you want some birthday cake?”
