A Christmas Written In The Stars

Spring 1988
‘You may kiss the bride!’ The deep, melodious voice of Father Andrew echoed around the stone and marble interior of the Roman Catholic church. A collective sigh emanated from the unmarried females in the congregation as Warley-on-the-Wood’s most sought-after bachelor, Bruce Foster, swept his bride’s veil off her face, tipped her backwards in a show of manly strength, and planted a lingering kiss on her petal-pink frosted lips. In the front pews, the mothers dabbed at their eyes and noses with lace handkerchiefs, their arm movements synchronised as they swiped away blue mascara-stained tears of emotion.
For both women, upholding the correct wedding etiquette was paramount. Their thoughts had been preoccupied by their children’s upcoming nuptials for the past year. Twelve months of meticulous planning; did the flowers complement the bridal party’s dresses? Were the invitations fancy enough? Were there enough tiers on the wedding cake? Would there be enough champagne to appease the two hundred guests? It was crucial to both families that the day should be a resounding, glorious success.
Rachel Sullivan, the mother of the bride, wore dusky pink satin, accessorised with lemon stilettos, a clutch purse, and a feathered hat. She had searched high and low to ensure her outfit matched perfectly, even her nail polish and belt had been chosen with the colour scheme in mind, and she’d been pleased with the looks of appreciation she had received from the other guests. It was common knowledge that the mother of the bride’s appearance was second in importance only to the bride, and Rachel was exceedingly happy with her chosen attire. ‘Classy’ was a word that sprang to mind. She was, however, annoyed that the groom’s mother had chosen the same colour shoes. Jemima Foster had obviously set out to emulate her style, but who in their right mind would pair a cherry, two-piece suit with lemon shoes? The handbag was even worse: patent black with ugly chain straps, and her hat’s feathers and netting resembled a lopsided bird’s nest on an extremely windy day. Rachel nudged her husband and discreetly pointed over in her direction.
‘Ridiculous,’ she mouthed.
Tony Sullivan gave her a baffled stare. His gentle, kind demeanour meant that he always looked for the good in people, and that included their appearance. Rachel sighed and turned her attention to her youngest daughter. Star Sullivan was at that awkward mid-teen age. A tall, slip of a girl who was quite frankly bloody naughty. She could almost hear her own mother urging her from the grave to give her a good clip around the ear, but as the headteacher of the village primary, Rachel was only too aware that physically punishing children was frowned upon in 1980s Britain. She doubted that it would work with her rebellious youngest daughter anyway. Star was entirely different from her eldest daughter; compliant Martha. You only had to brush against Star, or raise your voice, to bring on a bout of histrionics, and whenever this happened, Tony always jumped to her defence.
She was certainly a conundrum. More than once, Rachel had wished for the gift of telepathy so she could read what was going on in her younger daughter’s mind. Maybe then she would understand why she always seemed so angry. Star’s Grandad Maurice, who was sitting on the pew behind in his best navy suit, liked to proclaim that ‘Star had been spoilt rotten by her father,’ and Rachel was inclined to agree. The differences in her two daughters’ personalities often bewildered her. Martha was placid, pleasing, and sweet, a teacher like Rachel herself had been. She was a popular person whose esteem within the community had rocketed when she had also bagged one of the wealthiest men in the locality.