Courtney Kerrigan-Bates Effie Burbank Will Survive

Effie Burbank Will Survive

I think about lots of things as I walk down the aisle. I think about the faces staring at my blushing cheeks. I think about kicking my dress up with every step to stop myself from tripping on the hem. I think about Mum’s grip on my arm getting tighter. I think about anything, really. Anything except my aunt, my best friend, Annie, who. Who is stiff, flat and cold in the coffin at the end of the church.

We’re approaching her body and I’m close to freaking out. I feel Mum’s pace slowing, and I wonder how frowned upon it would be if I was to turn around and bolt. Annie would love that –, the drama, the excitement.

I can hear her telling me, ‘For God’s sake Ef, just piss off! You don’t need to put yourself through all this. Not for me, not for anybody.’

But I push forward, folding and unfolding my final offering. Last night I made everyone find something to rest on the coffin. Mum has an ABBA vinyl, Dad has a mini bottle of tequila, and my grandpa Presley has a pink cowgirl hat. It took me hours to decide what my last gift to my favourite person would be. Her beat up copy of The Feminine Mystique? Her favourite pink heels with the fluffy feather strap? Eventually, I chose the only thing that could actually burn with Annie. Dark, I know.

I unfold the picture and look down at her face. She’s on the rooftop of her apartment, all wrapped up in a chunky blanket, wine glass in one hand and cigarette in the other, laughing into the sky. Right before I took the photo, I’d told her I’d been accepted into the Pperforming Aarts school of our dreams. That was when the rooftop was a happy place. The place we’d laugh and dance and plan our futures.

‘Smells flamin’ horrible in here!’ says Presley. ‘Come on, let’s get going. I’ve never liked all this God nonsense.’

Mum and I turn to see Dad and Presley, who are supposed to be quietly and sadly following along behind us, at a standstill halfway down the aisle.

Dad touches Presley’s arm. ‘We’ve got to –’

‘Come on, girls! We’re leaving. Bloody stinks.’ Presley’s call echoes through the church, which is silent apart from a soft orchestral rendition of ABBA’s, Dancing Queen.

Dad’s cheeks are turning bright pink, he drops his gaze to his cherry red Dr. Marten’s to avoid the crowd of faces in the pews on either side, silently staring at us all.

‘Dad,’ says Mum, approaching Presley as though he’s a delicate little bird. ‘Dad, come on. We’ve got to do this, okay? For Annie.’

I watch Presley’s heart break once again as he’s reminded, for the fourth time today, that his youngest daughter isn’t here anymore. The entire congregation is watching with me, hanging on to every second as though we’re treating them to a sickly sad theatre performance. A lot of them have started crying. The dress code for the day is ‘Bursts of Colour’, and I catch the eye of a tall man who has a dainty rainbow painted on each cheek, letting teardrops drip right through the middle of them.

Dad moves towards me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

‘Come on, Pickle,’ he whispers.

As we reach the coffin, I become genuinely afraid I might pass out. Dad pulls me closer to him, and gives me a reassuring nod. I rest my hand on the top of the woven willow coffin. There are only centimetres between the tips of my fingers and Annie.

‘Do you think she’s okay in there?’ I ask Dad. ‘Do you think she’s claustrophobic?’

He considers this for a moment, studying the coffin. Mum found it on an eco-friendly website. Presley had made a joke about Annie falling through the bottom, and I’d said I was scared I’d be able to see her in between the weaves, and Mum stormed out of the kitchen. Now that it’s here in front of us, it’s beautiful.

‘I think she’s absolutely fine,’ says Dad. He smiles, tears in his eyes.

‘You know your Annie; she’ll be loving all this attention.’

‘I wanted this to go in with her.’ I unfold the polaroid to show him.

‘I think you should keep it,’ he says, ‘she’d want you to have it.’

I trace my fingers over her healthy, happy face, before addressing the coffin. ‘Annie, I’m going to keep the picture. And realistically, everyone else is going to have to keep their gifts, too. It was a stupid idea, but just know that these are our favourite memories of you. The things we love the most.’

Dad looks down at his bottle and, though we’re both crying now, we can’t help but laugh.

‘Annie, you are much more than a bottle of tequila to me.’ He clears his throat and fiddles with the buttons of his suit jacket. ‘You were a sister.’

Dad turns away to compose himself, and I wipe my face with the back of my hand.

There are a million things I’d like to tell Annie, and there will be new little things each day. Tiny details like when I woke up this morning it was still dark, and it made me excited for our annual Christmas Market trip. Big things like when I’m sad and scared and nothing makes sense anymore without her. And one day I’ll have real, important things to tell her; the job I’ve landed, the person I’ve fallen in love with, the baby I’m having. And even if she does ever hear them, I’ll never hear her reply. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to live each day knowing that.

There’s a physical pain in my chest now, like my heart is on the brink of explosion. I turn to Dad and practically fall into him. Neither of us say anything, we just hold each other and take our seats on the front row.

When Mum and Presley get to the coffin, Dad leaves me to be with them. I watch them mumbling goodbyes, Dad and Presley on either side of Mum, her skin ghostly white. After a few moments, they take their seats with me, reaching out so that our hands are piled on top of each other on my right knee.

Reverend Michael Reading comes forward and stands in front of us, a sorry look on his face. I can’t help but think it means nothing, he must have to do this all the time.

‘Lovely Annie,’ he sighs, ‘What a wonderful woman.’

I consider kicking his bony knee for acting as though he knew her. Mum drags us all to this church once a year, Christmas Eve, to sing carols. That’s the full extent of his and Annie’s relationship, a polite smile once a year.

When he addresses the room, I refuse to listen. If he’s so sad, why isn’t he crying? His words sound recycled and empty, dropping on the floor and landing with an echoey thud. We then sing a hymn at Mum’s request, which is ruined by the sound of strained voices and snotty noses, and I spend the majority of the time silently apologising to Annie for how fucking boring this all is. It’s not at all what she would’ve wanted. If she’d have planned it, we’d all be on the beach somewhere sunny, dancing around on the sand, disco music blaring, as her body floats off into the ocean.

Mum stands to speak, and my stomach tightens. She’s nervously twiddling her fingers, and I realise I’m doing the same. I scoot closer to Presley and link my arm through his. Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders. Now that we’re bundled together, I want to take all of our warmth and put it back into Annie.

Mum clears her throat. ‘Thank you all for being here. I wish Annie could have seen the effort you have made. Sorry, I, um, I didn’t prepare much of a speech. Usually she’d be the one talking. Most of the time, I struggled to get her to stop.’ Mum laughs nervously, and a peal of scattered soft laughter follows from behind us. Everyone has been waiting for something remotely un-sad.

‘I’ve always felt like I had the most special little sister. The one that everyone thought was the best. The one they wished they had themselves. The fun one, the big bundle of energy. And, at times I have to admit, that was quite difficult. Sometimes, you see someone with so much magic in them, and it makes you wonder why you never got to have a little more for yourself. But that’s the most important thing that Annie has taught me; we need to enjoy the magic we did get, because we never know when it’s going to end.’

Everyone rises to clap and cheer Mum. She stands frozen for a minute and I exchange a nervous glance with Dad. The clapping slows to a stop, people take their seats, and the silence becomes uncomfortable. I can feel the entire room willing for Mum to sit down. For the Reverend to say something pointless again to fill the space.

Then, from a dusty speaker attached to the wall behind her, music begins to play. Mum clears her throat and shifts on her feet, before slowly starting to nod to the tune. Her right foot begins to tap, just slightly out of time. The sound is the Bee Gees, Stayin’ Alive, one of Annie’s all-time favourites. Mum starts an uncomfortable looking shoulder bop, and her face looks as though it’s causing her genuine pain.

‘Well you can tell by the way I use my walk!’ Her voice is coming out squeaky, she’s made the horribly poor decision to try and hit the right notes, but it just sounds like someone’s strangling a nearby Chihuahua.

I look at Dad, who’se eyes are wide with shock.

Beside me, Presley bursts to life. He brushes me off, stands up and does a weird little jig. Mum relaxes at his encouragement and Presley’s voice chimes in without fear. He wiggles his way over to her and she steps out of the pulpit, attempting to mirror his shaky moves.

‘What the hell is happening? This is horrible,’ I whisper to Dad.

‘Horribly ironic,’ he says. ‘I know you’re going to hate me for this Muffin, but I think we better join them.’

He grabs my hand, pulls me up and we dance awkwardly over to Mum and Presley, who throw themselves at us in delight. Then, as if this is all perfectly normal, we’re singing our God-awful version of Annie’s favourite song. We grab each other’s hands and suddenly we’re laughing as we sing, limbs flailing and dignity rapidly fading, but we don’t care. I watch Mum closely. Tears dribble down her face, but she’s wearing a bigger smile than I’ve seen on her for some time, and it means more to me than she’ll ever know, that she’s done this especially for Annie. There’s some comfort in knowing that somewhere, deep in her glitzy, disco after-life, she’s dancing along with us.

Kate Philbin

What if…? Two words that open the door to infinite possibilities and my favourites in the English language.

A couple of years ago, I wondered ‘what if I’ve got what it takes to get an MA in Writing for Young People from Bath Spa University?’ Today I have my answer.

I’ve spent the last 30 years working as a journalist and copywriter. I love what I do and have written for the Department of Education, Scottish Government, NHS and more. I’m Wellbeing Editor for a magazine and, in 2017, was invited to give a TEDx talk – What Toddlers Teach Us About Style.

While at Bath Spa I won The Porthleven Prize, open to students across all disciplines.

The Wolf-Slayer’s Daughter is my debut novel.

I’ve a teenage daughter and – weird fact alert – I spent a day staring into the eyes of dissected human heads at Kings College, London.

Kate@katephilbin.com

About The Wolf-Slayer’s Daughter

She’s Red Riding Hood’s daughter. She’s put her mother’s life in danger. Now she’s about to discover the truth behind the fairytale…

It’s Lana’s fault Mum’s been captured. It’s her fault, too, her little sister vanished. She must put things right.

As grandmother’s cottage burns, Mum hands Lana a strange key, saying Allinora will explain. But when Lana finds Allinora, she’s left with more questions. Why’s Mum searching for her lost red cape? What does the key unlock? And how can she rescue Mum from the murderous Wolvari? In seeking answers Lana discovers a shocking secret about who she, Lana, really is.

Is this enough to save Mum?