Coleen Nolan - No Regrets

A single spotlight shines down on our familys brightest star. The pencil-slim beam falls on to a stand of radiant lilies and, next to them, the coffin of our beloved sister. It seems madness that Im sitting here, in Blackpools Grand Theatre, saying goodbye to Bernie. But here I am.

My hands grip the arms of the seat in the theatre stalls and crush the velvet. The auditorium is dark, making the drama of the spotlit casket on the stage all the greater. Outside its a sunny July day, one of the hottest of the year, but in the theatre there is a chill. Or perhaps its just me. My fingers are freezing and my hands are shaking. Its as if my body has slowed its circulation to reflect the sombre mood.

A photograph of Bernie is shining from a screen on the backdrop of the stage. Shes looking straight out at us, her blue eyes sparkling with defiant life. Her hair, blonde and shiny, sweeps across her face and she rests her chin on her left hand. This is the Bernie I remember, although other, earlier, black-and-white memories flood back, too.

Bernie aged six, grabbing hold of my two-year-old toddler chubby cheeks. She had an absolute infatuation with my cheeks that drove me insane. Shed pinch them between her thumbs and forefingers and rub her face against mine. When youre a kid you think, Get off, you weirdo! Id often see her come into a room and Id leg it because I knew shed make a beeline for me. Ooh, but your cheeks are so soft! shed say. To be honest, she was still doing it when we were grown women. If it was weird when I was a kid, it was downright embarrassing in my forties.

Bernie playing Miss World on our steps in Blackpool, with me, my sister Linda and our next-door neighbour Suzanne. Wed make ballgowns and sashes out of tea towels, and crowns out of cardboard, and take turns to be the announcer, the judge and the winner. As the youngest I very rarely won I was just happy they let me play with them.

Bernie in the bedroom next to mine, singing day and night into a hairbrush and practising her moves in the mirror. Even then she had such an amazing voice. Shed keep me awake pretending to be Lulu and singing, We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ll, you know you make me wanna shout! Id bang on the wall and tell her to shut up even though I loved listening to her.

Bernie going through the horrendous loss of her stillborn baby, Kate. Shed carried her for six months, and when she died, Bernie was forced to deliver her knowing the worst had happened. It rocked the whole family. She and her husband Steve were so strong and dignified, keeping their grief quite private.

Bernie getting her big TV acting break as a main character in Brookside. I was so excited although filled with nerves. What would I say to her if she was a bit crap? I neednt have worried as with everything Bernie did, she gave it her all. She was brilliant in Brookside and later in The Bill.

To my left I can just make out the profile of my sister Anne. Shes the oldest of us girls, the one we look to at times like this. Its been a while since weve been so close but right now all the arguments, all the bickering, seem a very long way behind us. Shes sitting close to Denise and I can see theyre holding hands. Heartbroken together.

To my right sits Linda and, next to her, Maureen. Were as close as sisters can be but at this moment we need our space. If our eyes meet it will be too awful. I steal a glance and see that Maureens face is wet with tears.

In the front row sit Steve and Erin. Bernies husband and little girl. Steve has wrapped his arms around his daughter, as if to protect her from the ordeal of having to let her mum go. It kills me to look at them. The pain in Erins face just breaks my heart. Bernie, Bernie, Bernie. I have so many memories of her. Thats why it seems impossible that Im here right now.

The screen has come alive and Bernie is singing. Shes standing on a stage, in front of hundreds of fans, doing her version of Whitney Houstons Run To You. I grip the velvet arms of the seat more tightly but its no good. The waves of grief are now so huge. What will I do when the music stops and the lights come on?

From alongside me comes the answer. My husband Ray, himself shattered by grief but trying hard to be strong, takes my left hand and slips his other arm around my shoulders. I lean into him, letting him take my weight, burying my face in the dark material of his best suit. His hand goes to my hair and strokes it, soothing me. He presses his lips to my ear and tells me everything will be OK.