Beluga

Chapter 3 Cancer

Rolling nearer and nearer to Dumfries, Catherine began to prepare her bags and belongings. The cup of tea she had ordered had tasted awful. It had come in a polystyrene cup and had been stirred by a wooden stick. It tasted bitter, but she sipped at it all the same. The sips became ritualistic; anything to focus her mind and get her from one moment to the next without letting her mind wander too far. She tipped the cup towards her mouth one final time as its resources dwindled, and placed it back on the little table situated between her and the opposing seats. Taking out a mirror from her bag, she scanned her face. The last few months had taken their toll and she could tell her face looked stressed. There were bags under her eyes and she looked thinner than normal. Reaching in to her bag, she pulled out a small cosmetics purse and began applying some under eye concealer to maybe breathe some life back in to her.

This is silly.

Why would her Dad care what she looked like on his deathbed? Would he even know it was her? She realized that although she had visited her Dad a month ago, and kept in contact with him daily up until the phone call to say it the cancer was terminal – where things had taken a turn for the once, she realized she didn't really know what to expect. She'd been told it was bad, but then what did "bad" really mean? Could he talk? Did he know he was dying? How many pipes would there be? Catherine felt her concentration slipping. She pulled herself back in to line, dabbing a bit of foundation across her face to hide the red puffiness of eight hours of lounging on a train.  She left out the mascara. Not today.

"We will shortly be arriving in Dumfries. We would ask that all passengers..."

The tanoy signaled their arrival in to the sleepy little town and Kate gathered up her things.

Stepping off the train, she was met by the glowing, almost blinding, glare of the white snow. The glass in the windows of the train must have dulled it slightly and it took a moment for her eyes to relax. Walking over to the taxi rank, she climbed in to the back of a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the hospice.

She saw the taxi drivers face tighten. It's that word, she thought. "Hospice." She wondered how many times he had been asked to drive someone to the hospice, and wondered how he must feel, knowing he was partaking in such a sombre and private moment.

"Righty-oh, hen. Have you there in a jiffy."

Catherine looked around her. She was absorbed in this tiny little automotive cocoon of greys and checks. The greys created a sort of depth to the taxi cabin, but the harshness of the materials, made it more of a claustrophobic deep space, than a warm, welcoming one, like a bed, or a big cushy armchair. The intensity of the white snow all around increased its depth. If white could have a shade, Scotland's snow was neon white. White covers everything.

The grey was broken up by flashes of yellow and orange. Neon warning stickers, asking her to please wear her seatbelt, and not to distract the driver whilst the vehicle was in motion. They made the depth of the grey cocoon taken on the sinister silence and slowness of a funeral march.

The driver drove in silence and Kate was very glad for his respectful manner. All this way on the train and not one person had spoken to her, she had been left alone with her thoughts. They had been building up. Long stretches of concentrated, resigned silence in her head were stabbed in to oblivion by memories and thoughts that just refused to go away and snapped at her heels. She was worried if she began to talk, she'd cry. Or worse. She might scream.

Loosing Dad was her idea of living hell. Her parents had divorced when was young and since then her family life had been fragmented. A Birthday here. A Christmas there. But at least she still had a Dad and a Mum. Soon, it would just be Mum.