Beluga by A. B. Lord. (little readers txt) 📕

accent, peppered with Scots words. There was what someone from Edinburgh would describe as a bit of a “Morningside twang” to it, but what anyone from England would probably just have describe as just “posh”. English people had an awful habit of believing that all Scottish people sounded like Rab C. Nesbitt. You either sounded like Rab C. Nesbitt, or you were “posh”. Well spoken and Scottish were two concepts which did not marry in the Englishman’s head and so you were always either one or the other. Kate was Englishman’s posh. Kate noted the refreshments cart man was not only Scottish, but probably from Edinburgh, like her.


“Erm, I’ll have a... just a small tea please. Milk and two sugars.”


“Right away, hen. A wee tea, a bit o’ milk and tae sugars.”


Kate had considered the gin and tonic heavily. Anything to dull out what was about to happen. But had chosen to opt for the cup of tea instead. She’d need all her senses for what was about to come. The baggage cartman man went about his tea making duty as the train lurched along its track, Dumfries bound.


She looked out of the window. It had been snowing and everything was covered in white. It was like travelling through a giant cloud. Along the tracks, there was occasional little cottages; the remnants of a Scottish history of crofters and small farmsteads, accessorised with woolly sheep weathering the Scottish weather as a matter principle. In the windows, were flashes of colours. Posters of green, yellow, red, the occasional pink. But there was no blue. There was never any blue during election time in Scotland. Voting Conservative and being Scottish was like being a leper. It was a sin to favour the union over independence. Or so the SNP advocated. Kate grimaced as she became aware of the overwhelming majority of yellow posters. “Vote SNP.”


In some circles; private unionist circles in Scotland, they were called “The Snip”, because it was believed that in going independent, Scotland would “snip” off all its financial aid and subsidising from Westminster. It was probably selfish to still favour the notion of Scotland as the land of milk and honey, but no turkey would ever vote in favour of Christmas either.


It wasn’t that Kate wasn’t proud of her Scottish nationality; she just didn’t feel the need to line her life with tartan. Living in London, she had still only occasionally celebrated Burns Night and the only hint she ever carried as to her Scottish clan connections, was a woollen scarf woven in her families tartan. It hung around her neck like a subtle nod to a romantic history of whiskey, Scottish glass and war. English people sometimes had their coat of arms printed up and framed. She wore hers around her neck when it was cold, or when she came home.


But there had been a great deal less “homecomings” recently. Under the Scottish National Party, Scotland had changed overnight. It had gone from sweet little tea rooms in Scottish villages, with maybe just a hint of tartan and an elderly old lady speaking in a Borderly (Englishman’s posh) accent, serving her homemade scones with cream tea, to not being able to watch Coronation Street without paying a subscription charge for a “non-Scottish” channel. Why? Because it was English. The SNP had turned Scotland in to patriotism on steroids. If it wasn’t born and bred Scots, then it has no place in Scotland. “Our Scotland,” they said. But was it really hers, Kate wondered? Not anymore.


Kate wondered thoughtfully whether or not next time she visited her home country, if the trains would be decked in tartan too and whether “Jamie” (she read his name tag) would be wearing a nice little tartan two piece suit with a matching cap. And whether or not, instead of his speech being peppered with Scots language, he would now be the fully monty; the walking, talking, tartan two piece wearing Scotsman; serving her tea in Gaelic. She hoped not. Kate didn’t speak Gaelic. She only spoke Scots.


“That’ll be a poond fifty.”


Kate handed over the money, as Jamie said his polite thank you and goodbyes and shuffled and squeaked his way off further down the carriage, merry as he went, calling everyone sir and hen. She was glad the price of life in Scotland hadn’t changed. It was one of the reasons she loved coming home from time to time; the cheap as chips lifestyle. She was still just as shocked by London prices now as she was when she moved here five years ago. That and her favourite home cooked meal at her Dads house, haggis, chicken and cheese.


But there would be no more haggis, chicken and cheese. Not after today. And if not today, then tomorrow. Or maybe, at a stretch, the day after that. Sooner or later, the joy boat that was haggis, chicken and cheese, would be coming to an end.


The muscles in her face froze. She was under no illusions as to the serious nature of today, but for the last three months, had largely been on autopilot, and occasionally, little sentimental thoughts like there being no more haggis, chicken and cheese at Dads house, crept in. These are what upset her most. No more Dads house. No more haggis, chicken and cheese. No more Dad. She was not only going to be losing her Dad, but everything that went with him. By the end of today, she would have said goodbye to her Dad for the very last time, as he lay in a hospice bed, beaten by cancer.


He wasn’t just any Dad though. Most daughters grow up thinking their Dad is something pretty special; fixer of everything and the strongest man in the world, but Kate knew there was something extra special about her Dad. It wasn’t his obsession with fitness that set him apart, though as a little girl when she’d seen him stand with the other Dads on sports day, it had appeared that way. Everyone else’s Dads had a beer belly and had a glow of colour around them which just gave Kate the idea they were unhealthy. Kate’s Dad however would stand there with his muscles bulging out of his clothes, his skin bronzed and a mischievous grin on his face. They both knew he was about to tank the other Dads in terms of fitness. Her Dads colour was always blue.


Kate didn’t fully understand why she associated people with colours but she always had. Ill people had a yellowish fading tinge around them. Those who were lazy and unhealthy were very muted. Angry people gave off harsh colours, like angry rusty red and burnt orange. And her Dad, he was blue. Bright, sparkling blue. Sometimes, she had ideas about her own colour. She was white. Like a polar bear, or a beluga, or maybe even an arctic fox. Very bright and sparkling, just like her Dad, but not blue.


But none of these things were what made her Dad different. No, Kate was pretty sure he had something that the majority of other Dads didn’t have. He’d never really said it outsight to her, but growing up, he had hinted at things. He’d made things happen. He’d surrounded her with a giant bubble of protection. He spoke of magic and several planes of heaven. When she told him when she looked in to the dark, she saw sparkles, he’s smiled the biggest grin ever and said he saw them too. He’d told her things and when she’d asked what he had meant, he’s simply said “you’ll understand one day.”

It wasn’t until she’d neared her twenties that the penny dropped. It wasn’t so much one singular shiny penny that dropped, but a giant cascade of pennies, pounds, fifty pencess and little silver five pence pieces. They crashed and hit the ground making jangling sharp noises.


Her Dad was a medium. Not one of the fake ones who sits in at the carnival, but a real and very impressive, medium. And now as Kate looked out the window and saw the dotted cottages turn to bungalows, detached houses and finally town-like dwellings, she realised the time had come. For the last six months, her Dad had been battling cancer and now it was terminal, and days, rather than weeks.


It was time to say goodbye to the man who for her whole life had bridged the gap between life and death, and who was now going to be going off to a place she had no contact with.


Kate looked out the window. She wished she’d ordered that gin and tonic.

It was time to say goodbye.

Chapter 3. Cancer

Rolling nearer and nearer to Dumfries, Kate 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 realised 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 realised 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?