Blossoming in Tisbury
Blossoming in Tisbury
I sat on the terrace, the sound of a violin drifting from the neighbour’s house. She usually played around ten in the morning, but tonight was an exception. The night was surprisingly summery for England. I’d just returned from the May Day Bank Holiday, a village fête in Tisbury. At my first placement, my colleague and mentor was Michelle, half-British, half-Filipino, with a radiant face and almond-shaped eyes that carried the best of both her parents. Michelle, sensing my curiosity, urged me to go to the fête, assuring me not to worry about Mrs Petronella. Dear Michelle – kind, chatty, capable, and hard-working, she was exactly the colleague I needed. We’d been through a rough patch with another colleague whose training was woefully inadequate, putting us all at risk – especially the client. But Michelle’s professionalism and fierce protectiveness set my standard as a Carer.The violin fell silent, and from a distance, music from the pub floated over. I’d done my research: it was the village’s ancient fertility festival, a celebration of life. And it truly was, exactly what I needed. Outside the pub, people danced in costumes of fur and leather, adorned with flowers, bells jangling around their waists as they moved with infectious joy. They waved long scarves, passing them between pairs in a lively dance. Flowers were everywhere – on the pub door, in vases, crowning nearly every guest’s head. I squeezed through to the bar for a drink, thrilled to be among people.As I made my way back, a spirited girl danced towards me, placing a floral crown on my head. Her smile won me over instantly, and I grinned back. She twirled away like a fairy from a storybook, sharing flowers with others. The bells’ chime, the songs the dancers sang, wove a magical atmosphere. It felt like déjà vu, as if I’d been here before. I soaked it up with every fibre of my being.Back on Mrs P’s terrace – as we fondly called her – I thought of my daughters. I slipped off the floral crown, determined to save it for my girls, my musketeers. I’d tell them tomorrow, I thought. Time for bed. The music had faded, but the violin started again, mournful and melancholic. Perhaps my neighbour was sorting through her emotions, much like me. I wasn’t sleepy, and clearly, neither was she. When we’d met, she asked if her playing bothered me. ‘Oh, not at all,’ I’d said. ‘I love it.’ ‘Then I’ll play something for you,’ she replied. ‘I play younger musicians – tell me a song you like.’ I told her about Ed Sheeran, how his ‘Thinking Out Loud’ and its line, ‘Maybe we found love right where we are,’ had followed me since my first day in the UK. ‘My favourite too!’ she said. She was playing it tonight.I thought back to my first night in the UK, Mrs Panworthen, and Salisbury. Three months in already. Time to take stock – how far had I come? I’d met agency staff who ran training and found clients, plus new colleagues. Salisbury, with its breathtaking cathedral and infamous spy poisoning scandal, was a city of contrasts. The training was tough – my beginner’s English wasn’t enough to keep up. I knew if I wanted to succeed as a Carer, my knowledge had to be spot on. By the third day, I realised I needed a system. I moved from Mrs Panworthen’s to Mrs Jenny’s, recommended by the agency, to be closer to work. There, I’d have my own little corner – Jenny’s conservatory – for studying, a luxury I hadn’t had before.I moved and decided translation was the key. After training, I’d grab coffee with colleagues, nattering about what we’d learned. As an interior designer, I had no formal caregiving knowledge, but helping my ill, ageing mother had taught me plenty. Still, it wasn’t enough. UK rules were leagues ahead, and I needed to master them. They protected clients and Carers like me. My trust in British institutions grew. Back at Jenny’s, I’d cook, rest, then study. I’d read lessons aloud in English, translate what I knew, and use my phone to translate the rest into Croatian, jotting it all down. After reading it in Croatian, I’d take a coffee break, call my daughters – sometimes they’d nudge my English along. Then I’d translate back to English, closing the learning loop.Exams for certificates loomed in two weeks – a make-or-break moment. The least I could do was study diligently and be professional. By day, I had no time to overthink; at night, I’d wake, too exhausted to motivate myself. ‘Višnja, fear’s your enemy – don’t give in,’ I’d tell myself. Sometimes I’d read motivational notes from Croatia. Other times, I’d cry quietly into my pillow and drift off. Exam day came – four parts, split into sections. I was lucky to have Melita and Domagoj, proper gems, who were certain I’d pass. After the final exam, we went for lunch, tense with uncertainty. Our futures hung on those results. Walking back to the agency, we were silent. I played ‘We Are the Champions’ on my phone: We’ll keep on fighting, till the end. Not sure we were champions, but we wouldn’t quit. They burst out laughing, singing along. The tension melted. ‘It’ll be what it must be!’ I said. ‘We’ve passed, I’m sure!’ I believed it – our effort had to count.The agency owner called out the names of those who passed. I sat clutching my notebook of translations like a lifeline. My name was called. I’d passed! What a rush – pure elation! She said, ‘Congratulations, Višnja! Can you think of a nickname? Your name’s a bit of a mouthful for us Brits.’ Without hesitation, I said, ‘Maybe Cherry – it’s my name translated.’ ‘Brilliant, Cherry!’ she replied. We celebrated with a night out, dancing till dawn. Melita, my kindred spirit, and I clicked instantly – a genuinely good soul. Domagoj, young and brave, had escaped his demons to face life head-on. Our bond was something we’d carry forever.A placement came up – a client with a cat, two dogs, and a talking parrot. The agency sent me to meet her, alongside my Hungarian flatmate, another Carer. The client arrived with her current Carer, also Hungarian – an elegant older woman with lush hair and a constant smile. We met at a Salisbury café. Though nervous, I answered her questions and asked about her pets and hobbies. My colleagues chatted in Hungarian, which sat awkwardly with the English client. Ivana’s lesson: keep it inclusive. When the client said, ‘Time to go,’ I helped her up, handing her her stick. She looked at me and said, ‘I like you, Cherry! And I must say, you have a lovely coat!’ I thanked her, replying, ‘You look so elegant today!’ I felt a rush of joy, though my flatmate seemed glum. Her English was poor – Melita, Domagoj, and I used to joke that her worse English saved me from despair. I tried asking her, but her answers were half-English, half-Hungarian.The agency called that afternoon. ‘Plenty of compliments about your kindness, empathy, and positivity, but the client thinks you might find the countryside dull – you’re a bit glamorous.’ Oh, Višnja, you glamorous fool! My coat, bought at New Look in Salisbury because my Croatian jacket was too thin, had backfired. I thanked them, saying I’d wait for the next client. Their option was to return to Croatia until another client came up, but I couldn’t afford the flight. I was frugal – £10 for a bed at Jenny’s, cooking my own meals, stretching every penny until my first placement.I wandered Salisbury, telling myself, ‘Just the first offer, Cherry – don’t give up.’ Back at the flat, my Hungarian flatmate was packing – she’d got a placement. I was thrilled for her, congratulated her. A good sign for me. The next day, I visited the agency. The receptionist said my flatmate had gone to the client we’d met. Confused, I thought I’d misunderstood. She repeated, ‘I’m not sure this will work out, Cherry. She doesn’t have many matches, especially with the animals. Her dad was a hunter – only hunting dogs, no pets. We’ll see.’ I didn’t know what to think. Leaving, I ran into a colleague. ‘Your Hungarian mate pulled a fast one, didn’t she?’ she said, a tad smugly. Confused, I said I didn’t understand. ‘She told the client’s Carer to convince them to pick her, not you.’ ‘No, that’s not true,’ I replied, brushing off gossip.I walked to a park, sat on a bench, and cried. Deep down, I knew it was true. As I sat, head bowed, a sweet little dog ran up, followed by a man apologising as it nuzzled my hand. I laughed, petting it. The dog jumped into my lap. The man, embarrassed, apologised again. I stopped him, saying, ‘It’s okay, I love dogs.’ He sat at the other end of the bench. After a moment, he asked, ‘Are you… quite alright?’ ‘Now I am,’ I said, knowing he’d seen my tears. ‘Just… some problems. I’m Cherry, nice to meet you.’ I fired it out like a shot. Ivana’s voice: Brits prefer light chat. He smiled. ‘Jamie, nice to meet you too.’ We played with the dog for an hour. He said he’d seen me crying and offered help. I briefly explained. ‘Not everyone’s rotten, Cherry. Sometimes it’s just a bad day,’ he said. ‘Good wins out.’Five days later, the agency called: ‘Cherry, you’ve got a placement with Mrs Petronella. Come now.’ Her name felt right – my chance. At the office, I saw my Hungarian flatmate. Our eyes met; her cheeks flushed, her gaze dropped. That told me everything. I watched her leave, head bowed. I felt sorry for her. If this was a triumph, I hoped she’d learned something. I asked the receptionist if she was okay. ‘Not coping,’ she said. ‘She quit – four animals were too much. The parrot talks, the dogs bark at her, the cat attacks the dogs. The client asked for you, but we’ve arranged Mrs Petronella.’ Jamie’s words rang true: Good wins out. ‘You can’t do poorly and expect good,’ I thought. ‘Do good, Višnja.’ I only regretted missing that chatty parrot.Here I was, on Mrs Petronella’s terrace, listening to the violin after a brilliant fête. Mrs P was perfect for me – an extraordinary woman, an English teacher who’d adopted two children. When social services called about her adopted daughter’s newborn brother, she adopted him too. Her heart was big enough for them all. Her home was a journey through her life – books, artwork, sculptures, cards, family stories. I couldn’t have found better to learn about British culture and this fascinating woman. But this new chapter needs your support to flourish.With Mrs P and her family, I felt less like a foreigner. They let me use their address for residency, easing my path. They asked about my family, helped me practise English, vouched for my driving licence, and supported my NIN and self-employed status. We played board games together. They opened the doors to their wonderful country, endlessly grateful for my care for their mother.Not everything was rosy – I faced setbacks. But I believed I could make things better. My glass was always half full, never half empty. My parents always said gratitude was the strongest emotion. I was grateful to this country for the opportunity, and that gratitude drove me to be a professional, honest, exemplary Carer – to give something back.The violin fell silent. Time for bed. I slipped into Mrs P’s room to check on her. Michelle taught me to look at her forehead – if it’s furrowed, she’s in pain, even asleep. Tonight, her forehead was smooth, a faint smile on her lips, breathing steady. I gently stroked her silver hair and whispered, ‘Nighty night, Mrs P.’The floral crown, the violin’s melody, and the name ‘Cherry’ were my true prizes that night. I earned my certificate through hard work and integrity, not shortcuts—a first test of citizenship. With Mrs P’s family, I was no longer just a foreigner earning a wage; I was, at last, trusted. Their belief in me was the real foundation of my journey to become a citizen, built on respect and contribution.
