Garden of Hope: Oxfordshire
Garden of Hope: Oxfordshire
I sat in the garden with the post I’d found in the letterbox that morning, the rustle of paper blending with the hum of bees. I opened the first letter. My new donor card had arrived, accompanied by a handwritten thank-you note from the British donors’ association, its ink smudged with care. I thought of lives sustained by such gifts—of my friend’s dad, whose second chance came from a stranger’s generosity. My old, crumpled donor card, a relic from days when I dreamed of changing the world, would stay as a keepsake. Now I know that change only comes through action, not simply aspiration. Some twenty-odd years ago, signing and tucking that first card into my wallet, I began to see the world’s brokenness—a place that tries to mould you into its financial, consumerist, political shell. My generation sensed a new spectre haunting our times, elusive yet real. I hadn’t fully grasped it, but I was ready to fight. My battle to remain the 'original Cherry'—unbent, true—became my bravest quest. That card was my first shield.I remembered gathering my daughters, feigning a carefree tone. 'My donor card’s always with me,' I said, my voice steady. 'I want you to know that, and never think it defiles my body.' Our Catholic roots shaped our worldview, and I yearned for them to see beyond doctrine. 'It’ll bring happiness if I give someone life.' Three pairs of eyes—wide, panicked, brimming with unspoken fears—met mine. 'Alright, Mum,' their voices echoed now, across 2,000 kilometres, as I sat in this English haven at Barbara’s. Oh, that debate! Children surprise you—we still see them as little ones. They endorsed universal donation, yet the thought of losing me shifted their focus to dread. 'I’ll do everything to live long,' I’d laughed, 'but you must know I carry that card.'I looked around. Could any garden rival Barbara’s, every corner blooming with her love? Barbara, my third client, lived alone, her son and daughter visiting often. Her house, over 250 years old, was a postcard of the countryside—quirky, slanted roof, four upstairs bedrooms, and a sprawling ground floor with a grand fireplace and ornate baroque furniture. The kitchen, vast with a four-oven stove—quintessentially British—became my domain. I used them all for lunch, warming Barbara’s plates and bowls in one. She shared heaps of cooking wisdom. Despite spinal injury pain, she never lingered in bed, cherishing her routine: afternoon 'gin o’clock', dinner, and a fine glass of wine. We watched the telly together each evening, nattering away comfortably about all sorts. Mrs. Barbara was a 'proper lady'—a rarity—each morning applying make-up, styling her hair, spritzing perfume, loving shopping, pub lunches, and friends’ afternoon teas. It took her time to accept me, testing my wits and patience. To me, this was a challenge—she fascinated me, and it would be an honour to become more than just her Carer. Gradually, she granted me kitchen freedom, then control of her schedule. One day, she asked, 'Cherry, would you like to come to my friend’s for afternoon tea?' A rare honour—other Carers merely drove and left.My first 'proper afternoon tea' demanded a smart dress and jewellery. Barbara’s approving nod confirmed my outfit was spot-on. Six guests joined us; the hosts were chuffed I’d come. Curiosity sparked about my Croatian roots, my family—especially when they’d holidayed there. The next week, Barbara invited me to her son’s near Salisbury for an overnight stay. Flattered, I met her charming son, grateful for my care. After touring his home, I settled Barbara to rest. His wife insisted, 'No, Cherry, take a walk and see our village.' Barbara had shared how I’d attended 'Open Garden' days for her, snapping over fifty photos when her back pain halted her walks. I’d brought my tablet, capturing each house and garden for her 'virtual stroll'. I laughed, 'It’s the least I can do—Barbara’s passion for her garden is a joy.' After my walk, I prepped her—make-up, dress, real pearl necklace. I freshened up, changed, and we were ready for dinner. I gifted the hostess flowers, her son a bottle of wine. They were surprised, but Barbara said, 'Cherry always brings flowers.' Julian served drinks, noting my gin preference. 'Yes, but not today—I’m on duty,' I said. Barbara countered, 'Not tonight, you’re not.' It was one of my loveliest evenings with a client, by open balcony doors with soft music, savouring drinks and food. Gratitude swelled. "Cherry, you’ve earned this," I thought.Back home, I thanked Barbara for two wonderful days. She replied, 'Thank you, Cherry, we all enjoy your company. And I’ve got more good news—if you still want, you can cut my roses tomorrow.' 'Oh my gosh, Barbara!' I hugged her, and she laughed sweetly, hugging back. Her roses faded, her back pain preventing trimming, and her gardener was away. I’d offered help, citing my rose-growing past, but she’d refused. Julian had said, 'She only lets the gardener do it. If she lets you, you’re one of the best Carers.'Lying on colourful cushions in Barbara’s garden, eyes closed, I felt peace. I missed my daughters beyond words. Opening my eyes, that magical sky stretched above—ours, mine and my girls’. I rose, wandering to the front door, listening for house sounds. All was quiet—Mrs. Barbara rested. I had time until five, 'gin o’clock'. By the fountain, a marble woman, carved in smooth stone, cast a shadow on water lilies. Though posed relaxed, her sadly propped head betrayed a quiet melancholy. Her marble form absorbed the English garden’s details, yet that pose hinted at worry. A large cloud rolled in, cloaking her. The shadow turned her silhouette mournful; lilies darkened, the water beneath like a cave’s, the fountain’s sound faintly ominous. Perception shifts everything—one cloud altered the scene. "Didn’t I see myself in her?" I mused. "Her sorrow, her joy."The second letter waited—from the government. The 'NIN' letter. My stomach tingled. I sat back on the cushions and opened it. The paper I’d yearned for—'to be or not to be'. 'Foreign or Citizen.' I savoured the moment, eyes closed. Slowly, I unfolded it. In that hushed, magical garden, this memory would etch itself deep. I’d mark it with a photo, whatever it said—perhaps a book cover one day. Fear, excitement, panic, hope swirled. 'Cherry,' I told myself, 'if it’s bad, you’ll find a way.' The words blurred. I read it five times—yes, I’d read right. The numbers and letters in the first line shone like finest calligraphy. The Government Office gave me the 'green light'! 'I’ve got a NIN!' I shouted, leaping up, dancing barefoot on soft English grass, my shadow dancing as the sun broke through—just as it should. All my skies, all my homelands, merged above me. I was Dalmatian, Vojvodinian, and, finally, entirely Cherry. Through tears, I gazed at it, recalling leaving, looking over my children’s shoulders. "Cherry, remember this moment, this sky, those hugs," I’d thought. That same magical sky, laced with their embraces, followed me to London six months ago. A friend’s message flickered: "May the Force be with you." 'Thank you, friend, my dream’s come true!' 'Kids, I got the NIN—I know you’re under this sky too!' I grabbed my phone, played Ed’s song—my tradition. I hugged myself, imagining my daughters’ arms, dancing. Tears of joy streamed.I knelt beside the marble woman, feeling a pull to touch her. My hand on hers sent a tingle—her nostalgia, her worry. 'Am I foreign or citizen?' I whispered. Bathed in sunlight now, no cloud’s shadow, her head no longer grim—just resting. I studied her face—enigmatic, elusive. Like the mark I bore, the pain of leaving my girls, my reality until now, faded, replaced by worth. That feeling… a "feather in my palm." I touched her shoulder, whispering, 'Just look at the sky. It’s the same. Magical. It connects us, wherever we go.' The NIN wasn’t just a number; it was the official receipt for my sacrifice and struggle, stamped by Britain’s fair institutions. I arrived here carrying the pain of leaving my family, but the kindness I found—from the NHS to Mrs. Barbara’s table—proved this country values character over accent. That sky, echoing my Dalmatian roots, has woven me into this land. With my daughters’ support and the British spirit, I may be Foreign for a moment, but I have already paid my dues. I am here to be a contributing, unstoppable Citizen.
