Skyward Citizen: Southampton
I stood outside a towering building in Southampton. Afternoon. The weather was fickle – some rooftops gleamed in the sun, others sulked under clouds. Since moving to Britain, I’d grown to natter about the weather for hours. The habit had definitely rubbed off. Drawn by a sound, I looked up. There it was again – that magical sky from the plane. This time, no engine roar tore through it, just the cry of gulls. I followed them, as I had countless times in childhood. I felt like I was flying, wishing I could be a bird too. I reached the docks. It was as if I saw the sea, gulls, and boats of my Dalmatia.I thought about the past six months. Learning English, working on myself, meeting people, planning a future – all to get to this government office. Many Brits would call it a formality, a bit of bureaucracy to grant me the same rights and duties as them. To me, it was so much more. I came here a foreign person, hoping one day to be a Citizen. My English. Oh, Ivana, how I miss you. Today, I needed her more than ever – not just as my English teacher, but as my friend. She’d have said, all breezy, 'You’ve got this, Cherry.' I’d started calling myself Cherry in my head, a name that felt like it could belong here. She was one of the few who believed I could move to another country, master the language, and start working. Many friends back home didn’t. During our month of lessons in Sibenik, I realised some people enter your life for a reason. Call it fate. They can give you more than those closest to you, even if you’ve only known them briefly. I miss you, Ivana.I remembered calling her: 'Are you an English teacher? Do you have slots for the next 28 days, two hours daily?' She was a bit taken aback but said, 'Come by, and we’ll sort it out.' When we met, it went like this: 'Why 28 days?' 'Because I’ve got an interview and I’m going to work in England.' 'What language did you study in school?' 'Russian.' 'Right. Do you think I can teach you enough in 28 days to pass an interview?' 'Do you think I can learn enough in 28 days?' 'I want to try.' Two days later, we started. I told her I’d called an agency hiring Carers. A Croatian woman worked there and said they needed lots of staff and I could interview soon. I gathered my courage: 'Could I have the interview seven days before I arrive?' 'That’s a bit late. Why?' 'Because I’m learning English.' 'Madam, nobody learns English in a month, and you won’t either.' 'Give me a chance,' I insisted. She laughed heartily down the phone. 'Alright, let’s see it then! It’s on.' The gauntlet was thrown, I thought, already imagining myself as Cherry. 'Do you have materials for the interview or a job description?' my brain raced to make this work. 'I do. I’ll send them.' The agency’s British owner would decide if I was good enough. My heart pounded as I told Ivana.At our first lesson, I sat with printed materials in hand, watching for her reaction. She took them and said, 'Brilliant, we’ve got something to work with!' Ivana was beautiful inside and out – young, cheerful, deadly serious about her craft. Her knowledge and empathy left a mark on me. I could picture her now, that charming smile, tying her hair in a bun as she explained, a strand of lovely brown hair falling over her face and notebook. Her open, honest gaze and that special smile said, 'Come on, you can do it!' For 28 days, we had double lessons – laughter, my tears, but Ivana never gave up. At home, I had an hour daily with each daughter. My grandson and granddaughter pitched in when I needed help. On interview day, waiting for the video call, my grandson stood by me. 'Baka, I’ll be behind the laptop. If you get stuck, look at me. I’ll help.' His small hand squeezed mine, a lifeline of courage as I faced the screen. Forty minutes later, we were dancing around the table, shouting, 'Yes, yes, yes! I passed!' I called Ivana. She just said, 'You passed, didn’t you? I knew it!' What memories, what moments for a 50-year-old. Indescribable.The gulls snapped me back to reality. 'Right, Cherry, time to go in!' I scolded myself, hearing my new name in my head. 'You can’t be late, Mum,' my daughters would say. I’m one of those who says, 'Just this, then that,' before leaving. They say Virgos do that – we don’t go until everything’s sorted, even if it means being late. At each department’s entrance, a clerk greeted me, asking how they could help. After explaining who I was and why I was there, they’d kindly point me to the next step. I walked through corridors and offices, buzzing with excitement, like I was discovering something utterly new. The final office was vast, filled with about forty clerks surrounded by clients – people like me, foreigners. It was a scene of efficient calm. I’d never seen bureaucracy move with such quiet decency—a true display of the famed British 'keep calm and carry on' spirit. The clerks wore smiles like uniforms. I was shown to a blue three-seater sofa, offered water, and asked to wait. I glanced around, catching the low murmur of voices.A commotion at a nearby desk caught my ear. A woman moved her chair, apologising profusely to everyone, especially the clerk. He looked up, said 'It’s okay' twice, and went back to sorting papers. 'That’s my guy,' I thought. He was in his forties, long hair over his shoulders, in a blue shirt with faded tattoos on his arm. I grinned – his blue shirt and tattoos fit this place perfectly. I always believed chubby people couldn’t be unkind. I hoped I was on his list. I pulled out my notebook, started back in Sibenik with Ivana’s lessons. I flipped through, soaking up her encouraging sentences, hearing her say, 'You’ve got this!' A few pages later, my middle daughter’s handwriting, ever the engineer, structured sentences like building a house. Her persistence in helping me, sticking lessons on our walls at home. 'Mum, walk around talking English, look at the notes – it reduces stress and helps you learn.' My eldest’s handwriting followed, with sentences she’d written for me to translate, capturing her laughter. At the back, my youngest had scrawled, 'YOU CAN DO IT!' like graffiti, bold and decorated. My brilliant artist.'Mrs Drmic,' someone called. I stood quickly, still not used to the British 'k' for my name. My gut was right – it was the tattooed clerk. I sat at his desk. When Brits ask, 'How are you?' you’re never sure if they want an answer or it’s just politeness. His eyes suggested he did. 'Nervous,' I said with a smile, asking how he was. 'No need to be nervous,' he said. 'Just simple questions, and we’ll be done in no time.' And we were. The questions were straightforward, and my English sounded pretty decent, to my delight. My answers wove a short story: 'Six months ago, I left Croatia, chasing my place under the stars. I became a Live-in Carer – a role that opened doors I never imagined. It helped me learn English, dive into British culture, and support my daughters’ dreams. I’m a proud mum of three girls; two are studying – one at university in Split, the other joining Sheffield Hallam this September, all set to come. This job’s been a lifeline, funding their education and our survival. It’s tough, but I’m deeply grateful. It’s let me do good, receive more in return, and find what I couldn’t back home: democracy, fair institutions, freedom, and justice for all. Though some here say it’s not quite like that – I’ll find out!' His patience, so British in its quiet kindness, made me feel at home.'Tattoo man' was serious, watching me as I spoke, his only reaction an occasional raised eyebrow. We finished quickly. He explained a decision would come within a month by letter and asked if I had questions, saying he was at my disposal. I smiled shyly. 'Thank you for your patience and kindness. I’ve researched the NIN process, but maybe one question – in your experience, what are my chances?' He laughed, leaning back in his chair. 'Big,' he said, smiling. 'You’re doing important work.' He leaned forward. 'We’re lucky to have Carers like you. Good luck!' My joy must’ve been obvious, my smile pure relief. I stood, shook his hand, placing my other hand over his. 'Big thanks,' I said, looking him in the eye, 'and sorry for my English.' 'Not at all,' he replied. 'Don’t apologise—your English is better than my Croatian.' We both laughed. So British. My learning English, with its thick accent, didn’t seem to bother anyone. In these six months, I’d felt such relief from their kindness.Leaving the building, I wanted to skip and sing, picturing Mary Poppins’ dance, but I had no umbrella. Still, I walked out calmly, greeting each clerk at the doors like a proper lady should. A British Citizen in waiting. The sun lit up Southampton’s ocean and shore. The sky shifted in vibrant colours, and I sank into its blue. The gulls were music to my ears, their cries carrying the scent of my Dalmatia. Some houses reminded me of Vojvodina. When nostalgia hit, I’d look to the sky. Isn’t it the same sky covering my children and loved ones? My heart felt light as a feather in my palm. Soft, tender. I played Ed’s song on my phone – it’s tradition now. The interview wasn’t just bureaucracy; it was a citizenship test of character, and I passed. That sky over Southampton, echoing my Dalmatian roots, became my bridge to a new identity. With Ivana’s faith, the clerk’s kindness, and the British spirit, I’ve grown from a foreigner chasing dreams to someone embraced by this land.
