The Red Cap’s Anchor: London
The Red Cap’s Anchor: London
I’ve always loved trains. My dad was a stationmaster, and his job was his greatest passion. As a little girl, he’d take me to work, where I’d spend the day watching him don his beloved red cap, raise the signal that reminded me of a lolly, and blow his whistle for the driver. He taught me the departure call – one long blast followed by a short one, all in one breath. The call of destiny, he’d wink. He’d lift me onto his chair, place his cap on my head, and say, 'Now press these two buttons for the green light.' I remember the effort it took to reach those distant buttons on that massive control panel. He’d often tell me, 'They’re not spaced out by chance – it keeps you on your toes. It’s a reminder: think before you act.' Over all those decades, not a single incident happened during his shifts. 'Responsibility matters,' he’d say, 'but when you love your job, it’s no burden.' When Dad retired, I wanted to make it special. After dinner, I walked into the dining room wearing his red cap, carrying a huge train-shaped cake on a tray, and blew the departure call on his whistle. The whole family clapped at the idea, and Dad, surprised and delighted, laughed and said, 'You’ve a real flair for surprises! This train’s taking me into retirement.' I missed Dad terribly. I missed our coffee chats, visiting his grave. The sound of his whistle still haunts me at British stations. Here, there was no red cap, no whistle, but I carried his spirit of duty with me.I was on a train from Norwich to London. After 16 months with Betty through the pandemic, leaving her broke my heart. But it was time to move forward. Leaving Betty behind, I carried her lessons into my new chapter in London. My first step to end my nomadic life was made. I was off to sign the lease for a London flat and collect the keys, heading to my usual Kensington hotel where I’d always stayed when visiting. First, though, I decided to stop at Hyde Park. Far from my family, at a turning point in my new UK life, I needed a place where I felt at ease and could tell myself I belonged. As a little girl, dreaming of sparking revolutions, Dad warned me, 'Višnja, you can’t say everything out loud. It could cost you.' Born and raised in ex-Yugoslavia, we weren’t a Russian outpost, nor a British province by democracy. Dad was my teacher, sharing what I never learned at school – about Tito, Churchill, the war, Stalin, and a land of six nations that couldn’t survive. Seeing my disappointment, he added, 'There’s one place where you can say it all. Hyde Park in London has a speaker’s corner where you can speak your mind. No one will touch you.' The train pulled into London. A sleek, vast station with no stationmaster in a red cap, no whistle’s echo. I reached the park, dragging my nomadic suitcase holding my whole life. I found the spot on the map, took a candle in a glass I’d bought in Stalham from my rucksack, lit it, and placed it behind the railings. I looked up at the sky and whispered, 'I’ve arrived, Dad. At this place, the speaker’s corner. I’m here to stay.' I promised myself I’d always come back to light a candle for him at our spot.At the hotel, I took a photo holding a note, leaning against the window overlooking Kensington – Betty loved London. I wrote: 'Dear Betty, sending you a big hug from Kensington; I miss you.' Soon, Lucy texted back with a photo: Betty holding a note saying, 'Cherry, we love you too and miss you lots. Betty, Lucy, Molly and Hollie.' I couldn’t let myself cry. Life with the English taught me lessons. One: memories carry us on. We should celebrate the people we’ve had when we part with them, for we’ve learned, grown richer, and evolved through those experiences. That was certainly true for me with Betty and Lucy. The love between Lucy and her mum, and back again, created an environment that helped us survive the pandemic, hold onto hope, and weather those incredibly tough times. Lucy was like my comrade in life’s struggle – giving selflessly, ignoring the selfish who do the opposite, because we simply don’t know any other way. My life’s motto is to give and trust that it will come back. With Betty, that trust was rewarded tenfold. I knew that night in the hotel would be a journey through our 16 months. I opened photos, reliving the moments they captured. I played Ed on my laptop, his favourite track, ‘Photograph.’ I scrolled through them, listening to the lyrics: ‘We keep this love in a photograph / We make these memories for ourselves / Where our eyes are never closing / Hearts are never broken / And time’s forever frozen still.’ I told myself I’d write a book one day. I’d send a copy to Ed. I’d love him to know how his music helped a foreign carer survive, find hope, and carry on. I recall meeting Betty. After leaving Mum, broken and hopeless, I arrived in Stalham. I called my agency, saying I’d arrived a few hours early. The girl said, 'Cherry, you’re her first live-in carer. She’s only had daytime help so far. I’m sure you’re a great fit.' The profile noted she wasn’t keen on meeting new people. I was quite nervous about how she’d take to me. Lucy left me a key to let myself in and wait. As I wandered the house, absorbing every detail from photos and her belongings, a cat with the most intriguing colours – brown fur with occasional orange flecks – approached me. I knew her name was Molly. I knew Betty adored her and thought, ‘She can’t be bad if she loves cats.’ I headed to the lounge with Molly. As I looked around, she climbed onto a table with CDs, nearly knocking them over. I tidied them, stroking Molly. Behind the table, I spotted a radio. I took it to the kitchen and switched it on. An ad, Radio Norwich. And guess what song? ‘Thinking Out Loud’ by Ed Sheeran. I thought, ‘This can’t be bad, Ed’s following me here!’ His song, I reckoned, was definitely popular. But for me, it wasn’t a coincidence. I snapped a memento of that moment. I dropped my bag and danced while Molly watched. My long coat fluttered like a beautiful dress around my legs. Molly dashed over, pawing at the edges. I knew I’d find love here too.The doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there stood a stunning young woman, Lucy. A beautiful girl who looked about 25, with gorgeous hair and a gentle, lovely face. She greeted me shyly and wheeled Betty inside in her chair. I crouched so Betty could see me better and said hello. Lucy leaned in and whispered, 'Mum really doesn’t like new people in her life.' I nodded. Betty looked at me with a serious expression. I knew I couldn’t afford a mistake – that first impression was crucial. People with dementia avoid physical contact, especially from strangers. I asked how she was, pondering the best move. At that moment, Molly appeared, meowing a greeting to Betty and rubbing against my knee. I picked her up and said, 'Molly, Betty is back, say hello Betty.' The look on Betty’s face said it all. I moved closer, letting Betty pet Molly. I touched Betty’s knee and said, 'I love cats too.' Betty laughed and said, 'Me too.' I slipped into her life. Easily, with Molly’s help. Life with her and her family enriched me, teaching me to better understand the English, their culture and traditions. Betty was a mother of six, a woman of great courage and sacrifice. The pandemic hit fast. We spent many days with Lucy, but some just the two of us, Betty and me. The pandemic and virus were relentless. I filled our days reading her stories, practising English, making memory cards that fascinated Betty, listening to our favourite singers Ed Sheeran and Elvis Presley, watching TV, and waiting for good news. Betty had a fascinating talent – she could recite the alphabet backwards quickly and flawlessly. She loved doing it. It sparked an idea that Betty might read. And indeed, she read brilliantly; her family was stunned, thinking dementia had taken that skill. I loved listening to her, improving my English too. That year, she was due to turn 85 but felt like 60. When I’d suggest a top to wear, she’d often say, 'That’s for old grannies.' We’d pick until she approved. She loved walks, then brewed us a proper cuppa and her favourite sausage roll at Rainbow Café, or a pub, sometimes with juice. We went for lunch at a pub for my birthday. Her birthday was one of the loveliest I’ve arranged for my clients – with balloon decorations, flowers, stunning cakes, and Lucy’s brilliant cake, everything was perfect. We celebrated for a week. The finale was a party in her lovely garden with all her children, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Lucy and her husband took us to a restaurant for afternoon tea to mark the birthday. Betty looked magical, wearing the stunning black hat I’d given her and a beautiful white Mozart blouse with frills. That image of Betty in the restaurant is etched in my memory forever. My kids sent a parcel with a gorgeous pink unicorn gift for Betty. She named it Hollie. From that day, she never parted with Hollie. They’d chat with her, share jokes. Hollie only got a bath when I was sure Betty was asleep, as she hated being separated. For Christmas, I went to Tesco and bought three boxes of decorations, came home, and told Betty, 'We have some important work to do.' Her eyes sparkled as she asked what we’d do, and I grabbed her jacket, a blanket, and said, 'Let’s decorate our park.' Lockdown kept shifting, with endless debates about what to do, but I decided Betty and I would do something lovely for our community. We decked out a pine tree in the park and visited it daily. That Christmas was tough but special. It was a symbol of love and hope, not just for me but for the English, especially Betty’s family. Lucy and I prepared everything, decorating the tree and house with Betty – every room glowed with Christmas spirit. The whole family came for a festive lunch. After, I slipped away to call my kids. The phone screen with them on video call felt like my room expanded. It held everything I desperately needed that day – my family. When I hung up, I felt hope slip away. Instead of joining the games and gift-opening downstairs, I only had the strength to reach the bed, wrap myself in a blanket, and send Lucy an apologetic text: 'Dear Lucy, I would stay in the room for a while. I’m fine but I’m sad.' She replied, 'Ok that’s fine if there is anything you need just text me.x' And so it was. She’s my little angel, just like the one from the stocking she gave me this morning. I pulled the blanket over my head. Memories of past Christmases flooded back – Mum, Dad, the kids, Lucky, people we’d lost. Tears streamed down, burning my cheeks. My kids weren’t here to hug, to hold as only a mum does. I was broken because I couldn’t call Mum to hear her voice. Because I no longer have a mum. I cried for the people I miss. I cried because it’s irreplaceable. I cried because no one’s hugged me since Mum passed. I cried for the countless lives lost in the pandemic. I cried for the tough year, the harder Christmas for so many. I cried because I can’t groom Lucky. I mourned so much and fell asleep, just like a little child after a cry. When I woke, I thought of Betty and Lucy. I told myself, 'This isn’t right. Be grateful, Cherry. You’re sad because you have them. Show your gratitude.' Going downstairs, I stood at the door, seeing a true Christmas in the room. Betty, surrounded by love, gifts, and laughter. I could touch, feel, and see the love. Only then did I feel Christmas in my heart – it crept in silently. They welcomed me warmly, like proper English who never pry. They showered me with gifts. Each one, every trinket, was spot-on brilliant, proof they might know me better than some close ones. My English family. I gave them gifts and said, 'Thank you for sharing Christmas with me. It’s not the gifts that matter, but what each means to me.' We stepped into the new year with caution due to the pandemic. We didn’t know what lay ahead, and all my plans were on stand-by. Betty and I did our best. She had a few crises, needing the doctor and hospital visits. But Lucy and I tackled every hurdle, solved each crisis, and Betty recovered quickly. Betty adored all animals, especially donkeys. Lucy donated to a charity, adding Betty’s name, so she ‘adopted’ two little donkeys. That gave me an idea. On Facebook, I saw an agency on Great Yarmouth beach offering donkey rides. I asked Lucy if I could take Betty there. She agreed, and I invited Betty’s daughter-in-law Susan and her daughter to join us. At the beach, I left them with Betty, approached the woman, and said, 'I’m here with a client in a wheelchair; I can’t push her on the sand.' She said, 'We’ll sort that now.' She told me where to bring Betty. When we arrived, she waited with two donkeys for Betty to pet. An incredible scene – Betty, thinking they were her adopted donkeys, thrilled to see them. Dementia takes so much, but these people still love life, have desires, and can live them. Since my first day as a carer, I’ve believed we should fight dementia this way: give clients a chance to be themselves. Often, I’ve witnessed Betty there with us, the Betty before dementia. She built memories and recalled them. Not always, but sometimes, Betty, Lucy, and I emerged as winners from that battle. Life was returning to normal; the pandemic was fading. I knew it was time for me to move on. I returned to Plan A: finding a flat and job in London. That winter, I found an agency offering a guardianship model, volunteering, and flat rental. Living in London didn’t scare me, but meeting people and joining a community did. Volunteering was a brilliant idea to do that. Since arriving in the UK, I’ve strived to learn and educate myself on everything needed if I ever changed jobs or rented a place. For months, I worked on building my credit score, reading laws and forums to understand what makes British life practical, better, and successful. With my clients, I learned about choosing suppliers for my flat, council tax, and small details like which day to put out the bins. The agency I applied to taught me who to contact for repairs or what to do about antisocial behaviour. Being a guardian was an honour – safeguarding property and responding to anything against good conduct or laws in my community. My first test of this newfound knowledge was the application. The next step was the vetting process, where the agency checked my identity, references not just from employers but friends, my credit score, and all needed to confirm I met guardian criteria. Many think foreign people don’t pass such checks. Many don’t know how hard it is to find info on what’s expected of a foreigner. I wanted to change that. Beyond learning daily and practical things from living with the English, I wanted to go further. To be part of a community, someone who contributes, enriches, and improves it. As a foreigner, doing what a citizen does – that was my mission. I passed the vetting and got the flat. The Kensington hotel, Lucy’s message with a photo of dear Betty, brought me back to reality. That morning, I had a video meeting and signed the lease, as in-person contact was still avoided. Another reason I love this country – they’ve so easily integrated modern tech into daily life. On video, we used an app to sign, placing our signatures on each page. At 51, I loved progress making life simpler and leading us forward. Afterwards, I went to East London to the agency’s office for the keys. Leaving the building, I skipped and hummed on my way to the bus stop. My dream was coming true. The flat’s state – empty, dirty, neglected – didn’t dampen my euphoria. I was ready to transform it. I was done being a nomad. This tiny, dirty space was mine, and I would clean it, paint it, and fight for it, just as I had fought for my place in this country. Everything I needed arrived from Stalham by delivery; the sofa and carpet, plus other essentials, were ordered. I had three days to deep-clean, paint the walls, sleep on an airbed until everything arrived to turn that small flat into my little corner, ready for the next battles. A comfy black corner sofa with cushions and covers bearing ‘home’ messages, matching wooden cubes on the sideboard as coasters, a lush new carpet in soft tones, red bowls and coasters, white furniture with elegant red curtains along the full window wall, my first bookshelf, a visit to the local community centre, and an agreement with the manager to help as an interior designer to revamp space for small businesses damaged by flooding. My transition from foreign person to citizen had begun. A photo on the wall of my daughters, whom I’d hugged desperately on my first flight here, still bore ‘You can do it!’ Beside it, a photo with Betty. My 16 months with Betty will remain deeply etched in my memory, heart, and all I plan to achieve. Days before leaving, I took her to a bridge in the next town where people attached padlocks with messages and threw the keys into the river. Betty locked ours on the bridge. I gave her one key, kept the other, and we tossed them into the river together. On the padlock, I wrote, ‘Friends forever Betty & Cherry’. My father taught me that responsibility is never a burden when you love your job. Now, taking on this flat and my Guardianship, I’m embracing a new, greater responsibility: the duty of a citizen. My nomadic life is over. I am no longer just a Carer; I am a community volunteer, an interior designer, and a London resident, committed to building this society from the inside out. This dirty, empty flat is the first real home I’ve earned here—the definitive proof that the path from Foreign to Citizen is complete. With Betty’s love and the British spirit anchoring me, my mission to contribute has just begun.
