The Three Essentials
February 2019. Krk Island‘Welcome!’ That was one of my first English phrases, pieced together with effort. The air hostess flashed a warm smile as I lingered on the plane’s gangway, my hand trembling on the railing. I managed a wobbly smile back, though my heart was pounding. I turned for one lingering glance at my Dalmatia—Krk’s green slopes, the salty tang of the sea woven into my childhood. I didn’t doubt my decision, but a timid voice whispered, ‘What if you mess it up?’ The thought flashed as I stepped inside. Not my first wobble, mind you. ‘Višnja, you’re off to London,’ I murmured. The urge to shout ‘I can do it!’ was strong, but the words stayed in my head. Still, that whisper sparked a quiet courage, filling me as I settled into my seat.This journey into the unknown began long before today. It started with learning English, shedding old prejudices, and packing my life into one suitcase. This wasn’t my first time leaving home—the war in Vojvodina in 1992 had already shattered our dreams. Now, in my own fight for a better life, I was leaving Dalmatia, my second home. ‘You never throw in the towel, do you, Višnja?’ my inner voice teased. Not even at fifty.In my bag were three essentials: a book, for when my English felt too shaky; a photo of my daughters, to keep me going; and my make-up, a bit of armour to mask doubt. At fifty, make-up is proper essential, I thought, recalling my godmother’s advice: ‘Slap on your red lipstick, pop on your red heels, and conquer the world!’I sank into my seat, peering out. The clouds danced in a magical sky, their colours stealing my breath. Heights had always scared me silly, but up here, I found an odd calm. A feather-light brush of joy nudged me forward. ‘I’ve done it. I’m on the plane,’ I told myself.Then the memory of parting with my daughters hit like a wave. Had I made a terrible mistake? ‘No tears, Višnja,’ I ordered, scrolling through photos from our farewell—smiles, hugs, words of encouragement. I closed my eyes, letting those moments carry me. Sleep? Slim chance—I was too wired, hadn’t slept for nights.As the plane descended, London’s twinkling lights appeared. I stared, awestruck, wondering, Could my life be as vibrant, as bold, as this city? I pulled out my daughters’ framed photo. Fear crept back. I needed them—us four, grinning together. ‘You’re my three female musketeers,’ I’d told them. ‘No, Mum, four!’ my eldest shot back, their laughter echoing as if they were here. Scrawled beneath were their words: ‘You can do it! Woman, mother, queen, we love you!’ I clutched the frame to my chest, whispering, ‘I’m here, my darlings.’ I fired off a text.At Heathrow, queuing for immigration, I recalled my research about Britain. Brits love their spreadsheets and dry humour—especially about queuing. Stick to the queue, follow the rules, and you’ll get your due, they say. I chuckled, muttering, ‘Welcome to Britain, Višnja!’ and joined the queue like a proper Brit. Nearby, a chap played Ed Sheeran to his girlfriend, who gazed adoringly: ‘Place your head on my beating heart… Maybe we found love right where we are.’ My teacher Ivana’s advice rang true—learn English through songs. I’d fallen for Ed’s music. Those lyrics, about finding love right where you are, hit me perfectly. You’ll find what you need, Višnja.I needed the coach to Salisbury. Panic bubbled up. Overwhelmed by the sprawling airport and my wobbly English, I recalled my friend’s words from Krk: ‘It’s all signposted, Višnja. Look up, read, you won’t get lost.’ He’d lived here, loved it, and was sure I’d chosen right. He’d hosted me before my flight, driven me to the airport—proper mate, that. Around me, voices blurred, like my dad’s old phrase for the unknown: a ‘Spanish village.’ The accents, speed, crowds—I felt faint for a moment. I took a deep breath. Višnja, this is a test, I told myself. If you can’t sort Heathrow and find the coach, you’ve no business here. Focus! Ivana would’ve agreed.A kind gentleman approached. ‘You alright, love?’ he asked. I blurted, ‘I need to go to Salisbury.’ He smiled. ‘Brilliant! Let me help.’ Ivana’s rule echoed: Never skip please and thank you. ‘Sorry, it’s my first time in London. I’m a bit panicked. Please help, thank you,’ I said, flustered. He chuckled, showing his airport badge—safe hands. ‘From panic to safety in one step—sometimes a bloody big one,’ I thought, following him. He told the coach driver, ‘Mate, look after this lovely lady. First time in the UK.’ To me, ‘Good luck, love!’ I thanked him, waving.On the coach, passengers chatted, laughed, swapped stories. Their English—fast, unfamiliar accents—was a blur. But I caught snippets from the couple ahead, nattering about dinner in Salisbury, rain, family waiting. My heart swelled. Višnja, you can do it! Ivana’s lessons were woven into every word I grasped. Sleep dodged me—my daughters’ faces swirled whenever I shut my eyes, their laughter vivid.Soon, I was in a Salisbury taxi. Ed Sheeran came on. ‘Is that Sheeran?’ I gasped. The driver nodded, asking if I wanted it off. ‘No, no, I love him!’ I said, passing the address on a scrap of paper. Spelling matters to Brits—they’re particular. In the back seat, I mused with Ed: Will I find love here—respect, opportunity? The driver pulled up to a charming house on a hill, red doors bold. I stared, breathless. I’ve made it. ‘Excited?’ he asked. ‘More like terrified,’ I laughed. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ he said, leaving my suitcase, wishing me luck.I pressed the bell, its chime cutting the quiet night. No answer. Fear crept in—midnight, what if no one’s here? The driver waited, calling, ‘Don’t worry, ring again.’ After the third ring, Mrs Panworthen appeared, a petite gran with a hearing aid. ‘Welcome, sorry, I don’t hear well,’ she chuckled. Relief flooded me. I waved to the driver, thanking him as he shouted, ‘Told you it’d be fine! Take care!’ I called, ‘You too!’ Bravo, Višnja, keep talking.She led me through a lavender-scented hallway, floral wallpaper lined with photos. ‘This is my family,’ she said softly. My throat tightened, picturing my own photo-covered wall in Dalmatia. ‘Lovely pictures,’ I whispered, holding back tears. My room had ornate furniture, a brocade bedspread, a little radio. Quintessentially British. In the mirror, my pale, tired face; behind me, Mrs Panworthen in her dressing gown, hair in a bun, eyes curious. A proper lady, even in her nightclothes.‘Croatia?’ she asked. ‘Yes, ex-Yugoslavia. Know Tito?’ ‘Blimey, Tito!’ she exclaimed. ‘Handsome, but a dictator. You’re too young for that.’ ‘Not that young,’ I laughed. ‘Eleven when he died.’ She sighed, ‘Sorry about the war. All wars are daft.’ ‘Thank you,’ I murmured, the weight of history in her words. ‘Children?’ she asked. I showed her my daughters’ photo. She read aloud: ‘You can do it! Woman, mother, queen, we love you!’ Her eyes flicked between us. ‘Beautiful daughters! You’re a brave woman,’ she said, touching my shoulder. I nearly crumbled. She squeezed my hand. ‘It’ll be alright.’She offered tea, grinning, ‘Have a rest. Radio works if you fancy music. Nighty night.’ I thanked her, wishing goodnight. I turned on Capital Radio. Get used to it, Višnja. Let it play. I lay on the bed, dressed, clutching my daughters’ photo. Tears rolled—safe, alone, I could let them fall. The radio played: ‘Maybe we found love right where we are.’ No coincidence. Joyful tears now. I’d made it. Thank you, Ivana, for my dream. That sky linked me to my daughters, however far. I promised Ed—and myself—I’d find what I needed here.I turned off the radio, clutching my daughters’ picture. My heart was no longer just Dalmatian; it was finding its rhythm in a land of decency and opportunity. I arrived on these shores as a foreigner, but the kindness of strangers—from the man at Heathrow to Mrs. Panworthen—showed me that a citizen’s heart is built on respect and contribution, not merely a passport. I had begun my journey to earn my place.
