When my mum picks up my WhatsApp video call, she’s on the beach. As we chat, I watch her take small sips from a wet can of lager, dodging the hairy men in budgie smugglers who try to pass behind her. Inevitably, I’ll spend most of our conversation staring at her earlobe, since she’ll press the phone against her head in order to hear my various life updates over the screeching sound of holidaymakers frolicking in the shallow water. If the connection’s good enough, I might be able to make out her excitement about the pink bikini she’s just bought, or get the gossip from the local scuba shop, with its dramas that are more exciting than a soap opera’s.
My two younger brothers and I are in that strange limbo period between being ex-teenagers and actual responsible grown-ups
Along with my action-man stepdad, my mum decided to up sticks and head to Malta seven years ago. Malta, in case you haven’t visited, is a rustic little Mediterranean island between Sicily and the northern tip of Africa. Think orange beaches, parasols, and an average daily temperature of between 27 and 30 degrees. Bliss, basically. The other major benefit of this particular archipelago is that one of their two official languages is English, which means our national inability to speak a second language isn’t an issue. Local waiters have no problem understanding ‘two pints and a plate of chips’.
There are around five million Brits living abroad, mostly in Spain, France, and Italy (although any place with bars which show the Premier League seem to appeal). Before my parents escaped the country themselves, I assumed these swarms of expats were all childless retirees, each ruddy and leisurely in their orthopaedic sandals and cotton John Lewis polo tops. They were mostly grandmas and grandads, I imagined, senior bus-pass owners looking to blow their swelling pensions on a spell in the sunshine. How could forty- or fifty-somethings leave behind the UK when there was still so much they’d have to leave behind? Their kids, for a start.
My two younger brothers and I are in that strange limbo period between being ex-teenagers and actual responsible grown-ups. The two of them are still at university, with no idea how to boil an egg or fold a fitted sheet. I am almost 24, and in some ways have already learnt the ropes of adulthood, yet if I fall out with a friend (common) or have a medical emergency (uncommon) the very first thing I do is call my mum to weepily ask her what to do. Too often, when trying to get hold of her in a crisis, I accidentally dial her old UK phone number instead of her international one and end up wasting a minute or two listening to the cruel ringing tones instead of actually getting her sound advice.
This summer, I flew out to stay with her for a month. Partly it was an excuse for a break, to sunbathe, swim and eat calamari, but it also felt strangely like a return to a childhood home, despite the fact I’d never lived there, or indeed anywhere that isn’t the depths of the English countryside. All of a sudden, I was my teenage self again, moping through the sweltering kitchen to rest my head on mum’s angular shoulder and snivel about something unimportant. I wondered how it could be that my parents were the ones who had flapped their wings and migrated somewhere with warm weather and proper coffee. I was the child in this scenario – surely the person starting a new life elsewhere was supposed to be me?
Ultimately, the problem with expat parents is that they’re living the lives their kids dream of but can’t make happen, especially after Brexit put a stop to any freedom of movement. My mum is one of my best friends, but that doesn’t stop me wallowing in resentment when I discover she’s having a cheap, fruity cocktail at midday on a Wednesday and I’m trapped like a knotty version of Rapunzel in the grey turrets of rainy London. Returning to the UK last week, I was especially disheartened by the 1,300-odd miles which separate the two of us. I couldn’t work it out: was the feeling just post-holiday blues? Or was it because I’d simply prefer not to have to book a flight every time I need a hug?
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