Jennifer Albon Burns 

Sea foam

I watched the long grass wave back and forth in front of the ocean. The field was a muted green, the sea a middling blue. A patch of grass had dried to the yellowed off-white of straw. It was a pleasant landscape; a nice colour palette, I thought. A clothing company could come out here for a research trip and colour-match this scene. Then make a nice range of expensive jumpers, one in each shade.

I had my navy blue jumper on that day, with the fine, chain-like knit all over, the snag on the left sleeve. The material was a little thin. I’d have been far cosier wearing one of the imaginary jumpers; how much more luxurious they’d be. I could have visited the brand’s non-existent shop one Sunday afternoon and run my hand over the fine array of knits, then picked the one I liked best. The jumpers would be arranged by colour and the names would sound expensive; breeze blue, sea foam green. Eggshell, perhaps. Or oatmeal. Not both, though. Never both. Eggshell wouldn’t sit well next to oatmeal. People wouldn’t be able to tell the difference and it would make them feel embarrassed and unsophisticated.

The shop would sell sunglasses and candles too, with one as extravagantly priced as the other. Costly sunglasses are one thing. At least you can argue that it’s an investment. A pair could last for many summers to come, maybe for decades. So even for the priciest of pairs, there might be some logic behind the purchase. Yes, I could just about get on board with the overpriced sunglasses, so long as their owner kept them in a sturdy case and didn’t absentmindedly fling them into a canyon or something on their next trip abroad. But a candle was another matter entirely. A candle wouldn’t even make it through the winter. It’s funny – how people don’t mind paying a lot for something that they plan to set fire to and burn down to nothing. So long as they feel luxurious doing it.

Honestly though, I preferred my own navy jumper over the imaginary ones. I’d bought it years earlier in the charity shop with the flickering light. I got all my clothes second-hand. Some people preferred previously-owned clothing because they liked to think about the history of a garment. Or they wanted to consider the environment. Or they couldn’t afford new ones. I didn’t have much money but in my case it was more that new clothes made me nervous. When I wore them, I’d tense up. I wasn’t myself. I felt better when something had already been worn in by another person. It was too much pressure otherwise, giving an item its first forays into the world. As if the clothing had important plans to carry out and I were somehow letting it down.

I stood waiting by the ocean for a bus to take me inland. I was starting to worry. I concentrated on the waving grass, the rolling waves. In my mind, I furnished the imaginary luxury goods shop. It had wooden floors and only sold about twenty items, in all. I even started to invent its workers, who were very chic, albeit aloof with me. I stood by one of the racks, fumbling with a price tag. But all of that only passed the time for so long. There was one bus a day which I’d either missed or it wasn’t running. My suitcase was there at my feet and a small bag containing my passport and I didn’t know what to do.

Actually, it wasn’t true that I never bought new clothes. A couple of months earlier I’d bought something on a whim. Not from a physical shop but online, where I’d been spending most of my time outside of work, what with having little else to do. I’d scrolled through pages and pages of items, modelled by better-looking people than anyone I’d ever met. And I’d convinced myself that everything would change if I bought myself an overpriced cardigan. That’s probably the unconscious reason I started thinking about knitwear, in fact, while standing at the bus stop.

On the website the colour had been listed as fawn, which meant light brown. And oversized, which meant baggy. And a very nice cardigan it was too, arriving all wrapped in white tissue paper like a beautiful rustling baby. But when I tried it on for the first time the same anxiety swept over me as always. It was too new. I couldn’t imagine ever drinking or eating anywhere in its vicinity. I didn’t dare move my arms back and forth. Wouldn’t that cause pilling? I was terrified of setting off the inevitable process of wear – the knitwear felt too precious, just like new things always did. I cursed myself for squandering the small amount of money I’d managed to save, folded the cardigan carefully and placed it in its own drawer. A few days later I was getting ready for work and forced myself to try again. The same feeling came over me as soon as I left my hostel. I walked as slowly as I could, arms pressed to my sides. I was stricken by fear all morning. By lunchtime I couldn’t bear it anymore – I needed some time away from it. I carefully refolded the cardigan and left it out front. When I came back for it later, it had disappeared. The next week I saw it in the window of a second-hand shop on the main shopping street. Even at the knock-down price I could no longer afford it.

The bus was nowhere in sight so I followed the winding path down to the beach. Once there, it was hard to pull my suitcase along because the wheels sunk into the sand and wouldn’t turn. I had to sort of drag it halfway to the sea. I sat down. I had my head in my hands and my cheeks were all wet. Like I said, it was a windy day; I’d watched the grass blowing ferociously all morning. On the beach, the wind seemed to be making a game of summoning up tears and then spilling them down my face, over and over. I looked along the beachfront and saw a figure. He had a paintbrush in his hand and was standing before an easel. I hadn’t noticed him earlier. We were the only ones along the stretch of sand.

I couldn’t hear anything over the sea, but I saw his raised hand. He was calling me over. What with him being a fair ways off, he beckoned with his whole arm. Part of me didn’t want to go – it was difficult to speak to new people, plus my face was probably all puffy and damp. But there was also the built-in human neediness in me, to talk to someone. It was this reflex that brought me to my feet.

Once I got up close to him he said something I didn’t understand. This was a running theme for all the time I’d lived there. With rudimentary vocabulary I apologised and told him I couldn’t speak much of the language. He seemed to half-understand me and I him.

He pointed back up the bank, towards the village I’d just come from.

–I’ve seen – – –, he said. – – and – – – – cafe.

–Cafe? I asked.

–The – – – – little one –  south road?

–Cafe, I repeated, struggling to translate.

He nodded.

–Yes, I work there, I said. In my haste I didn’t conjugate to the past tense.

Had he been a customer? I hardly saw the patrons. I mostly stayed in the back room making sandwiches and such. With my lack of language and lack of willingness to try, my boss had correctly deduced that I wasn’t the customer-facing type.

The man and I had some patchy back and forth about the cafe and he either called the owner a dear acquaintance or a complete cow. I didn’t ask him to go into it. The man pointed back towards my suitcase.

–You go, mrs?

My interpretation was lacking. His sentence was far more put together than this.

–Oh yes I.. leave. I threaded each word clumsily onto the last. I was supposed to stay but. Now, no. I shook my head. I met someone and live.. together. But it’s over.

–Romance? He might have said, slowly nodding. He rubbed his chin.

I glanced at the painting. It seemed to be finished, or at least it looked that way to me. There was the view, replicated in miniature. The strip of sand, the middling blue of the sea. Moments earlier, he must have been adding white churn onto the ocean and the wet paint glinted in the light. The waves seem to leap off the page. I wanted to tell him as much but I knew already I possessed no word for churn.

–I like your painting, is all I attempted to say.

He nodded and motioned towards the canvas. He said something else. I didn’t catch any of it.

–I’m sorry? I asked.

He batted my words away, shoo shooing an apology I hadn’t intended to make. He pointed at the suitcase again and I could only catch an approximation of the sentence.

–When or how or why are you leaving? he asked

–Leaving. Yes, soon. Because I... lost my partner.

With this, his eyes turned glassy. He gazed out at the real-world churn.

–Oh no, he said. Poor thing. Small dog. Life – difficult. One moment…  the next.

He opened his fingers wide on both hands.

I considered all the mistranslations I’d made since moving there. All the poorly-rendered meaning I would leave in my wake.

A duffel bag sat at his feet with a few protruding brushes. He crouched and pulled out a bundle of rags. Inside it was a small bottle of vodka which he offered to me. Unwise, I thought, to accept beverages from a near-stranger on a desolate beach. So I took only a small sip before handing the bottle back. He raised it in the air and then to his lips. He swigged then poured the rest onto the canvas, sending streaks down the landscape. Before I could stop him he had taken a box of matches from his pocket and lit one – how he did this with the breeze going I don’t know. He tossed the lit match towards the painting. The fire took hold immediately and the landscape was engulfed.

–No, I said, shaking my head and reaching out my arms. Why... do?

He grinned and mimicked an explosion with his fingertips.

–Poof, he said. This small gesture didn’t need to be translated, at least. And just like that, it’s gone  – – life  – –  but don’t – – doesn’t matter.

I smiled sheepishly and nodded, admiring his coastal scene through the flames. It was a very good likeness. It had been. Before long a hole appeared in the ocean. Soon, only the wooden frame remained. The breeze blew the flames and the man started to swat at what was left with one of the rags. I shivered a little. The man noticed and crouched over the duffel bag again, pulling out a larger bundle which he pushed in my direction.

–Oh, no. I said. No... Mr.

He was insistent, waving the material at me to indicate that I take it. The brown cardigan flapped in the wind, his arm a very short flagpole.

A moment later I was wrapping it around myself as he packed up his materials. He must have worn it a fair few times; there were a couple of streaks of paint on the arm now. One of the buttons was coming loose. I even noticed some slight pilling on the fabric. But it was comfortable, like coming back to an old friend. And with none of the awkwardness of our initial meeting.

The man and I started back to where I’d left my suitcase. I hugged the cardigan around myself as we walked, warming up faster than when all the hostel radiators had malfunctioned and couldn’t be turned off. We left the beach in near-silence. Soon we were back by the stop, looking over the sea. The wind blew his hair back and forward across his forehead, the same colour as straw, the light yellow of sunshine in a child’s drawing. He pointed up the road, in the direction of the main street.

–I walk, he pointed. This way.

–Ok.

–Yes?

–Well it was nice to. Thank you.

–You – – now?

–Thank you, yes.

–And – – where – – going? he asked then.

I searched for the words.