The word “beach” applied both to Chéri’s memories of home and to the place where they currently were, but once within the category the long, wide and flat land that touched the sea in Whitby had very little in common with the irregular, sun-kissed rocky land where Chéri had learnt the family trade.
While a seaman mainly needs the water, in whatever form, a fisherman has a strong connection to their own beach, he knows it like the palm of his hands and knows what to ask of it when in need.
Whibty’s beach was’t Chéri’s beach, so their requests weren’t going to be granted just like that, but they could try. A beach could still chose to answer or not.
But what was it they were asking? Well, considering they were quite broke and out of their element here, in Whitby, Chéri needed to find another way to cater to their needs and potentially improve their situation. And one thing they could do is starting to wear feminine clothing again. It was good for business and also, they missed it. But alas, they had nothing of their old wardrobe here, so they were back to square one: building outfits from scratch.
There weren’t going to find gemstones, pearls, silks or velvets here, but they could find a different type of finery to create their own beautiful things. In this case specifically: seashells. And that was how Chéri found themselves walking barefoot, in their shirtsleeves, with their trousers rolled up their calf and a small basket collecting the bits and pieces the sea had decided to leave there for those who were patient enough to collect them, everything while humming under their breath. Their regular Parisian clothes were now in need of a wash, so Chéri was wearing some old shirt and pants that had been lent to them at the diamond pony, their expensive looks temporarily gone.
In this situation, they looked like what they were: someone who had been blessed with natural beauty and grace, but not money nor position, who was finding another way to get what they wanted.
While a seaman mainly needs the water, in whatever form, a fisherman has a strong connection to their own beach, he knows it like the palm of his hands and knows what to ask of it when in need.
Whibty’s beach was’t Chéri’s beach, so their requests weren’t going to be granted just like that, but they could try. A beach could still chose to answer or not.
But what was it they were asking? Well, considering they were quite broke and out of their element here, in Whitby, Chéri needed to find another way to cater to their needs and potentially improve their situation. And one thing they could do is starting to wear feminine clothing again. It was good for business and also, they missed it. But alas, they had nothing of their old wardrobe here, so they were back to square one: building outfits from scratch.
There weren’t going to find gemstones, pearls, silks or velvets here, but they could find a different type of finery to create their own beautiful things. In this case specifically: seashells. And that was how Chéri found themselves walking barefoot, in their shirtsleeves, with their trousers rolled up their calf and a small basket collecting the bits and pieces the sea had decided to leave there for those who were patient enough to collect them, everything while humming under their breath. Their regular Parisian clothes were now in need of a wash, so Chéri was wearing some old shirt and pants that had been lent to them at the diamond pony, their expensive looks temporarily gone.
In this situation, they looked like what they were: someone who had been blessed with natural beauty and grace, but not money nor position, who was finding another way to get what they wanted.
