He took them around the farm, taking care not to get too close, and it was only then that Georgia could see the true extent of the destruction. There was literally nothing left. Paintings, carpets, curtains, even that creaky four-poster bed, all reduced to ashes.
‘When I go back to the station, I’ll make a few calls,’ said Mr Marks. ‘I’m sure we can find you temporary digs. You can stay with me and my family if needs be.’
Georgia almost smiled at that. She was sure that no one she knew in London, even with their huge houses, would have offered to personally put them up. And to think I was mocking the country, she thought, her face flushing.
They stood there alone and watched as the fire engine turned back into the lane and disappeared.
‘Oh Georgia,’ whispered Estella.
Georgia held her mother as she sobbed into her shoulder. It was as if she had been holding herself together while other people were there – that British stiff upper lip – but now that they were alone, all her anguish, all her heartbreak was pouring out.
‘Come on, it’s not that bad,’ said Georgia uncertainly. ‘Look, there are still walls. We can rebuild it.’
‘What with?’ asked her mother. ‘How will we pay for it? There was no insurance. And everything we owned was inside those buildings.’
Her voice was trembling now, her earlier stoicism replaced by open distress, her body shaking.
‘Then we will do it ourselves.’
‘How? I don’t even possess a paintbrush any more.’
‘I have my savings from the coffee shop,’ said Georgia. ‘Almost forty pounds.’
‘That’s sweet, darling. But how far do you think that is going to get us? Will it pay to rebuild the farm? Will it pay for a new apartment when Peter’s friend returns from Cairo in the autumn and wants his place back? The war widow’s pension isn’t very much, believe me. I just don’t see how we’re going to get by.’
‘We will,’ said Georgia firmly, squeezing her mother’s slim shoulders. ‘And remember, we’ve got each other, that’s the most important thing.’
‘I suppose,’ said Estella, but she didn’t sound convinced.
‘Besides,’ said Georgia, determined to look on the bright side, ‘we didn’t lose every
thing in the fire. We have all our things in London. And you still have those paintings you did for the exhibition last Christmas.’
‘You mean the paintings that didn’t sell.’
Estella looked towards the black pile of the farm.
‘There’s nothing left of him,’ she said in a whisper.
Georgia knew what she was talking about. Him: her father. Everything they had owned of James Hamilton had been stored in three large trunks and scattered around the house here and there: photographs, mementoes, letters, clothes, all the things that could not be replaced even if they had bucketloads of money. Every last scrap of paper, every last hint of him had gone in the fire. It was as if he had been wiped from history.
Georgia hugged her mother again. There was nothing else she could say. Finally she stepped back and took a deep breath.
‘Right, I’m going for a walk.’
‘Where to?’ frowned Estella.
‘There are three pubs and a guest house between here and Dartmouth. One of them is bound to have vacancies. I’m not convinced the potting shed will be very comfortable.’
‘Darling, it’s almost four o’clock. It will be getting dark by the time you’ve walked to Dartmouth and back.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, swinging her bag over her hip. ‘Why don’t you stroll down to the Feathers and check on the Handses? Perhaps Arthur has some ideas about rebuilding the farm.’
Georgia felt better as she tramped across the meadow. She felt less helpless now she had a purpose, plus she needed to get away from that horrible burnt-out shell and everything it represented. In front of her were fields and a glimmer of the sea. Behind her was a life she couldn’t go back to even if she wanted to.
She breathed in the warm air, smelling the cut grass and the meadow flowers, the constant buzz of bees everywhere.
If only we could just build a cosy nest out of nothing, like the bees do, she thought.