‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Estella, glancing at Georgia. ‘No one is suggesting you did anything wrong. On the contrary, I can’t imagine there’d be a stick left standing if you hadn’t raised the alarm.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Arthur quietly. He was looking down at the ground, but Georgia could tell that it was worse than either of them had supposed. From the farmer’s expression, she doubted there was a stick left standing at Moonraker.
It was a twenty-five-minute drive to the village. Georgia usually loved trundling along the country roads in Arthur’s bright red Morris Minor, the radio turned up loud, the windows wound right down, but not today. Every yard, every turn of the wheel was bringing her closer and closer to something she wasn’t sure she could bear to see. With silent shame, she recalled the countless times over the past few months she had dismissed the farm as old, backward and unforgivably dull. She could vividly remember strolling along the Seine’s Left Bank with her chic metropolitan friends, mocking the farm with its run-down hen coops and muddy streams. How they had all laughed at the ridiculously out-of-touch farmers and their tiny cottages. But now? Now Georgia would have given anything to see that tumbledown house standing proudly in its yard, the chickens pecking and scratching in the dirt. She wanted to be able to look out of the kitchen window at the distant copse, or lie on her creaky four-poster bed and listen to the sound of the pipes groaning as the old iron bath filled next door. But as they turned into the lane, she knew that she would never do any of those things again. The farm had gone. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
The fire hadn’t just charred the beams and left smoke marks up the chimney; it had completely consumed the house. The brick walls were still standing, but where the shuttered windows and the cheery yellow door had been were gaping holes, like pulled teeth, while the roof was nothing but blackened rafters twisted and cracked by the heat, poking up into the sky like a witch’s fingers.
They climbed out of the car in a trance. ‘It’s gone,’ whispered Estella. ‘It’s all gone.’
‘We can save some of it,’ said Arthur. ‘Them walls is still . . .’ He trailed off.
‘No, Arthur,’ said Estella, shaking her head. ‘Look at it. Everything’s gone.’
A squat woman with a tear-stained face ran over and embraced Arthur. Marjorie Hands looked terrible, white and exhausted, and she seemed to disappear as Arthur put his arms around her.
‘Marjorie,’ said Estella sternly. ‘Have you slept at all?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Then we must find you a bed as a matter of urgency.’
Georgia looked at her mother with surprise. This was a woman who could have a meltdown if she couldn’t find her favourite painting smock, but now, in the midst of all this chaos, she seemed to be rising to the challenge.
‘We were going to go and stay with my sister,’ said Arthur.
‘The sister who lives in Minehead? Heavens, Arthur, that’s two hours’ drive from here. No, you must stay at the Feathers.’
Arthur looked awkward.
‘Actually, I’ve already spoken to Phil at the bar, arranged for you and Miss Georgia to stay there.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Estella firmly. ‘There is only one room at the Feathers; you must take it.’
‘Mum . . .’ said Georgia.
‘No, darling, Marjorie’s need is greater than ours. I’m sure we can make do here. Please, Arthur, be so good as to take her there straight away.’
Georgia watched longingly as the couple silently got into the car and turned back on to the road. There was still a fire engine parked some distance away from the main building, and a cluster of firemen standing by the barn. She pulled her mother to one side, out of earshot of the men.
‘Mum, how are we supposed to “make do” here?’ she said urgently. ‘Look at it, there’s nothing left.’
‘There’s the potting shed, that’s still standing,’ said Estella. ‘And I believe it’s well stocked with horse blankets.’
‘We can’t sleep in the potting shed,’ said Georgia, wide-eyed. Was her mother serious?
‘Well, we’re going to have to start lowering our expectations now, Georgia,’ said Estella.
‘The Feathers is hardly the Ritz.’
‘Now don’t be uncharitable. We are responsible for the Handses, don’t forget. Besides, we are younger and more robust than them. We will be fine.’
She might have been younger than Arthur Hands, but you would be hard pressed to find anyone more delicate or highly strung than Estella Hamilton. The fact that she was seriously contemplating sleeping under horse blankets made Georgia look more closely at her mother. Perhaps the shock had been too much for her. She was about to say something more when a tall man in uniform approached. ‘Mrs Hamilton? I’m Geoffrey Marks, the chief fire officer. I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances.’
Estella offered a dainty hand.
‘Not at all, Mr Marks, it’s kind of you to be here. What can you tell us?’
‘The buildings are too precarious to examine at the moment,’ he said, looking across at the still-smoking ruins. ‘So I could only hazard a guess as to the cause. But I can say the fire seemed to begin over there.’ He pointed towards the studio – or rather, what little was left of it: a chimney breast and a pile of black timber. ‘It then spread to the main farmhouse and across to the annexe where I believe Mr and Mrs Hands live. They were very lucky, I have to say. By the time they woke up, the heat must have been fierce.’