As she walked, her mind drifted to her friend Flip, the only girl from school she had invited home during the holidays. Flip was a quiet girl, but she had a big heart, unlike many of the catty pupils at Sacred Hearts Convent School. Georgia had been aware that Flip was rather nervy at school – so obsessed with cleanliness she had to wipe down the loo seats with surgical spirit. She had worried that her friend would despair at the tip they lived in – Estella had never been particularly concerned with tidiness or indeed any sort of order. But Flip had thrived during her week with the Hamiltons. The girls had gone walking in the Dart Valley, shrimping along the beaches of Blackpool Sands, getting scrapes on their knees, sand in their shoes and dirt under their fingernails. Estella had declared that they looked like little wild girls, with twigs in their hair, and Flip had told Georgia that Moonraker Farm was her idea of paradise. Perhaps she was right. The South Hams looked particularly glorious today. The fields were a patchwork of colours – from the palest yellow to the deepest and most luscious green. To her left was a field of corn with tall yellow flowers punctuated by a rash of scarlet poppies, and every now and then she would get a flash of the distant sea, glinting in the sun.
The first pub she came across – the Swan – did not have rooms, and the guest house at the crossroads was full. But Georgia found a Vacancies sign outside a little Bed and Breakfast just a mile outside Dartmouth. Seeking out the wizened old owner – she had to be at least eighty, Georgia guessed – she managed to bargain her down to a pound a night. Having secured accommodation for two nights at least, she pressed on down the hill into Dartmouth, the tang of salt in the air getting stronger as she drew closer to the harbour. The tiny post office on the winding high street was still open, the postmistress just beginning to cash up, although she grudgingly allowed Georgia to buy a pad of paper, a thick black crayon and a packet of drawing pins. Georgia winced at the cost – suddenly every last penny seemed vital – but she knew that helping Mr and Mrs Hands was the right thing. She felt awful about accusing Arthur earlier – there was no way he would ever have done anything to endanger Estella or her family. Besides, without Moonraker Farm, the elderly couple were in exactly the same situation as Georgia and her mother, and she couldn’t let Estella shoulder the additional burden of looking after them. She walked down to the quayside and sat on the wall, dangling her feet over the edge, her eyes drifting across the River Dart to the boats bobbing on the silvery-green water. She tapped the crayon against her lips thoughtfully, then began to write.
LOST HOME IN FIRE
Hard-working mature couple available for work.
Lodging preferred. Contact Arthur Hands at the Feathers, Capton.
She nodded with satisfaction – short but to the point, and once she had posted them all around town it would certainly have an impact. She used all fifty sheets of paper, nailing her posters to noticeboards, trees and telegraph poles, using one of her stout walking shoes to bang in the drawing pins: wouldn’t do to have them blow away now that she’d gone to all this effort.
Happy with her handiwork, Georgia set off back up the hill towards the farm, snaking back through copses and overgrown country lanes as the sun slowly sank behind her, leaving a chill in the air. It wasn’t until she got close to the farm and caught the scent of charred wood on the breeze that she remembered with a jolt what was waiting for her at the end of that little lane.
She found Estella picking through the debris in her studio, her back bent like a coat hanger. From this distance she looked like an old woman, her face as pale as the ash settled on the fence posts.
‘Darling, you’ve been ages,’ she said, straightening up with some effort. ‘I was worried.’
Georgia bit her lip as she saw the pathetic collection of items her mother had dragged from the dirt: an oil lamp, a charred picture frame, a blackened teapot. She couldn’t cry now; today had been all about being positive, about doing things, not looking backwards. She had to be strong for Estella’s sake.
‘The fire officer told you not to go in there,’ she said.
‘Nonsense!’ said Estella, rubbing her hands on her already filthy skirt. ‘As if there’s anything else to collapse. Anyway, I thought I might find . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Silly really. I’m going to have to get used to the idea that it’s all gone, aren’t I?’
‘Well, I’ve found us somewhere to stay – that black and white B and B outside Dartmouth. Apparently their bookings don’t pick up until midsummer, so we have plenty of time to sort things out.’
Her mother’s eyes opened wide.
‘Oh no. We can’t stay in Devon,’ she with astonishment. ‘No, no. It’s out of the question.’
‘But Mother,’ said Georgia, gesturing towards the ruined farm, ‘there’s so much to do. We can’t go back to Chelsea and behave as if nothing has happened.’
‘Well, we can’t do anything here,’ said Estella. ‘Not until we get some money anyway. No, we shall go back to London and I’ll begin straight away.’
‘Begin what?’
‘Finding a man, of course,’ said Estella.
‘A . . . man?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t have to love him,’ said Estella airily. ‘No one will ever replace your father. This is simply a practical step, a career move really. I will wear neutral clothes, a touch of make-up and cut my hair – I am too old for long hair now.’
‘But Mother, you don’t need to change.’
‘Oh, but I do. All this,’ she indicated her unkempt appearance, ‘all this is scaring men away. I’m too unusual.’
Too eccentric, too highly strung, too artistic. That was what she meant. Bohemian. Fast. All the words Georgia had heard whispered behind her back by so-called society women jealous of Estella’s beauty. But she supposed they might have a point when it came to securing a husband. After all, her mother had hardly been snowed under with offers since the war. There had been interest, of course, but there had been gossip too. Marina and her friends laughing at the artistic Estella Hamilton, insinuating things, giggling and whispering.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Georgia.
‘Of course, we have no secrets, darling.’
‘Did you sleep with those men?’
‘Which men?’ said Estella, her face going even paler.
‘The men who asked you to paint their wives’ pictures.’
Estella looked away.