Georgie had made a mental list of things she wanted: a series of prints illustrating the Song of Songs by Lettice Sandford, the portrait of Celia’s mother that some friend of Augustus John’s had painted in the 1930s. The little armchair from her childhood bedroom. She felt she ought to want something that her mother had made: one of the bits of crude appliqué Celia had experimented with in the 1980s, or a blanket she’d crocheted. The childishness of her endeavours was at such odds with the acerbic, demanding woman who had crafted them. For someone who’d set such store by art, she had had no talent of her own, and only occasional enthusiasm; but perhaps that had been one source of her anger. Georgie certainly wanted a share of her father’s drawings and sculpted heads. His studio had remained untouched after his death, all his materials still there, as if he might return at any minute. Now it would have to be emptied, for Skye to convert it into a space for what Georgie privately thought of as her pseudo-mystical PE classes.

Cass seemed to be giving her first dibs, which was reasonable, given that she was going to take ownership of the actual house. Jake hadn’t had grandparents on his father’s side, so Georgie was especially set on the idea that he should choose a few things to remember Nick and Celia by. He’d enjoyed going to the farm, being doted on by Celia. Georgie had felt fonder of her mother then than at any other time, watching her with Jake.

It was curious how denuded the place felt without the presiding force of Celia. The sparseness of the downstairs rooms now looked threadbare rather than daringly artistic, as it had seemed when the sisters were younger. The rugs were stained with ancient dog pee or wine, the rush seats of the chairs and settles darkened and split. Georgie saw that what was lovely about the house was the rooms themselves, their high ceilings and tall windows, rather than the stuff in them. Only the kitchen felt as it always had, cosy and welcoming and dishevelled.