That Would Be a Fairy Tale - By Amanda Grange Page 0,3

by an angry matron - or by Miss Cicely Haringay. Miss Haringay, from what he could make out, was a determined spinster who spent her life running Sunday schools and engaging in charitable works.

He knew the type: a monstrous battle-axe with a ramrod back and enormous bosom who liked nothing better than telling everyone else what to do. But instead, he had been confronted by a slight, appealing girl, whose cycling skirt had given him a satisfying view of her shapely calf and neatly-turned ankle, and he found he was looking forward to meeting her again. For all her high-and-mighty manner, there had been something very engaging about her.

Reluctantly, he brought his thoughts back to the present. He needed his wits about him if he were to remember the directions he had been given and arrive safely at the Manor. He drove on for a while, but by and by his face began to settle into a frown. He had the feeling he had gone too far and overshot the mark.

A few minutes later he was sure of it. He was in the village no longer, but heading out towards open countryside. There was nothing for it. He would have to turn round and try again.

He drove more slowly this time, his eyes searching for any sign of the Manor. It was barely visible from the road, his agent had said, but a lodge and a pair of fine gates gave evidence of its position. At last he saw the Lodge, a low, square building, and began to edge the Daimler forward more confidently.

Yes, that was it.

He reached the gates and turned into a long drive which wound between acres of verdant lawns. Despite himself, he was impressed. Although he may not have bought the Manor with the intention of making it his home, he still could not help admiring the sweeping lawns, the venerable trees and the herd of deer that grazed peacefully in the dappled sunlight beneath them.

Another bend of the drive and he caught sight of the house itself. It was far more sprawling than he had imagined, and presented a hotch-potch appearance, as though successive generations of Haringays had added to it, each in the style of their own era. A Tudor wing adjoined the main section, which appeared to be in the Georgian style, whilst a turret at the corner rose fantastically into the sky and spoke of the recently-departed Victorian age. But despite its hotch-potch appearance - or perhaps because of it - it had a warm and welcoming feel.

In another few minutes he pulled up in front of Oakleigh Manor. His eye wandered up an impressive flight of steps that led to the front door.

At the top of the steps was his younger brother, Roddy.

Roddy ran down the stone steps and cast his eye over the Daimler. He was twenty-four years of age and was fashionably dressed in a jacket and a pair of trousers with knife-sharp creases. His hair was sandy and his face good-humoured.

‘What kept you, Alex? Car trouble?’ Roddy asked. ‘You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.’

‘The motor’s fine.’ Alex got out of the car, closing the door with a satisfying thunk! ‘I had a slight accident, that’s all.’

‘You haven’t scratched the paintwork?’ asked Roddy anxiously, running his eyes over the bodywork.

Alex raised one dark eyebrow. ‘What do you take me for? Strictly speaking, I wasn’t the one who had the accident - although I didn’t escape unscathed,’ he said as they walked up the steps. He glanced down at his trousers, which were wet and muddy round the bottom of each leg.

‘If not you, who then?’ asked Roddy, taking in Alex’s wet trousers with amusement.

‘It was a young woman. A bicyclist. She came careering down the hill by the forge and almost crashed into me as she rounded the corner. It was only by some efficient manoeuvring that she managed to avoid the car . . . ’

Roddy breathed a sigh of relief. ‘No harm done, then.’

‘I wouldn’t quite say that,’ laughed Alex, taking off his driving gloves as they went into the Manor. ‘She ended up in the duck pond!’

‘Not hurt, I hope?’ asked Roddy.

‘Would I be laughing if she was? No, of course not. The only thing she hurt was her pride. Of which she seemed to have more than her fair share.’

‘I hope she wasn’t anyone important. The success of our scheme lies in your being accepted here. You need the goodwill of