That Would Be a Fairy Tale Read Free Page A

the watering can would restore it to most of its former glory. The handlebars she had already managed to bend back into shape. They had not been badly damaged, fortunately, and it had been an easy matter to put them straight.
    She went down the garden to the shed and fetched the watering can and then cleaned the bicycle herself: Gibson had enough to do, without cleaning her bicycle as well.
    Having successfully carried out her task she left her bicycle drying in the warm June sunshine and went into the house. Avoiding Gibson,  her butler, who had refused to leave her service no matter how impecunious she had become, she made her way up to the bedroom where she stripped off her wet things.
    Her short black boots were first, followed by her fawn gaiters, which she unbuttoned with the help of a button hook. Then came her divided skirt, her drawers, her shirt and her chemise. They would have to be cleaned, but that was a problem for later on. Right now, she wanted to clean herself.
    She ran a bath, thankful for the fact that the Lodge had had plumbing installed in one of her father’s rare bursts of enthusiasm for something other than his beloved bicycles. But she noted with a sigh that the range must not be working properly as the water was not very hot. Nevertheless, it would have to do.
    Slipping into the tepid water she gave both herself and her hair a thorough wash, rubbing her hair dry with a towel before dressing herself in fresh, clean clothes.
    Unlike most other young ladies of one-and-twenty, Cicely did not have a maid, and in fact had never had one. Her dear father had had very little idea about a young lady’s needs, and her mother, alas, had died when Cicely had been a young child. And since her father’s death, Cicely had discovered that his unworldliness had resulted in a mountain of debts, so that she had been unable to hire one. As a result, by dint of choosing the most suitable clothes, she had grown proficient in the art of dressing and undressing herself.
    She slipped on a clean pair of lace-trimmed knickers. After them came her bosom amplifier. She loved the pretty camisole with its row upon row of tiny frills sewn across the front and as she fastened it, her body began to take on a fashionable shape. She followed it with her lace-trimmed petticoat and glanced at the whalebone corset at the back of her wardrobe, but without assistance it was impossible for her to put on.
    Looking through her clothes, she pondered what to wear. After some thought she decided on a white blouse with a lace corsage and a lilac skirt. She put on the blouse and then slipped into the skirt, smoothing its long, flowing lines over her hips and tweaking the short train which trailed behind it.
    Having dressed herself, she arranged her damp hair and, looking in the mirror, was not dissatisfied. Knowing their poverty, she had bought a few good clothes and, with care, they would last her for years.
    She heard a sound outside and caught sight of Alice walking down the drive. Within minutes Alice , a childhood friend who came and went as though she were one of the family, entered her bedroom.
    ‘Such news,’ said Alice without preamble, throwing herself down on the bed. ‘You’ll never guess – goodness, Cicely, what happened to your clothes?’ she asked, seeing the muddy clothes in the corner.
    ‘I had an accident. I fell off my bicycle.’
    ‘That’s not like you,’ said Alice .
    ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ Cicely’s desire to confide in her friend overcame her pride. ‘I was coming down the hill by the forge and I’d just turned the corner when I saw a motor car right in front of me. I had to swerve to avoid a crash, and I ended up in the duck pond.’ It was too much. The memory of the accident, now that she was dry and fresh and safely back at the Lodge, was so ridiculous that she had to laugh.
    ‘Oh, Cicely, how awful!’ laughed Alice . ‘You must have looked a sorry sight!’
    ‘I was drenched. There was water