Stephen Ross

The white Rolls Royce looked uncomfortably out of place as it pitched over the cattle grid past the flock of Jacob sheep and Tom, Dick and Harry, three disagreeable West African pigmy goats, grazing in their paddock. The car drew to a halt outside the front door and from its white-upholstered, lace-cushioned interior emerged a short, stout, Havana-drooling man who blanched visibly at the absence of any uniformed staff. Nevertheless, he asked the jollyfaced young assistant who welcomed him to arrange for his car to be valet parked. Disguising her anxiety, she referred the request to the proprietor of the house who willingly performed the task. On his return to the front hall, the new arrival confronted his host — whom he took to be the head gardener from the informality of his dress — and enquired tetchily if all were well.