The American
Miss Patricia Even The Butler Was Poor Introducing Miss Patricia, known to her first husband as ‘ex-Pat’, who shares her experiences with The American in hopping the pond. This month she learns - the hard way - about acquiring some British culture
E
ven the butler was poor... My mother used to say that. Her little joke came to mind recently when I went to hear a former butler speak about his experiences working for several Aitch-Are-Aitches, as he called them. With pale British skin, I pass as a local. But as soon as I speak, everyone knows that back home, we sit around the campfire farting after bean suppers, so I leapt at this opportunity to acquire some glossy British culture. At last! I could finally learn the answer to the burning question of whether milk is added before or after tea is poured! I polished my pearls and clattered on over, in heels as comfortable as broken glass. Grant Harrold was accompanied by his event management partner, the Princess Katarina of Yugoslavia, who sat to one side gazing at him with the fond approval of a parent at a tap recital. Perhaps she was there as a minder? If he suddenly
14 July 2014
became hopelessly indiscreet, was he to be ‘taken out’, as my neighbors believe Diana had been? Recently I suggested at a party that a car accident seemed an uncertain way to ensure a murder, and my English companion replied darkly: “She was never going to reach that hospital alive.” Today’s princess looked competent enough, if duty called, to smother anyone with a hotel pillow. She mentioned that she was related to the royal family on BOTH SIDES: she doesn’t have to watch Who Do You Think You Are? to find out the answer. But my American upbringing prompted niggling doubts. Did she play a mean banjo? I checked for Pomeranian pop eyes, but she had the regular round kind. Mr Harrold had the shiny demeanour that keeps a man a boy for life: a beamish smile and eager-for-anything personality had helped him rise in the ranks of the well pressed. Royal servants seem
a bit like palace pets (although this one nipped the hand that fed him with a tiny lawsuit that went unmentioned). In fact, he reminded me of the second Mr Patricia, sometimes described as The Labrador of Husbands. Some have even gone so far as to suggest that marriage to me is very like being in service, and those ‘some’ are very unlikely to get juicy invites to my totally glam Mayfair flat. Loyalty is the real requirement for royal service, and I wondered how one tests applicants for that. An acquaintance, a footman at Buckingham Palace, once plopped himself down to table, announcing stoutly: “I work for the Queen, and I won’t hear a word against her!” In contrast, American bankers don’t announce who they work for; they confess. Mr Harrold had butled at Highgrove …now known for attractive country tartans, hen houses and hampers. The itchy topic of com-