Pat 

with grateful thanks to Miss Brill 

Patricia is off on a little excursion. It is coming up to her birthday, and for a treat she is going to take afternoon tea at the Spa Hotel. It’s not often Patricia splashes out; after all, she must look after the pennies so that the pounds that make up her modest pension take care of themselves. Patricia (and it is Patricia, please note, not Pat, or Heaven forbid, Patty) lives frugally, ensuring that she stays within her grocery budget and making sure she keeps a check on the heating bill. An extra cardigan or blanket on the coldest days do not perturb her; besides, her tidy one-bedroom maisonette is generally toasty warm, gaining heat from the floor below. 

Patricia is going carefully through her built-in closet; with its floor-length mirrors and sliding doors, the 1950s architects had the foresight to make the most of the bedroom space. She can easily accommodate her limited wardrobe, most of which was acquired when she managed her exclusive fashion boutique. Her bedroom is decorated in pale pink and sea green. Her silk counterpane is showing a little wear and tear, but she loves its rosy colour and cosy warmth. Next to her bedside is a photo of her late husband, Peter. Ah, Peter! He smiles cheerfully from the seashell pink frame, that is somewhat at odds with his Harris tweed jacket waistcoat. She misses him very much, and still, after six long years, she cannot get used to the empty bed and long winter evenings with only the television for company. Their cocker spaniel, Cadbury (named after Peter’s modest choice in chocolate), has long since passed. Patricia likes to think of Peter and Cadbury taking long walks in Elysium fields, happy ever after.

As she flicks through the jackets and dresses, she remembers how she used to find just the right outfit for the discerning ladies (of a certain age) who frequented her pretty shop. With an eye for colour and professional manner, she had many customers who would buy from her range every season. September was her favourite time of year: as the heat dissipated and the shop became less stuffy and airless, Patricia was always keen to see the new styles and fabrics, that she had ordered many months before, arriving at the shop. She would check through each delivery with care, smoothing over creases and hanging each piece in its place. Now, she has what she would call some classic pieces that never seem to age: a black pleated A-line skirt and a navy blazer. A pure wool winter-white coat and bright Hermès scarf. 

Since it is early May, she needs to find something that is mid-season. Perhaps the pale pink linen shift dress and the grey cashmere cardigan? Ah, yes. And then the dove-grey suede kitten heels? So elegant. And then the pièce de résistance: her fuchsia beret with the over-sized sequins! Perfect. She claps her hands, and giggles to herself, like a little girl on Christmas morning unwrapping a doll. Patricia lays out her clothes with care. She gives her shoes a clean with a soft brush and examines her cardigan for any stains or catches. Her dress has been dry-cleaned, but she double checks to make sure it is looking its best. Finally, she removes the beret from its lavender tissue paper, and pops it on her head. Patricia’s hair style has barely changed since the 1950s, and why should it? The queen has had the same hairstyle throughout her reign, and Patricia sees no reason to change her Mrs. Thatcher-esque look. Her pale grey hair is washed and set by Maureen every Thursday, back-combed and sprayed in place. She looks at her reflection in the mirror, purses her lips a little, lifts her chin and admires her lovely beret. Perfect, truly perfect.

Patricia’s taxi is due at 2.30pm, so she takes her time to put on “her best bib and tucker”, as Peter used to say.  First, though, she must fluff up her hair and give it a quick spray with her Elnett hairspray: her favourite brand since the 1960s with its stylish gold container and distinctive scent. Ugh! She mustn’t say “scent” - that is for dogs and foxes. Perfume. Oh! Perfume. She dabs a little “L'air du Temps” behind her ears and on her wrists, and then a couple of drops into a white cotton hanky that she can keep in her handbag. She’ll use her go-to black patent handbag since it goes with everything, and is just the right size for her purse and powder compact. Her make up has barely changed over the years, and she is aware that her blue eyeshadow is a little dated, but it does bring out the blue of her eyes, and well, some things remain classy no matter the times. She must dress before applying her lipstick as she has seen too many expensive garments almost ruined by lipstick marks. She zips up her dress and puts on her cardigan, feeling a little light-headed with anticipation. Having applied her damask-pink lipstick, she replaces her marvellous beret and takes a last look in the mirror. Crossing her legs, with her right hand on her hip, she assesses her image, tilting her head to one side, confident that everything is in order. She dabs on a last puff of face powder on her nose and cheeks, and goes downstairs to meet the taxi driver. 

The Spa Hotel is only a few minutes away. Patricia has made sure she has enough cash to pay the taxi, as well as money for her afternoon treat (including tip, of course; she would not want to be seen as churlish). The taxi is already waiting, and the driver opens the back door for her so that she can gracefully slide in. This is a manoeuvre in which she is well practiced. She takes care to bob her head, so as not to hit the car doorframe and dislodge her beret. The driver knows her destination as she had carefully explained to the taxi company when she made her booking last week. They arrive at the hotel without encountering much traffic on the main road. Patricia pays the driver and walks into the hotel reception area. The hotel has recently been refurbished, although it has had several reincarnations since it was built as a country mansion in 1766. The classic Georgian front has been preserved, and Patricia fancies herself as a character in a Jane Austen novel, making a grand entrance. The lobby has been re-decorated with Paris in mind, with pale French blue walls and silver-grey sofas. Crystal chandeliers twinkle above, and Patricia’s heels almost sink into the blue and cream pattered rugs. She takes her place on a love seat, sitting carefully so as to not wrinkle her dress. She sits, hands in her lap, shoulders back, with her legs folded “duchess style”: her mother had taught her never to cross her legs in public, but to sit with her knees and ankles together and her feet to one side. Such a dignified pose. Almost immediately, a waitress (Patricia refuses to call them “servers”) comes over, and after exchanging pleasantries asks if Patricia would like to peruse the menu. “No need!” she chirps, “I would like afternoon tea, with Earl Grey.” The server nods several times and scoots away. Patricia wonders if she sounded a little too eager, but she is feeling exuberant at the prospect of her birthday treat. She smoothes her dress, and places her handbag on the coffee table. She adjusts the cushions so that one is comfortably placed in the small of her back. She picks up a copy of “The Lady” and flips through it, pausing over a recipe for “zesty lemon and white chocolate cupcakes”, and a competition to win an overnight stay at Hawkstone Hall. She does not have to wait long before the server returns with a charming old-fashioned tea trolley laden with all kinds of delicacies. First, she places a cup, saucer and side plate, along with a white linen napkin and tea knife on the table. Next, a cake stand, laden with a selection of tiny sandwiches, tarts and scones. Finally, a large pot of Earl Grey tea, along with a small jug of milk and a bowl of white sugar cubes. “Thank you so much this all looks quite wonderful I am quite overwhelmed and don’t know where to start,” Patricia effuses, barely drawing breath. The server gives her a half-smile. “Enjoy your tea,” she says, and moves onto the next table to take their order. Patricia takes her plate and places a cucumber sandwich and a tiny salmon and cream cheese bagel on it. She takes a couple of bites. And a couple more. Delicious! She works her culinary way through the lemon choux buns, the orchard apple tart and raspberry battenburg, accompanied with sips of Earl Grey tea. “Wonderful, quite marvellous,” thinks Patricia. Her appetite sated, she sits back for a moment to savour the atmosphere. Looking around, she appraises the other guests. To her right, what she assumes is a mother and daughter, or perhaps aunt and niece; the younger of the two has just dissolved into laughter, presumably at some amusing anecdote from the older woman. Ahead of her, Patricia observes three older women sitting on a sofa, enjoying a catch-up. The one on the right is relating something, leaning in, hands on her chest. The other two listen carefully, nodding and smiling. Patricia wonders what they are talking about and wishes she was a little closer so that she could listen in. To her left is an elderly couple, perhaps in their eighties, having a cup of tea and a scone. She’s touched to see that they sit close together, easy in each other’s company, taking pleasure in their time together. Patricia looks at her shoes, her stylish handbag and touches her fuchsia beret for reassurance, but none comes. The spell is broken, and she realises, in that split second, that she painfully, miserably alone. Against her formidable will, tears pool in her pretty blue eyes and she fumbles in her handbag for her handkerchief. With all the dignity she can muster, she makes her way to the desk and pays her bill.