The consul general was late because of preparations for the duke and duchess.

There is a glow in the image of an English Christmas that lights the holiday wherever it is celebrated: carols in the cathedral, the sheen of candlelight on ancient stones, Dickens and roast goose and Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one.”

In this idyllic picture, there is no hint of a cinder-block building under a mass of high-voltage lines in North Hollywood, hard by the Discount Auto Parts store. But that is where much of the Valley’s British community gathered on a Sunday afternoon for its annual Christmas tea at the Mayflower Club.

The club for British expatriates was lavishly decorated. Strings of red lights twinkled, multiplied by the mirrored ball over the dance floor. Women members served scones and tiny cucumber sandwiches and poured tea from steel jugs. They wore red “mop caps,” the round, ruffled headgear Americans see on the serving wench at Ye Olde Boar’s Head in swashbuckling movies.

From the stage, two men and a woman were singing “Side by Side” for about 60 people at circular tables with red tablecloths. The lead singer, a round woman in a black pantsuit, implored the audience to sing along.

They didn’t.

“An American, a Scot and a Canadian,” observed a woman at one table. “Not an English one in the lot,” she said, laughing.

“Well, that’s only proper,” another woman explained to their American guest. “We were the first melting pot, after all. The empire included all kinds of people.”

So all kinds of people--Americans even--are counted among the 4,500 members. The club provides a home for affiliated organizations, including cricket teams, the Daughters of the British Empire and fund-raising events for a home for elderly British women in Sierra Madre. More than half the members are from the San Fernando Valley, although many others come from the elsewhere in Soutern California.

“There’s quite a large English contingent living in Bakersfield,” observed Eileen Selby, one of the founders. “Three or four times a year they charter buses and show up here for pub night, scores of them.”

What are hundreds of English types doing in Bakersfield?

“We’ve no notion,” replied a sleek woman in a knit dress.

“It seemed rude to ask.”

The trio swung into “Toot Toot Tootsie,” begging the audience to join. It just wasn’t on.

“Do try the scones with cream,” the women urged their American guest. “Of course, it’s not the right kind of cream. It’s American. You can’t get proper clotted cream here.”

The singers tried “Peg O’ My Heart.” The audience was unmoved.

The singers moved on to seasonal melodies, but there were artistic differences over the lyrics of “Frosty the Snowman.” They retired to negotiate an international version.

Several seats were empty at a table at center front, prominent in a circle of light. “We’re waiting for our C. G.,” the sleek woman explained.

The C. G.--Her Brittanic Majesty’s consul general, Donald F. Ballentyne--came late. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer, a tall, slim, ruddy-faced man with a close cropped white beard.

He explained that he was late because the consulate is busy with preparations for the visit in late February of the Duke and Duchess of York--Andy and Fergie to their fans--and arrangements to park the royal yacht in San Pedro.

“Do try the scones with cream,” urged his wife, Elizabeth, the picture of a modern major diplomat’s wife in a black dress and pearls, silver-blonde hair in a bun.

“It’s not the right kind of cream, of course,” the consul interjected. “You can’t get the right kind here. We tried to import some one year, but the American customs are very strict about it. Had to be sent back to England for more paperwork. By the time it got here, it had gone off.”

Unable to agree on “Frosty,” the singers tried American country music. “Green, Green Grass of Home,” did the trick.

“It’s good to touch, the green, green grass of home,” the chorus swelled, with the London, Glasgow, Liverpool and Oxbridge accents coping impressively with lyrics meant for Appalachian tongues.

The consul’s wife’s voice soared over the others, leading the way when their grasp of the lyrics failed.

Although the song is a melancholy lament for a lost home, naturally appealing to expatriates gripped by holiday nostalgia, it is about a convicted murderer awaiting the hangman in a Southern American jail. Why would a British diplomat’s wife know all the words?

“It’s just an odd knack I have. I remember the words to any song I hear. When I was growing up during the war, my parents left me with my grandfather and I learned the words of all these old Victorian music-hall songs he knew, the really rude, naughty kind.

“Mother was horrified, but I can remember those songs to this day.”

Next came “Stand by Your Man,” for perhaps the first time by a male voice with a Scot burr. Everyone knew the words.

The trio stepped up the pace with Elvis Presley’s “I’m All Shook Up.”

The audience made the rafters ring. The women of the refreshments committee formed a chorus line as they pushed a cart through the room, collecting empty teacups and half-eaten scones, knees flashing in high-stepping unison, red mop caps bobbing.

The consul’s wife bellowed lusty “uuuhgs” on the beat, where Elvis gave the pelvis-snap that kept TV cameras focused above his waist in the 1950s.

Grandfather would have been proud.