Between the wars was the belle epoque of Calcutta - she provided a melting pot for people from all over the world to settle, make money and enjoy life. There was horse racing, motor racing, gambling, some of the best brothels in the East and some outstanding hotels and restaurants. Calcutta was the place where the quote that the "Colonel's lady and Rosie O'Grady/ were sisters under the skin", proved yet again that Kipling knew his British India.
As I grew up all this was taken as normal - it is only now that I realise the rich tapestry that I was allowed to glimpse through the eyes of two friends of my mothers - George Landau and Dorothy Surita. Between them these two were witness to the glory days and would, with very little prompting, recall magical times of vulgar riches, beautiful people and a life lived fast and dangerously for the sheer delight it gave.
They were only brought together once - they took one look at each other and retreated into the sullen silence of offended children. Whether they recognised aspects in each other that they would prefer not to acknowledge or, simply they wanted to be the only centre of attention, the meeting did not go well and my mother kept them separate from each other from then on.
Dorothy had been a milliner in one of the big shops on Chowringhee. She never mentioned her father but her mother had come out from England, also a milliner, to make hats for the ladies of the city to wear to the races and for special occasions. Whilst still young and very innocent Dorothy met and fell in love with a lawyer, Jerry Surita. They were together from then on - firstly as lover and mistress and finally, husband and wife. Jerry already had wife and this was a time where divorce socially unacceptable.
Jerry was very much the man about town and there was no shame in their relationship - Dorothy went where he did, to the races, to Firpos, to dances at the Saturday Club. She used to make it sound so glamorous but it must have been so hard. Even with Jerry taking her everywhere, there would still have been closed doors, the member's enclosure at the RCTC, membership of the Saturday Club and she also had to contend with his two sons, Ivan and Pearson who never fully accepted her and ensured that for years she was kept at arms length.
We first met Dorothy when Desmond, always avid for stories of old Calcutta, arranged to go and interview Jerry about the reopening of the Globe Theatre - in its day one the best music halls and theatres in the Far East: now reopening as a cinema with Burton and Taylor's Cleopatra. We arrived and were met by the prettiest little woman in a delicate sundress with a large picture hat and the sweetest smile: Dorothy. She had just come in from shopping and begging our forgiveness took off her high heeled sandals and led us up the stairs to their flat. My mother nudged me and pointed with her eyes at Dorothy's feet - they were on tiptoe, she had worn the highest of high heels for so long that she could no longer place her feet flat to the ground. I think we both fell a little in love with her at that moment.
Not long after this Jerry died and Dorothy suddenly aged. She became part of the family, coming once a week for lunch - always on a Thursday, coming to races with us on a Saturday and spending all the family holiday times with like Christmas and Easter. She was always willing to sit and tell stories of her and Jerry's youth and when the fashion for vintage clothes came about, raided her wardrobe and found me lovely pieces that belong to the 1920s and 30s. I remember vividly a black velvet and white ermine collared evening coat that became my signature garment one winter - wearing it seemed to make me more glamorous, more a part of the past.
George Landau was that strange anachronism of the Far East, a Shanghai Jew. His father had been jeweller to the rajahs and maharajahs, travelling back and forth across India with priceless gems to sell or buy. George would tell tales of hard up rajahs sending for his father and asking him to find buyers for fabulous gemstones - only six months later to demand he find them and buy them back. It was George who told the story of the princely emeralds of one of the local maharajahs being reset as costume jewellery, taken to Paris, sold to Cartier and being shown to a daughter of the house, now married to one of the mosr famous of India's princely families, who instantly recognised her family's jewels and demanded they be returned forthwith. They weren't and have now vanished from sight.
When his father died George was left a sizable fortune that allowed him to indulge in his two passions, gambling and horse racing. Remarkably quickly he was broke and started to train for a living. Sadly, he couldn't stop the gambling and was caught fixing races and warned off. Not just Calcutta but pretty much every track in India. He made ends meet by selling tips, he could read a handicap better than anyone and would lurk, up at the Maidan side of the 1800 metre start with binoculars, his ever present cigar, a stop watch and a list of numbers and names that would be crossed off or starred depending on how the horse had done.
We came to know him when he applied for, and was given a training licence for the Tolly Gymkhana races. As these were supposed to be strictly amateur the stewards obviously had a naive hope that George would not be able to get up to his old tricks. In fact, Tolly races were for some years some of the most overtly crooked race meetings in the history of the sport. So much so that one friend, riding simply for the pleasure of it raised the question to my mother, "Is that Sir Robert Fuckers going to pull his horse again?" It was was a mark of quality of the heir to oldest baronetcy in England, Sir Robert ffolkes, that this question only raised shrieks of laughter and the plaintive question , "Oh dear, Joy is my riding really that bad?"
George was not as keen as Dorothy to live on his memories. He always looked forward to the next day and the promise that held. Mum adored him and soaked up his vast knowledge of training and horses. He became a daily visitor, coming back with her from the morning's gallops, sitting drinking his tea while she changed and then, seated in prime position in the front of her little red car accompanying her to her morning shopping. He had always been a ladies man and, I think that for him, she was his last love.
They were a remarkable pair: two stories from a city made up of stories - two genuine eccentrics.
No comments:
Post a Comment