It started on a Press trip to the erotic temples of Khajuraho in India. My husband Stephen McClarence was writing a travel article and was staying overnight at the Jhansi Hotel in UP. Through the hotel manager, he met Captain Roy Abbott , the so-called ‘Rajah of Jhansi’ and possibly India’s last British landowner .
The Captain, who looked and dressed like a ‘pukka Brit’ complete with blazer and cravat, lived in an immaculate bungalow with beautiful flower and vegetable gardens. After a couple of hours’ conversation, he invited Steve to visit him the following year – “and bring your wife”. So began a friendship that lasted 15 years and led to another encounter – with Peggy Cantem , then president of Jhansi’s Anglo-Indian Association.
Despite being nearly 80, Peggy still worked tirelessly as an unofficial social worker, marriage-maker and honorary custodian of the town’s large European cemetery: ‘The dead centre of the dead centre of India’ as she called it. On regular subsequent visits, we would spend hours in her cluttered flat, drinking tea, eating curries and plum cake, and meeting a colourful cast of characters, mostly from the town’s rapidly-dwindling Anglo-Indian community. We were so fascinated by their stories that Steve would take copious notes and photographs while I would record their conversations.
These covered everything from Monsoon Toad Balls (to find “the heaviest-looking, most hideous-looking man!”) and dancing to Victor Silv.