Every evening we asked ourselves the same
question, shall we? And we always did, we always had our Tertulia at Sybil
Silva’s house. Did I do my homework, probably not, however I am sure my sister did
hers. At the Silva’s; we, Sybil, Pamela and Savita had plenty to chat about,
clothes, boys, books. Talk we did, we could go on for hours, but a hot topic of
discussion was dancing, how we loved to dance, we did not care if the person was
black, white, tall or short, all we wanted was that he should dance well. Sometimes,
we in the village would get hold of a Cassette player, beg some kind-hearted
soul who had a large enough living room, dressed very nicely indeed and dance to our heart’s content. We called these dance-till-you-drop-unconscious
sessions- Hops. Of course the next few weeks were spent dissecting the Hop with
a very sharp scalpel.
Although we five girls discussed everything worth
talking about at great length, of course a very good marriage was foremost on
our minds. But do I remember Sybil mentioning that all she wanted to do was to
leave our village and dash off to London? No! Try as I might I just cannot
remember, maybe she did, maybe she did not fearing our derision, but oh yes
Sybil just wanted to be in London. Now who can we blame or laud for this
passionate wish?
Our parents who had returned from East Africa, Kenya a
British Colony. ..
or could you blame those Agatha Christie’s novels with
Paddington or Piccadilly which we thought were wonderful…
could you blame Enid Blyton and her root beer which we
were sure was delicious. ..
could you blame Beano and Dandy, those naughty Bash
Street Kids…
of course there was fish and chips just waiting to be
tasted.
Truth be told, we were neither awed nor enamored by
the British Royal Family, we did not fancy Prince Charles, we found Princess
Anne horse-faced and the Queen oh-so-badly-dressed. Give us Caroline of Monaco
any day.
But I do think it was the Beatles who incited a
vigorous passion in Sybil, ‘let me just get out of here, let me just get to London.’
All Sybil had was grit and determination, nothing
more. Going to London in one go was totally impossible, it had to be done in
stages, a tiny jump to Bombay, hard work, saving every available penny, but
despite hardships, Sybil brought her brothers to Bombay, shared her tiny living
space with them so that they too could have a start.
Then like Vasco da Gama rounding the Cape of Good
Hope, an opportunity to teach in Nairobi, once again hard work, poor living
quarters, a box-room much like Harry Potter.
Mombasa a long period of waiting, hoping, working and
most of all saving and skimping and then the most important document in her
life……A British Passport….. London here I come!!
Life in London was not at all that easy, it was not
all fish and chips, but Sybil was not giving up. A job, then a series of
temporary jobs, ‘temping’ which is amazing if you want to make money a tad
quicker.
It is at this time that Sybil decided to
pursue her other passion, dancing. What better place then the Goan dances held
on important occasions, a saint’s feast, Christmas, or New Year. So here was
our little belle togged in her best, on pins and needles, itching to have a go
at the convoluted jive, a hearty rock-and-roll or even a sedate waltz. Sadly,
the men from Goa had carried along with their, sorpotel, caju feni and bebimca,
their prejudices. Under the watchful eyes of their well-corseted, nylon
stockinged Mamas, they were very careful only to dance with fair-of-face
ladies.
Oh, darling did you have to dance with that
Silva girl?
But Mummy she jives beautifully!
Darling you are here to… Dance with the
Gama Pinto girl
But Mummy she is so heavy, she cannot,
twirl or twist!
Louie my boy…. enough of this.
This was more of a marriage market, not something our twinkle
toed belle had envisaged. After a couple of attempts at these prestigious
occasions where the elite from Goa, now
in London, congregated, Sybil yawning her way through a Coke, bored to tears, with just a dance thrown in by
the one Goa swain, who actually loved to dance, she decided that such social occasions were just not
for her. She wanted to Dance, nothing more.
So without a backward glance at the prancing Mama’s boys she quit the
Goa expat scenario completely. Hung her dancing pumps in her cupboard. This was
one time she gave up.
And then George came to the rescue, pssst you will
have to ask Sybil who George is, I have been sworn to secrecy. Anyway, on a
bright and sunny afternoon, George insisted she dress up well, no jeans, no
shorts and absolutely no T’s. Agog with excitement Sybil just followed, at the
end of the journey at Chorleywood Memorial Hall, Sybil could not believe her
eyes and ears, there was Mr Wonderful the resident DJ playing the tunes.
Everyone was dancing a very hectic jive. Oh yes, she pinched herself but she
pinched George harder.
It was Paradise, it was a London concept called a Tea
Dance. No more stuck up elite, Sybil now jives, rock-and-rolls, rumbas
practically every day of the week, sometimes goes out of London on weekend Tea Dances;
her suede soled shoes are always tucked in her large bag, her spangly, strappy
black dress too.
Sybil my dear you have well and truly
arrived!
Tracing the history of a Tea Dance
A tea
dance, thé dansant which is French and literally means
‘dancing tea’ is a summer or autumn afternoon an early-evening dance from
four to seven, when everything is languid. It could be said that the
function evolved from the concept of the afternoon tea. J. Pettigrew
traces its origin to the French in Morocco. Books on Victorian Era
etiquette such as Party-giving on Every Scale (London, n.d.
[1880]) include detailed instructions for hosting such gatherings.
The usual refreshments in 1880 were tea and coffee,
ices, champagne-cup and claret-cup, fruit, sandwiches, cake and
biscuits. Another writer on etiquette, Mrs. Armstrong, told her
readers that "refreshments are going on all the afternoon, and gentlemen
take the ladies to the tearoom during the intervals between the dances. The
lady's maid pours out the tea ... the edibles consist of bread-and-butter and
cakes, though some hostesses add sandwiches, ices and fruit."
Even after the introduction of the phonograph the
expected feature was a live orchestra – often referred to as a palm
court orchestra – or a small band playing light classical music. Dancing
at tea-time was an elegant part of afternoon tea parties into the first decade
of the 20th century. And then a new dance took London by storm and triggered a
totally new approach to afternoon dances. The Argentine Tango, having first
driven Parisian society into frenzy, arrived in London in 1910.
Tea dances were taking place all over the
capital and in the provincial towns. Social columns reported that 'private
'Thés Dansants' are very much the rage just now in London houses and the Tango
is the principal dance on the programme..' Beatrice Crozier in her book ‘The
Tango and How to Dance it’ explained that for tea events at the Waldorf Hotel
in London, tickets were available at the door and cost five shillings for tea
and dancing, and three shillings for tea only. Once in the white and gold
ballroom, ‘little parties of from two to six can sit and enjoy a most excellent
tea between the dances, or remain throughout the afternoon watching the others dance.’
The craze for tea dances continued into the 1920's, but for the fashionable
young set, cocktails and the Charleston were the next trend and took over from
refined tango teas.
The Waldorf continued its tea dances until 1939 when a
German bomb caused the glass roof of the Palm Court to shatter and frivolities
such as tea dances were cancelled.
It was not until 1982 that the hotel once again became
the venue for London's best known tea dances. Today, every Saturday and Sunday
afternoon, the foot-tapping music of The Waldorfians tempts colourful couples
away from their scones and clotted cream onto the marble dance floor and into
the whirling steps of the Waltz, tango, quickstep and the 'Tea For Two' cha cha
cha.
Tea Dances, cater to every type of person,
quoting from
Lindy hopping to Metallica: not as easy as this lot
make it look (© L Sauma)
‘I did a quick vox pop at our last tea dance,’ says
Art of the Dog’s Vic, ‘and someone was born in 1932! Having that sort of age
mix is superb.’
It’s not without its dangers, though. ‘The etiquette can seem a bit funny, like making sure you dance in the same direction as everyone else, but crashing into an 80-year-old is only going to end up in a broken hip.’
Since her first tea dance at the gorgeous Old Finsbury Town Hall last October, Vic – ‘just Vic’ – has been actively recruiting locals who remember the current trend for tea dances the first time around. Happily, they’ve been coming in droves.
‘I love Vera,’ she says, ‘she always comes in a pair of sparkly shoes, and there’s one guy who’s known in the Duke of Denmark pub as Dancing Dave. Yes, he really can dance.’
Afternoon tea dances like Vic’s are far more serene, romantic affairs and are chock full of elderly folk whizzing around the floor. Leave your looks of pity at the door and expect to be wiped off the dance floor by participants 50 years your elder.
‘The older people know what they’re doing at a tea dance,’ says Vic. ‘It’s their thing.’
City workers won’t be left out for, for they can – ahem – swing by Spitalfields Markets on the last Friday of every month for the Covent Garden Dance Orchestra’s free afternoon tea dance.
It’s not without its dangers, though. ‘The etiquette can seem a bit funny, like making sure you dance in the same direction as everyone else, but crashing into an 80-year-old is only going to end up in a broken hip.’
Since her first tea dance at the gorgeous Old Finsbury Town Hall last October, Vic – ‘just Vic’ – has been actively recruiting locals who remember the current trend for tea dances the first time around. Happily, they’ve been coming in droves.
‘I love Vera,’ she says, ‘she always comes in a pair of sparkly shoes, and there’s one guy who’s known in the Duke of Denmark pub as Dancing Dave. Yes, he really can dance.’
Afternoon tea dances like Vic’s are far more serene, romantic affairs and are chock full of elderly folk whizzing around the floor. Leave your looks of pity at the door and expect to be wiped off the dance floor by participants 50 years your elder.
‘The older people know what they’re doing at a tea dance,’ says Vic. ‘It’s their thing.’
City workers won’t be left out for, for they can – ahem – swing by Spitalfields Markets on the last Friday of every month for the Covent Garden Dance Orchestra’s free afternoon tea dance.
Thank you ever so much for the inputs
