Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  My brother Chris was also a worry. He was clearly still on drugs, and he wasn’t seeing the therapist we had provided for him. My own therapist (it seems we had as many therapists as family members!) asked the important question, “Do you want to help him now, or do you want to help him in the long run?”

  “The latter, of course,” I replied. He counseled me to give Chris a one-month ultimatum: get clean, get a job, and continue with therapy—or move out. The month passed with no change. With a heavy heart, I sent Chris packing, and he moved in with his girlfriend.

  At the beginning of the summer, Blake and I took a much-needed break and made a quick trip to Florida. A beautiful Stephens motor yacht was going for a reasonable price in Fort Lauderdale, and we wanted to take a look at it. (Tempest had been better suited to a bachelor than an expanding family such as ours, and Blake had sold her.) The Stephens yacht was gorgeous, and Blake bought her on the spot. I had a small panic attack about the financial implications—I had no experience with this kind of indulgence, and it felt reckless—but Blake assured me that we would make it work somehow. Aptly, we named our new acquisition Impulse. She needed some repairs, so we left her in Florida and made plans to come back and spend time aboard with the children later in the summer.

  On August 9, life in Los Angeles took a dark and terrifying turn. News reports relayed details of the horrific murders of Sharon Tate and four others by Charles Manson and his followers. The crimes were so mind-boggling that they challenged everyone’s reality. Like many others in Los Angeles that week, we installed alarms and tall gates on the property, and took pains to make sure that we were safely locked in every night.

  BLAKE AND I took the children for a summer holiday on Michigan’s Lake Huron, where his aunt Thyrza owned a cabin. The kids fished from the dock, or lazily reclined in the dinghy, chatting for hours or writing stories. Blake and I did a lot of cleaning at the cabin to make it habitable, and it took a toll on us both physically. Blake’s back began bothering him more than usual. Because of his chronic pain from the injury sustained in his youth, he had a regular prescription for Demerol. He began self-medicating rather liberally in the evenings, which worried me. When we talked about it, he admitted to being as concerned as I was about overuse and the possibility of getting hooked.

  “I’ll keep an eye on it,” he promised.

  When we received word that Impulse was in working order, we headed to Florida for the last leg of our holiday. On our first evening aboard, Blake and I sat topside, watching lightning in the sky miles away, and an orange moon—a huge half cheese rising up, with black clouds striated across it. Airplane lights dotted the sky, and warning pylons flashed red across the water. It all felt strange and beautiful.

  Blake looked up at the millions of stars and said, “Now you can’t tell me that there isn’t a God. Why all this?” Blake wasn’t a religious man, but at that moment, all of life—the water, the stars, the boat, us—felt like a miracle.

  Later, I wrote:

  Relief, guilt, happiness—can this last? Is it really ours? Will Impulse suddenly be taken away? Well, perhaps it is like buying a second home. But why me? We’ve certainly worked hard, but my dad worked hard all his life and never got this kind of reward. Though hopefully he’ll enjoy this too, one day.

  We are supremely blessed to experience a gift like Impulse at this stage in our lifetimes. How lovely not to have to wait until we’re too old to enjoy it.

  The day after we returned home, I began rehearsals for a television special with Harry Belafonte, directed by Gower Champion. Gower and his wife, Marge, were longtime friends of Blake’s—so much so that they had named their youngest son after him, and we often saw them socially. Michel Legrand arranged the music for the special, and it was a pleasure working with those three talented gentlemen. From the outset, Gower wanted something fresh and different; I did some calypso with Harry, and Harry leaned into more classical songs with me. It stretched us both in new directions, and everything about it felt playful and fun. It was a pleasure to go to work every day.

  GEOFF BEGAN ATTENDING a new school that fall, very near to Emma’s. The school informed us that Geoff struggled with learning differences that today would be diagnosed as dyslexia, and made recommendations as to how we could best support him. We also wanted to find an extracurricular activity that he might enjoy, and we settled on karate, which Blake had studied for years. We found a young man named Tom Bleecker who began to give Geoff lessons. Tom mentioned that he knew Bruce Lee, and Blake expressed interest in meeting the legendary martial arts master. Bruce came to the house one day and gave a demonstration for us. We lunched with him, and at one point we found ourselves talking about ballet. Bruce felt that dancers could benefit from the strength training of the martial arts.

  “For instance, can Nureyev do this?” he said. Bruce pushed back his chair from the table, and from a sitting position, leapt high into the air with a side kick in just one move. He was so many feet above the ground that our jaws dropped.

  BLAKE BEGAN A new campaign for us to get married. Because of the craziness of our lives, and my concerns for Geoff, Jenny, and Emma, I was still having trouble committing 100 percent. It was not that I didn’t love Blake—I certainly did, and I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. But there was still that certain dangerous quality about him. I was aware that he abused pain medication at times, although he seemed to be keeping it under control. He was given to making impulsive decisions, and he was often excessive with spending. He was impatient—quick to anger, even. He was creatively brilliant, with six ideas a day, it seemed, and totally charismatic . . . but he often left me a little breathless. Having been married, and feeling so responsible for that marriage’s failure, I didn’t want to make any more mistakes by leaping into another one.

  Blake countered: What was there to lose? We were already living in the same house, we were both divorced from our former spouses, we were sharing our lives in every way. No need to worry about happily ever after—why not simply take it one day at a time? He was very persistent, and finally demanded that I make a decision one way or the other. I realized that I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. We made plans to wed on November 12, 1969.

  Blake and I both wanted a quiet and intimate ceremony. Thinking that the children might feel conflicted about it, and hoping to focus entirely on each other in this special moment, we made a decision to be married in our garden while the children were at school. We would tell them about it, and have a celebratory family dinner, afterward.

  Present at the ceremony were Blake’s new assistant, Linda; Dr. Tanney and his wife; and Ken and Kären Wales. Ken’s father was a minister, and we had asked him to marry us.

  Although we hired a professional photographer, we gave Herb Tanney our video camera and asked him to film the proceedings from the little hill above our back garden. We also set a video camera on a tripod at a side angle, so that if anything failed, we’d have captured something one way or another.

  It was a beautiful, sunny day. The garden looked immaculate, and the hillside waterfall was splashing gently. I was trembling with nerves and excitement. The minister stood with his back to the hill, and as he began to intone the wedding vows, Blake gazed into my eyes with such genuine affection that I was moved to tears.

  Afterward, Herb came down from the hill, looking at the camera. “I’m not sure I got anything . . .” he said. “All I saw was black. Did I press the right button?”

  Alas, he had not. We then discovered that someone had kicked the other video camera’s plug out of the wall.

  Blake turned to the minister and said, “Sir, would you mind marrying us again, so we can get it on film?”

  Herb scrambled back up the hill, and we re-plugged the other camera. This time, Blake and I were able to focus on what the minister was actually saying. As he referenced “the spherical one-ness of the ring binding these two souls together,” or some such hokeyness, I could see Blake’s mouth beginning to twitch, and we b
oth fought hard to stifle the giggles.

  Needless to say, Herb didn’t get any footage of the second ceremony either. Somewhere there may be a video from the side angle, but as I recall, it was so bad that we never edited it. Thankfully, our professional photographer managed to capture some suitable stills.

  We had a little reception afterward, and then Emma and Geoffrey came home from school. To my delight, when we broke the news to them, Geoffrey flung himself into my arms and said, “Oh, thank you!” Emma was quiet, but she brightened later when we took them out to celebrate at Hamburger Hamlet.

  Later, I wrote of the wedding:

  Afterward, there was all the difference in the world between being married and not being married. How surprising to discover that it felt so good, and to realize that just a simple signed document could make me feel that way.

  Our efforts to keep the wedding private had been successful, and it wasn’t until a couple of days later that the news leaked out in the press. My parents knew, of course, and were happy for me, since they adored Blake. I was grateful for the lack of fuss surrounding the event, and any lingering anxieties I had about my decision were now put to rest.

  TWO DAYS AFTER we were married, Blake and I flew to Oklahoma, where Darling Lili was being screened for a test audience. I waited in the motel bedroom while Blake and the producers assessed the preview cards, which in those days was how one measured an audience’s response. The screening seemed to go well, but in truth, I was more focused on my desire to have a moment alone with Blake—to have some semblance of a honeymoon, even if it was only for one night at a motel.

  It certainly wasn’t the most romantic start to a marriage, but I knew we would be heading to Gstaad in December. We would be spending the first part of our time there alone, since Geoff and Jenny would be with Patty, and Emma would be with Tony. Maybe that would feel more like a honeymoon.

  By the time we arrived in Switzerland, however, Blake and I were exhausted. I came down with a cold, and our week together was a bit of a washout. In addition to wanting time with my husband, I’d hoped to get on with writing Mandy, and to ski—but was unable to do any of it.

  Geoff and Jenny joined us two days before Christmas, as did my friend Zoë. It was so good to see her again. I suddenly realized that I didn’t have a close girlfriend in Los Angeles, someone I’d known all my life and could have meaningful conversations with. My work schedule, my marriage, and my children pulled so much of my focus, I didn’t have a lot of time left to devote to a social life.

  Emma arrived just after Christmas, and two days later, she came down with the flu, as did Ken and Kären. We no longer had a nanny, so I did my best Florence Nightingale impression.

  On New Year’s Day, Blake took Jenny sledding. I went into town to do some grocery shopping, and when I returned, he greeted me at the door on crutches. Before I could say a word, he opened his robe to reveal nothing but his underwear and a plaster cast from ankle to groin. He had torn a ligament while sledding. That evening it was dinner on trays for Ken, Kären, Emma, and Blake.

  During the night, Blake was in considerable pain and could not sleep. I heard him get up, muttering that he was going to work on his screenplay, whereupon he stubbed his toe on the edge of the bed and let fly a stream of expletives. Seconds later, I heard an almighty shriek, and shot out of bed to see what had happened. Apparently, as he sat down at his desk, he had caught a vital part of his anatomy between his plaster cast and the wooden chair. Blake asked me to fetch a bread knife from the kitchen. With some trepidation, I delivered it to him and watched in horror as he proceeded to saw away at the top of the plaster, drawing blood and cursing all the while. It was a classic black comedy scene straight out of one of his films.

  The following morning, Jenny woke with a fever. Blake sat at one end of the breakfast table, his leg sticking out sideways. Kären was still coughing, and Ken had developed a cold sore and could only talk out of one side of his mouth. We then heard a mysterious swooshing sound coming from Emma. She was swilling water around her mouth to soothe a loose tooth. When I handed Geoff an effervescent vitamin C, hoping to stall the inevitable day when he got the flu, he lifted the glass and intoned, “Good health to everyone.”

  Considering how few of us were still healthy, I collapsed with laughter. Needless to say, Geoff came down with the flu the next day. Thankfully, the great Swiss air and serene environment eventually restored the balance, and the holiday ended on an up note.

  Blake and I began to fantasize about moving to Switzerland. We called Guy Gadbois to discuss it further, and he broke the news to us that Impulse’s skipper had incurred astronomical expenses on the boat’s “improvements,” way beyond anything we had commissioned, and had also been sweetening the pot for himself. Blake was livid; I was heartsick. Our savings had been spent on purchasing that lovely yacht, and as owners, we were now liable for every expense incurred. Blake was so angry that he opted to let the bank claim her rather than pay another dime of upkeep. I understood his decision, and realized with great sadness that we would have to let Impulse go. I quietly chastised myself and Blake for being such fools as to allow selfish desire, lack of knowledge, and careless supervision to get us into such trouble.

  10

  BACK IN LOS ANGELES, Blake and I spent the first two months of the New Year writing. He was finishing the screenplay he had started in Switzerland, a western called Wild Rovers. I was trying to push forward with Mandy. While the children were at school, we would hunker down together in the living room. I’d curl up in a chair, Blake would sit at the dining room table, and we’d work on our respective projects while enjoying each other’s company. Occasionally, I would quietly observe my new husband, typing and muttering to himself, and think how handsome he was.

  Neither of us was much interested in the Hollywood social scene. Our idea of a good evening was having a quiet supper at home with a few friends, or taking the kids to one of their favorite local restaurants for family night, which we did every Wednesday.

  In February, we received word that the new head honcho of MGM, James Aubrey, had canceled She Loves Me. When new management takes over a company, anything perceived as belonging to the previous regime often goes by the wayside. I was very disappointed, as I had genuinely been looking forward to the project. Blake took it in stride, as he was immersed in writing his western.

  Soon after that, Chris was admitted to the hospital. He had been high on drugs and had attempted to fly from a window, landing on a car below. Miraculously, nothing was broken, but he was pretty banged up. Since he had moved out of my house, things had gotten progressively worse. I had received a string of unexpected bills: new cameras and lenses that he had charged to me and later sold for drugs. He was busted for possession twice, and I had bailed him out both times. He often called late at night, needing money and threatening to come over to the house, and would not take no for an answer. In the interest of “tough love,” I decided not to visit him in the hospital, though I did cover his medical expenses.

  In an effort to follow through on my commitment to care for my mother, I suggested that she come and visit me for a few weeks. Since Pop died, her time was more her own, which made it easier for her to travel, but in some ways she had also become more reclusive. While she was in Los Angeles, I took her to the doctor and dentist, which helped restore her to some semblance of health. Needless to say, Mum was very anxious about Chris, and we discussed his situation at length. I relayed to her the advice I’d been given, and I begged her to use the same tough love with him should the need arise. I think this approach was hard for her to comprehend. Mum never had the benefit of therapy, and she wasn’t given to much introspection.

  I FINALLY FINISHED my first complete draft of Mandy. Since I had written it all longhand, I gave it to my assistant, Joan, to type up, and sent a copy to my dad, asking if he would be kind enough to give it a quick proofread for me. I received a long list of corrections from him, which taught me a great deal about grammar,
punctuation, and syntax. Blake lovingly drew four illustrations for the story in black-and-white, and I presented a leather-bound copy to Jenny—thinking that I had fulfilled my promise and that would be that.

  My agent asked to read the manuscript, and unbeknownst to me, he submitted it to Harper & Row. I was astonished when he told me that the legendary Ursula Nordstrom, editor in chief of the children’s division, liked the story enough to acquire it. Before I knew it, I was revising and editing in accordance with Ursula’s suggestions, which took another year. It was a thrilling day indeed when the book was officially published on October 28, 1971. I opted to use “Julie Edwards” as my pen name, since if it hadn’t been for Blake’s encouragement, I never would have written the book in the first place. I’m proud to say that Mandy remains in print to this day.

  FAMILY DRAMAS CONTINUED to plague us, alas. Blake’s ex-wife, Patty, made another attempt on her life. This time, she was in a coma for ten days, and we were told that she might not pull through.

  Blake and I sat with Geoff and told him the facts as gently as we could. Of course, Geoff was completely undone. We hugged and loved him up, and waited until he was calmer. We’d been sitting on our bed, and as we got up to go downstairs, this lanky, forlorn eleven-year-old suddenly said, “Carry me?” I was touched, realizing I was being asked to stand in for the mother he was so very concerned about.

  “Oh . . . all right, you great lump!” I said, “Come on!” Though he was nearly as tall as me, I somehow managed to pick him up and stagger my way down the stairs, where we collapsed in a heap of giggles, which helped.