After we said goodbye to my family, Blake took me to dinner at Hampton Court. We wandered at dusk in the gardens of the palace and looked at the glorious Long Water, the fountains and avenues and beautiful flowers. The Thames was running high by the towpath just beyond the boundary wall. Blessed river; it still holds such fascination for me.
Emma stayed on in London with her dad, who was designing Ken Russell’s film version of The Boy Friend. Geoff was with his mother and Jenny for a spell, so Blake and I traveled on to Switzerland. It was high summer in Gstaad, and very hot. The grasses were green and lush, and geraniums and petunias spilled out of every window box.
There was a tacit understanding between us that we hoped to find our own chalet. I was concerned about the expense, and said as much to Blake.
“Imagine what and who that money could help,” I said.
“And we do help, and we will again, hon,” he replied. “But that shouldn’t prevent us from enjoying ourselves as well.”
Despite my concerns about whether we could, or should, afford it, I have to admit I was a willing co-conspirator with Blake when it came to things that we both wanted. Plus, as long as there was work on the horizon, we felt we could somehow justify it.
Seeing Gstaad in the summer confirmed our love for the place. But our real estate agent said there was nothing on the market, with the exception of “one unfinished chalet on the wrong side of the tracks, far from the chic side of town.” “Unfinished” and “far from chic” was music to our ears, and we asked to see it.
It was owned by a tiny, eccentric English lady. With fluttering eyelashes, she informed Blake that her reason for selling was that she had to move to a lower elevation due to asthma arising from “a disappointment in love.”
The chalet didn’t have much land, but it had a magnificent view on all sides, and best of all, an unfinished third floor that offered us the chance to design it to our taste. We made an offer on the spot.
Wanting more time to ourselves, we decided to travel back to the U.S. by sea. I was feeling a real reluctance to go home, to return to all the responsibilities of work, children, and a household. I ached to hold on to the feelings of escape, of being alone with Blake, of peace and reflection.
We flew to Paris for one night and stayed at the Hôtel Le Bristol, where we had been based during Darling Lili three years before. The same familiar doorman was there to greet us. Smiling broadly, he exclaimed, “Ah! The couple who kissed in the rain!”
The next day, we boarded the Queen Elizabeth II at Le Havre. It was my first ocean crossing, and I was ecstatic. We had a beautiful suite with a balcony, and an attentive steward who brought us breakfast every morning.
We had both intended to write on the journey. Blake spent most of the day curled up in his bathrobe, absorbed in another screenplay, but it was taking me longer to get started. Before moving to the Copley house, I had stumbled upon an idea for another children’s book. I had been looking in a thesaurus and had discovered a list of mythical creatures that I had never heard of. They had fantastical names, like Gyascutus, Sidewinder, and Swamp Gaboon. One word in particular jumped out at me: Whangdoodle.
Looking it up, I discovered the definition to be “a humorous, mythical creature of fanciful and undefined nature.”
“Well, I can define it!” I thought. “I’m going to write a book called The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles.”
Until this point, however, I had not put pen to paper. But I had been thinking about it, and I had a vague idea of my outline. I finally began scribbling.
Each day on the QEII, Blake and I worked side by side, partook of a late lunch, then read each other what we had written thus far. We took naps, then walked around the ship’s perimeter in the fresh sea air, had dinner, and tumbled into bed.
Blake had said that on our last evening, he would take me to the casino. He saved it until the end of our cruise, knowing that with his addictive personality, if he visited any earlier, he might gamble away every penny we had. I had never gambled before, so Blake took me to the craps table, and showed me how to play. I won a little money, and immediately set half aside for housekeeping funds, which made him chuckle.
“The whole point of gambling is to take a risk,” he said. “Play it again! Bet it all!” He goaded and encouraged my every throw, whipping me into a frenzy of enthusiasm, and I kept winning. At bedtime, I was so wired that I couldn’t sleep. While my husband was serenely out for the count, I lay with eyes wide open, heart racing, adrenaline pumping. I haven’t gambled since—but the details of that night, the colorful, spinning wheel, the dice clattering into place, and most of all, Blake’s wicked delight, remain as vivid to me now as they were then.
11
BLAKE TRAVELED TO Boston in late August to begin work on The Carey Treatment. The film was to star James Coburn and Jennifer O’Neill. Blake had also cast his daughter, Jenny, now fourteen, in a good supporting role.
I joined him as quickly as I could, sensing that trouble with James Aubrey was already afoot. Aubrey had shortened the film’s production schedule, and had begun editing footage while shooting was still under way.
One evening, Aubrey’s producer and right-hand man tried to introduce Jenny to cocaine. When Blake found out, he went off the rails. I had never seen him so angry. He paced up and down our hotel suite, venting his desperation, then went to the window and pounded his fists against it so hard that I feared he would break the glass and throw himself out. While he raged, I sat in the middle of the bed, wondering what to do. Some instinct made me realize that Blake needed to work it out himself. I stayed very quiet, simply being present, and he finally calmed down.
The following day, guys from the Teamsters union knocked on the door to our suite.
“We hear you’re having some problems, boss. Want us to deal with it?” they asked. Blake told me it was a tempting invitation, but something made him say, “Thank you . . . but no.”
Time and again, Blake tried to ease himself out of his contract with MGM.
“I’ve gotta get away from Hollywood,” he said to me. “The studio system is so corrupt.” His agents and lawyers advised him to hold on, hold out, but the stress took a serious toll. It even landed him in the hospital for a weekend.
In the end, Blake didn’t participate in editing the film, knowing that Aubrey would have butchered it anyway. He even requested that MGM remove his name from the project, but the request was denied.
One evening at dusk, he was driving home from Beverly Hills, thinking about Aubrey and deeply preoccupied, when a jogger appeared. Blake swerved, missing him by inches. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he realized that the jogger was in fact James Aubrey. Afterward, Blake said that had he hit Aubrey, no one would have believed it was an accident. The near miss shook him to the core.
MY HUSBAND BEGAN self-medicating again. From late in the afternoon onward, he became more and more emotionally unavailable, making conversation difficult. He was often unapproachable when writing—the whole family recognized when he was preoccupied with a new screenplay—but this was different. I agonized as to whether and how to confront him. God knows what I was so afraid of—did I doubt my instincts? I certainly had no knowledge of what resources existed at the time, such as twelve-step or other treatment programs, or even what to ask of him in that respect.
Finally, during a quiet moment, I said, “Blake—there’s something we need to discuss.” I conveyed my concern about his drug use, and what toll it might ultimately take on our marriage and our children. To my surprise, he did not disagree. He vowed once again to cut back, and seemed for a while to do so.
THE INVITATION TO do a television series for ABC was still on the table, but the filming location had now transitioned from London to Los Angeles. The offer had come from Sir Lew Grade, who had been my agent during the vaudeville years, but was now a prominent television producer, working both in England and the States. I hadn’t had much luck with television in the past, and I didn’t reli
sh the long commitment of a series. It was to be twenty-three shows per year, with a guarantee that Sir Lew would produce a film of Blake’s—which hopefully I would participate in—for each year the series was on the air. It was a very good deal, and we needed the money, but I worried about being unavailable to the kids for such an extended time.
I wrote:
There is so much that is still unresolved. Should I accept the television show? Will Blake’s work on The Carey Treatment be totally wasted or will he salvage some dignity for himself? Will next year bring much-needed finances for either of us? Will we make it to Gstaad at Christmas? I don’t know, but I do know this: that whatever happens, I want to experience it beside my husband.
We did make it to Gstaad. Ken and Kären traveled with us; the children would be following in a few days’ time, giving us a chance to prepare the new chalet for everyone to move into.
We stayed at our previous rental for the first week, but made a beeline for our new chalet the moment we arrived. We opened all the shutters and let the sunlight flood in. The wooden floors gave out a warm yellow glow. A musty smell emanated from the bathrooms, and there were dead flies lying around. Nevertheless, we planned to move in, camping-style, as soon as possible. It said much about lovely Gstaad that we were so happy to be there.
We rented a VW bus, and began stocking our new home. We bought a refrigerator and a vacuum cleaner, and a local friend lent us a dining table and chairs, along with a huge old sideboard. We put up beds and took dustcovers off some old chairs that had been left in the house. We ordered carpets and bought lamps and bedside tables. We tried to keep expenses down, but it seemed there were so many little things we needed. Thankfully, I had brought linens, crockery, and cutlery from the States.
One day, I spotted a young man and woman walking up the small valley in front of our chalet. They introduced themselves as brother and sister, Gottfried and Annemarie Von Siebenthal, who lived across the way. Their family owned the local home-and-hardware store in town, and they wished to welcome us to the village. Their ancestry dated back to the 1100s, making theirs among the oldest and most distinguished families in town. Little could I guess that the family would become our most enduring friends in Gstaad.
I wrote:
I swear the people here have some secret to life. I envy them. I’d like to know the country the way they do. To be strong, physically, to be in tune with one’s body. Oh, for a year to get in shape here. To write—or sing—daily, rather than just grabbing time when possible.
My sorrow is that I don’t know if I’ll ever have the guts to take that precious time. Life passes by so quickly—there is so much to be done. I feel that the past two years have been good for me. There has been reflection, and a deliberate focus on family, but no professional work. Now I feel almost ready to contribute again.
The TV situation is something I churn over in my guts daily. It would certainly force me to be creative and practice and keep in shape. And it will bring us the money we need to help pay for the chalet and the house in L.A. But a TV series will take me away from the real things I yearn for—nature, the children, writing. I must somehow make it a means to an end.
The kids arrived, and were in good form. They took daily skiing lessons and pitched in at the new chalet. One day, Blake and I decided to try cross-country skiing. The clothing required light jackets and bloomers, ending at the knees, with long socks and square-toed shoes. We dressed in identical navy-blue outfits, feeling ridiculous.
We set off in our car, one snow-chain loose and clanking away. I looked down at my lap and suddenly said to Blake, “Do your trousers have flies?”
“No . . .”
“Well, mine do!”
We swapped trousers while still in the car.
Another day, I went downhill skiing. There was a perfect moment when Emma, a red-clad demon on the snow, caught up with me halfway down the mountain. I heard her whistling and calling, and saw her cheerful face, smiling and shouting encouragement. As I continued to plow laboriously down the hill, she danced along beside me like a busy gnat on the surface of a river. For five perfect seconds, we skied together in harmony; true happiness for us both.
Real life kept interfering, however. Jenny went back to her mother in London, and the television show kept rearing its head. I worried about the short amount of rehearsal and taping time allocated—only a week per hour-long episode. What would happen to the children? My writing? What if other creative projects were offered?
Blake gave me good advice. “Look, honey, here’s the bottom line. You haven’t made a film in two years. I’ve always said, when in doubt, play your best hand. Right now, your best hand is television. They want you very much, and they’re willing to pay you well. If you choose to do the series, I’ll stay home and write, and look after the kids. We’ll reverse roles.”
His words encouraged me to finally commit to the series, a variety show to be called The Julie Andrews Hour. Two American producers flew in to Gstaad for three days to have meetings about it all.
I wrote:
When they read me the press release for the show, it was a shock. It is happening. I just wish it could be done without all the ballyhoo and pre-publicity. With such a build-up, it seems the risk of failure looms large.
I looked about the sweet chalet today, trying to impress the view on my mind. At least this is something solid and real and worth working hard for.
Blake began painting, usually a very good sign. But these subjects were slightly scary to me; they were surrealistic creatures, a combination of circus animals and prehistoric monsters, against a Dada-esque landscape. I suggested that he was painting out his demons from the past months, and he agreed.
I spent the last days in Gstaad getting back to work on my Whangdoodle book. I read chapters to the children. There were many questions from them, much imagining and wondering, and eagerness for me to hurry up and finish. What a compliment!
We decided to travel back to L.A. via London, so that in addition to having more meetings about the television show, I would have a chance to see my family. As we left our chalet, a wonderful thing happened. Standing by the farm in the snow next to our house were two chimney sweeps, with long wire brushes coiled in a ring on their shoulders, old-fashioned stovepipe trousers, and peaked caps.
I said to Blake, “That is a good omen.”
I’m not usually superstitious, but chimney sweeps have always been considered a symbol of good luck in England, as a certain song lyric in Mary Poppins will attest. I hoped it was a positive sign.
IN LONDON, BLAKE and I met with Sir Lew Grade about the TV series, and discussed what our subsequent first movie might be.
Sir Lew bubbled with enthusiasm—he was in love with life, his wife, his job. But he was also yearning for knowledge of the movie business. He and Blake swapped ideas, and got on like a house on fire. It was a tremendous relief, and Blake became steadily more enthusiastic.
When we got back to the hotel, we met up with my dad, Win, my stepsister Shad, and my brother John. We all had dinner together, talking and laughing through every course. It was a memorable evening, made all the more so by the fact that Blake was in great form, too.
The following night, we did the same thing with the other side of my family. Although Mum and Auntie were, as usual, uptight with each other, the dinner went almost as well. Two rare and successful events with my family, back to back.
Just as Mum and Auntie were leaving, Mum thrust six somewhat crumpled new handkerchiefs into my hand, in an embarrassed sort of way, and wouldn’t listen to my thanks. I realized she must have waited all evening for that one private moment to give them to me. I became teary with some emotion I couldn’t explain. The fact that she had gone to the trouble of purchasing a small gift for me—something she so seldom did—and that she had shopped for and chosen handkerchiefs, moved me deeply. It was a quick gesture of love, and we so rarely shared that kind of intimacy.
On the flight back to L.A., I wrote:<
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We are not excited about going home. So much hard work awaits us there. It’s going to be a difficult year—a very difficult one. I’ll be working non-stop, and not spending as much time with the children or Blake as I’d like. Now, one starts to pay the price for all “goodies” received by signing the TV contract.
If we slip back into all the drama of last year, or allow the stress level to get to us again, it will be a terrible shame. It was such a good holiday—and I feel as if I’ve emerged from it fresh and new-born. Somehow, Blake and I must preserve that feeling.
It had taken me almost two years to make up my mind to do the television series. Initially, Blake’s and my role-swapping made me anxious. As I headed out the door for work, I’d say, “Now, remember, Geoff’s got a dentist appointment today, and Emma gets picked up at three . . .”
“Relax, honey,” Blake would reply. “It’s all taken care of.”
In the evening, I would come home exhausted and say, “Let me tell you about my hard day at work.”
He’d say, “Let me tell you about your kids and what they got up to.”
The truth is, the house had never been better run. But Blake was also trying to write, and he did eventually need some help with the chores. So, in mid-February, an eighteen-year-old Irish lad whom we had never met came to live with us.
Young Tony Adams had originally come over to the States as a tutor for the children of John Boorman, who was directing the film Deliverance with Burt Reynolds. When filming was completed, Burt employed Tony at his ranch. Blake and I had dinner with Burt one evening, and when we mentioned that we were looking for someone, he recommended Tony. We hired him sight unseen.
Home Work Page 19
