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by Julie Andrews

  The trailer was maybe twenty feet long. I slept on the little banquette by the dining table and my parents had the double bed at the back. When we arrived in the town where we were performing, we would pull into some local farm, or perhaps a parking lot beside a pub, and Pop would ask if he could hitch up to their water supply and pay rent. My parents loved the pub parking best, because after the theater they could have a good meal and a drink. Sometimes Mum would cook on the little stove in the trailer. There was a small loo and shower, but only a tiny water tank, which was always rather smelly and mildewed, so we mostly bathed in the theaters, farmhouses, or pubs.

  I loved feeling the wind buffeting our little home at night, or hearing the rain teeming down on the roof. Being snug inside, bunked in with the family, was an adventure.

  Driving up to these venues, or coming home from them, was often fun. Mum and Pop would make me a bed in the back of the car, and I would snuggle into an eiderdown and read on the long journeys up to the north of England. As soon as Saturday night second house was over, we’d head back home as quickly as we could, often driving through the night.

  Sometimes Mum and I still had our theatrical makeup on. Pop flung everything into the car as quickly as possible in order to get out of the theater and the town and get a head start on the journey. At about one-thirty in the morning, we would stop at a transport café on one of the long highways that run through England. We’d pull into a scruffy pit stop, its parking lot filled with huge trucks and semis.

  The cafés often had a big potbellied stove inside and there would be a warm fug of smoke hanging in the room. With the smell of cooking and the fire glowing, it was a cozy place to be in the middle of a damp night. The truckers were friendly, it was busy and lively with conversation, and we would have bacon-and-egg sandwiches and steaming hot mugs of tea before journeying on.

  We drove through rain and snow often and the windshield wipers would swish back and forth, their sound very soothing to me. The fogs in those days were awful—“pea soupers,” they were called; fog thickened by coal smoke. On such nights, my mother would take the wheel and Pop would get out and walk in front of the car with a flashlight. I would wake up and lean over the front seat, peering ahead, helping to spot any danger.

  My mother took great delight in the north of England. She would point out the coal-mining towns and tell me a little of their history. She showed me the collieries with the huge wheels on towers, and shafts and lifts that went way down into the mines beneath. There were slag heaps—huge, cone-shaped mountains of coal refuse.

  Sheffield was famous for its steel. I remember the hilly streets, and line upon line of identical houses with not a tree in sight. To me it seemed awfully depressing and simply black with soot. But every doorstep was whitewashed and every window had white curtains. People who lived in the North took great pride in washing down their pavements and doorsteps and keeping their homes as immaculate as possible.

  At that time, I couldn’t see anything redeeming about the North Country; it just seemed industrial and sad. But my mother had memories from her youth, and she very much wanted to share them with me. Over the years, I grew to appreciate that part of England: the moors, the heather and gorse, the thin-steepled churches, the low stone walls, and tiny cottages huddling into the hills and vales to protect them from the biting winds.

  NINE

  WIN HAD GIVEN birth to a baby girl in September of 1945—my half sister, named Celia. I have no recollection of the day she was born, though I knew Win was expecting a baby. At first I was not happy that there was another little girl in my dad’s life. As she grew older, Celia may have felt the same way about me. We’ve subsequently become very close indeed, but with roughly ten years’ age difference between us, initially it was difficult.

  MUM, POP, AND I went to entertain the American troops at one of their army bases. Although the war was over, there were still many American personnel stationed in England. The evening was fascinating. We gave our little concert and received a mild response. I suspect a drawing-room musical performance was not the most stimulating act the young men could have seen, and they seemed vaguely restless—perhaps puzzled by the young girl singing her coloratura aria. Not your average, everyday troop entertainment. Afterward, we were given a bang-up dinner in a vast cafeteria: a huge T-bone steak for each of us, French fries, veggies, salads, and pie à la mode. I’d never had such a meal.

  DAD TOOK JOHNNY and me for a picnic on the river one day. Our boat was moored to a willow, and we were lazing around having crisps and sandwiches. Four or five noisy teenage lads came down to the water’s edge, much to Johnny’s and my annoyance, since they were interrupting our idyllic time with Dad.

  The boys decided they would swim out to a barge anchored in the middle of the stream—all except for one lad who declined. The others teased him so unmercifully that he felt compelled to join them. My father became suddenly alert. The boy—who obviously could barely swim—began to flounder, and he went under, surfaced, then went under again. My dad said, “Oh my God. You two stay on the boat. Do not move.” He dived overboard fully clothed and rescued the lad, bringing him back to the riverbank and tending to him. Then he really laced into the others and advised them to get the boy home immediately.

  During this last process, Dad was without his pants; he had kicked them off in the river since they were weighing him down, so he had to travel home on the bus with a towel around his middle, which was as embarrassing for him as it was for us. But still we thought him a god, because he’d saved the boy’s life.

  Another day, Dad took us all—Johnny, me, and Celia—down to Eastbourne. We arrived at the beach, and Dad disappeared to change behind a rock. He then waded into the sea, Johnny and little Celia close behind. Not wanting to hurt or disappoint him, I bravely waded in too. It was blowing and bitterly cold, but when I came out of the water, teeth chattering, I smiled and said, “Oh, Dad, this is the stuff of life!” I don’t know why I said it—maybe because I knew it would please him, maybe because it was a healthy dose of reality or there was triumph in having overcome the freezing, piercing quality of the wind. But Dad never forgot it. He quoted me often and took it to mean that I really loved those kinds of activities—and I guess I did. But I was always a bit of a softie.

  ON MAY 12, 1946, my mother gave birth to my youngest brother, Christopher Stuart Andrews. Once again, Mum went to Rodney House, the maternity hospital in Walton.

  This time I stayed with family friends in the village, Madge and Arthur Waters. Arthur was our local bank manager. His wife, Madge, a strong, stout woman, was a member of the local Red Cross. They had two daughters, Virginia (Ginny) and Patricia (Trisha), the girl I danced with in Auntie’s production of “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” and who remains my good friend to this day.

  The happy news was that I was now old enough to visit Mum in the maternity hospital. The first time I did so, Chris was placed in my lap and promptly peed in it…a bonding of sorts.

  When Mum and baby finally came home, it became obvious that the Beckenham house was no longer big enough.

  Mum and Pop started making regular visits back to Walton-on-Thames to scout for a new home. Mum’s love for Walton had never gone away—it represented safety, roots, everything she yearned for. Besides, their vaudeville act was doing well, and they were presumably ready to take a chance and step up in the world.

  On these trips, they would always stop to have lunch or tea with friends, then go off to look at houses in the area. I was left to play with Trisha Waters at her house, or at the home of Gladys and William Barker.

  Gladys was my mum’s closest friend. Smart and genuine, she had married William, who came from a long line of farmers and who had a wonderful market gardening establishment called Rivernook Farm. They were people of the land and as real and good as they come. Uncle Bill was bombastic, larger than life but generous to a fault, and relied on his wife completely.

  They had a daughter a year younger than me named Susan,
and a son, John. The Barkers loved kids, and they had a dress-up box—a huge trunk full of old clothes and trinkets, fake jewelry, paper hats, and Christmas crowns—and best of all, they had a summerhouse in their garden, a tiny place with a very small verandah jutting out under the roof. It made a perfect little theater.

  Thus began a period of creativity for us girls—Trisha, Susan, and me. We put on plays for our families, and all their relatives, plus whoever happened to be around, including the farmhands.

  Being totally bossy, I always wrote, directed, and starred in the plays, which featured lots of swashbuckling, gypsies, and princesses. I would write furiously for the first hour or so of my visit, then time would run out on us, at which point Sue, Trish, and I would make up the rest of the play as we went along. Our audience was asked to sit on garden chairs on the lawn. We’d put on makeup and costumes from the trunk and act our heads off, hamming it up for all we were worth. Our efforts were rewarded by generous, hearty applause. We’d charge a penny a ticket, thinking we’d donate the proceeds to a nearby camp for German prisoners of war, so that they could buy socks—but we never made enough money to buy even one pair.

  The Barkers’ farm was situated between the river and one of the main roads to London, and whenever we passed by, it was a joy to see the orderly fields of fat cabbages, or row upon row of pale green lettuce. One section was always planted with flowers—sometimes nothing but tulips—and they blazed across the fields. Another time it would be a great swath of daffodils, or narcissi.

  William had big green vans with “Wm. Barker & Son” printed in gold on the side. They would be carefully packed with boxes of vegetables and flowers, then driven up to London in the middle of the night in order to sell the goods at Covent Garden by five or six A.M. Poor Bill didn’t get much sleep in those days, but the idea of getting up in the middle of the night, loading up, and going in a convoy to London seemed like fun to me.

  One day, Mum said with great excitement, “We’ve purchased a new house, and you are going to love it. It has two acres of ground and there’s even an owl in the garden.” The thought of an owl hooting in the middle of the night was a scary one, but Mum’s excitement about the place was palpable. The house was to become what I now think of as the real home of my childhood.

  TEN

  “THE OLD MEUSE,” as the house was called, was at No. 1 West Grove, situated right on the border between Walton and Hersham. The street had a row of run-down, Dickensian-looking almshouses on one side—but about halfway up the other was a long driveway to our house. Next door to us was the Belgrave Recovery Home, a convalescent residence that was once a fine manor. The Old Meuse had been the servants’ quarters to that manor, and the great joy for my mother was that her mother, Granny Julia, had worked as a below-stairs maid there.

  It was obvious that this was the house of Mum’s dreams. It was certainly bigger than anything we had occupied before, and was considered very upmarket at the time. I believe it cost all of £11,000 (about $22,000 at today’s exchange rate, although property values have so escalated since then that the value would now be in the millions). For my mother and stepfather, the price was absolutely prohibitive. They had a huge mortgage, and I soon became aware that they were overreaching in getting the place.

  The house sat in the middle of the property, which comprised about 2.2 acres. Because it had been the servants’ quarters, the back garden consisted of a vegetable garden, an orchard, a run-down tennis court, a little plot of woodland, and several outbuildings.

  On the left of the house was a porte cochere, which led to an inner courtyard at the back with three fairly substantial garages: one single, one triple with a small loft area in it for storage, and next to that, another single. The courtyard also had a potting shed set in a stone wall and a side gate leading to the back garden.

  Fir trees and large rhododendrons lined the drive; lilacs divided the front garden from the back. A pretty silver birch tree stood by the house, and indeed the owl did come most nights to sit in it. At first, I would lie in bed with the covers drawn tight, feeling a little spooked by its call, but I eventually came to love it and felt comforted knowing it was there—a guardian of the night.

  The house had four bedrooms: one for Mum and Pop, one which the two boys shared, one for guests, and one for me. We had no furniture to speak of, so my stepfather turned his hand to carpentry: he built a trestle dining table with coffee table to match, some window seats with storage below, bookcases, and coat racks. My mother purchased a monk’s bench, which remains in our family to this day. We didn’t have closets or wardrobes, so Mum ran up some curtains on her old Singer sewing machine and hung them on string across the corners of the bedrooms. My stepfather added poles behind them, so that we could hang our clothes.

  All the bedrooms had sinks with the exception of mine, which was right opposite the bathroom. There was a separate toilet upstairs and one downstairs with a wash-basin, plus one outside by the garage area. Almost every room had a small fireplace, which was the only source of heating.

  The main living room was big, with a bay window—a long room, which we used mostly for parties and for housing Mum’s piano. The room we occupied most was a second, slightly smaller lounge, on the other side of the entrance hall. My stepfather built a bar there, complete with foot rail. The kitchen was large and square, with an old gas cooker, an ancient sink, and a small breakfast room next to it. Most of the windows were leaded in traditional, latticework style, and there were wood floors throughout.

  Mum and Pop freshened up the whole house with emulsion paint. They stuccoed the long, rather dark living room in white, then stippled onto it a rose maroon color, and applied a high gloss over the lot. It was probably the fashionable thing to do, but the walls looked waxy, and with the warmth of a crowd or if the fire was lit, they would run with condensation.

  My mother found a terrific bed for me—essentially a mattress on a strong wooden box with two big doors that opened for storage underneath. My little bedroom had a window seat and a fireplace, with a mantelpiece above for all my knickknacks. Pop created a dressing table by putting up a mirror and a shelf against the wall, and Mum covered the lower half with chintz fabric and added a stool.

  They purchased a prefab bungalow for the garden, inviting Uncle Hadge and his wife, Kit, to come and live there and be our gardener/caretakers.

  Hadge said that if he was really going to develop the garden, he would need a greenhouse, so a glass lean-to was added to the wall by the back door in the courtyard. A heater was installed, and to watch Hadge’s cuttings and plants flourish in their bedding boxes and to smell that delicious, earthy smell before entering the kitchen was to be hit with sudden, sensual delight. To this day I know of no more heady perfume than the smell of warm, damp earth.

  For a few brief shining months, Hadge revealed the magic that was in his fingertips. He pared back the roses on the arbor. He weeded the overgrown tennis court, mowed it, rolled it, marked out the tennis lines, and put up a net. He pruned the trees and the orchard began to bloom. There were canes of raspberries, black currants, cherry trees, apple trees—Cox’s Orange Pippins—and a plum tree. He grew beautiful sweet peas, lines and lines of them, and runner beans. Everything about the garden began to fall into shape, and it became my joy, my realm, my fantasyland. Life suddenly seemed a lot better and we finally had a place we could truly call home.

  I found a secret hiding place, down by the small copse beyond the tennis court—a little freak of nature where the forsythia had grown into a complete natural arch. I would lie on the ground looking up into the yellow sprigs and dream the day away. I began to wonder what I would do when I got older. I didn’t really feel that I was good at anything, and I certainly didn’t recognize the value of my voice at that time. I made a resolve to myself that whatever I did, I would do it to the best of my ability and make myself useful. If I was to be someone’s secretary, I’d be the best secretary in the world; if I was a florist, I’d be the best flori
st in the world. I would apply myself, and work hard to become valuable and needed.

  HADGE AND KIT, sadly, did not stay with us very long. When he was good, he was very, very good—but when he was bad, he’d disappear for days and get horribly drunk. Mum and Pop had to let them go. This was difficult for my mother, since she had spent a great deal of her young life in Hadge’s company.

  Not long after they moved out, the idea arose of my aunt taking over the garages at the back of the house for her dancing school. She and Uncle Bill moved into the bungalow—or “the bung,” as we fondly called it. Auntie christened it “Twigs,” and Uncle fashioned the name from branches found in the garden and put it up over the door. The little place didn’t even have a foundation, being just a two-room pre-fab with a Calor gas stove for cooking. A mirror and ballet barre were installed in the big three-car garage. One single garage was converted into a waiting room, and the outside toilet serviced Auntie’s students. Auntie began her classes.

  She also made the little bungalow come to life, and planted flowerbeds along the outside walls. There were prettily arranged flowers inside, too, and she filled vases for our house as well. When Mum and Pop were away, Auntie and Uncle Bill kept an eye on me and Donald and Chris. Best of all, there was music and dance around The Meuse all day long.

  For a while, my mother played the piano for the dance school, and the music would echo across the garden, accompanied by the sounds of Auntie teaching, her hands clapping, keeping time. From our upstairs bathroom window, I would look down into the courtyard and see heads bobbing in the studio and listen to Auntie’s trilling laugh, or hear her chattering with the mothers as she sorted change for their payments. Though a good deal of merriment floated up from outside, often the main house inside would be quiet, empty, and dark.