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by Julie Andrews

  Auntie offered everything from children’s classes to character and ballroom dancing, and she was a good teacher, evidenced by the endless parade of cars, bicycles, and people walking up and down the driveway.

  I especially loved watching the toddlers, skipping around pretending to be fairies, running and flying. Aunt was so gentle with them, helping to strengthen and shape their little bodies and feet. If I wasn’t studying or working, I would go across to the studio and either join in the older children’s classes, or watch. Aunt would give me private ballet lessons whenever she could. She had some terrific ballroom students who were eight to ten years older than I, and they eventually became what we called “the gang.” Special friends included Keith Oldham, a handsome fellow who had a glass eye. He had a sweet girlfriend, Margaret, whom he eventually married. There was Ted Owen—a skinny fellow nicknamed “Tappets,” because he was always having trouble with the tappets on his motorbike.

  When the evening classes were over, they often headed for Auntie’s bungalow. The little potbellied fire would be stoked. There’d be some ale or cups of tea and biscuits, and everybody would smoke and play canasta. It was a pleasure to cross from our big empty house to the toasty little bungalow and to just sit and enjoy the company. Eventually I learned the card games, too, and got to be pretty good at them.

  Uncle Bill came into his own at these times. By day, he was a civil servant, working at the Milk Marketing Board, but in the evenings he loved to socialize. He also loved to gamble, and was especially fond of the horse races. From time to time he would take me with him to local Sandown Park, and this I simply adored. Uncle Bill taught me how to spot a good-looking horse and which one might just win. He’d go to the tote booth and lay down bets for us both. We always sat in the cheapest seats or stood at the rails, and it was thrilling to see the horses come thundering round the bend, heading for the finish line. I became familiar with all the jockeys’ names and eventually became rather good at picking a winner.

  I had seen the film My Friend Flicka, the story of a boy and a beautiful horse, at our local cinema, and had fallen madly in love with the film’s star, Roddy McDowall. The character he played in the story, Ken McLaughlin, lived on the huge Goose Bar Ranch. I was so obsessed with the film that I fantasized I was married to Ken and that we owned many properties, many horses. After a day at the races with Uncle Bill, I would keep the race card and laboriously copy into a ledger all the horses’ names, their dams, sires, and pedigree details. My “Goose Bar Ranch” was very real to me, and I thought of little else for a while. I made property deeds, sealed them with wax, and tied them with red string. They would state “This is to certify that Mr. and Mrs. Ken McLaughlin own the [name of ranch] and other parts of the United States and Canada.” I even kept a “stable” of Hadge’s old beanpoles in the garden. I’d attach a string at one end for reins and gallop the length of the property. In my imagination, these were the shiniest, healthiest horses in the world.

  My mother seemed to be experiencing a new feeling of well-being: she’d settled into her dream house, she’d had the two sons that Pop wanted, their vaudeville act was doing reasonably well. Pop had become a member of one of the local golf clubs, where he did a lot of networking and socializing. He was a left-handed scratch player, and very good—my mother often said that she was a golfing widow. I think my stepfather’s greatest dream was to win the British Amateur Golfing Championship. Sadly, he never did.

  For the first time in my memory, Mum began to practice the piano again, the way she used to when she was a young classical pianist.

  I remember being awed by the lovely music that emanated from our big living room. I would creep in to sit in a dark corner and watch my mother at the other end of the room, bent over the piano keys, completely absorbed in her scales or beautiful pieces of Chopin or Rachmaninoff or de Falla. She would lean into the instrument, or rock back with her face toward the ceiling, her eyes closed. This was clearly a source of great joy for her, and I rejoiced, too.

  That first year at The Meuse felt like we’d really stepped up in the world. So many sweet things come to mind. Little Chris, cycling around on his tricycle, trying so hard to learn to whistle. He couldn’t say the words “Uncle Bill,” and referred to him as “Dingle Bell”—a name we all adopted, eventually shortening it to “Dingle” and then “Ding.”

  Great-Aunt Mina came to work for Mummy, helping to clean the house and keep us all tidy. She was a wonderful character, large and ruddy-faced. She would climb the stepladder to wipe an overhead lamp and declare “Bar-bur-a! The dust on this lamp is ow-dacious!” Or, answering the phone for my mother, she would clutch it in one hand and yell up the stairs, “Bar-bur-a! Missus So-and-So’s on the phone for you…You’re not in? Right, I’ll tell her!”

  Dad would come over to The Meuse some weekends, bicycling all the way from Chessington. I would accompany him back, riding my own bike. Pedaling my way up Esher Hill, my legs would ache horribly. Dad would give me a great shove, his hand in the small of my back, and I would shoot ahead of him, only to stall a few rotations later as the ascent got the better of me. We would always stop at a pub along the way for lemonade and crisps. I do not know how Dad managed his travels without a car.

  Our local cinema showed Astaire-Rogers movies from time to time. Whenever one was playing, Aunt would arrange for us to see it together. I think she lived vicariously through the famous couple. We would have such fun—Aunt rhapsodizing aloud throughout the movie at Ginger’s loveliness and her gowns, and Fred’s brilliant work. I was equally impressed, though more silent, munching on my Mars bars. Aunt would note down every dance step she could, trying them out by cavorting on the sidewalk all the way home, and incorporating them into her own choreographic works as quickly as possible.

  Through sheer hard work and all of us pulling together, it seemed that life was finally going to be okay. The divorce had been painful, Mum’s guilt had been tremendous, and the poverty had been oppressive, but, gradually, she and Pop were building a better name and a better life for themselves. In retrospect, it was actually the pinnacle of Mum’s and Pop’s success and happiness. Alas, everything went downhill from there.

  ELEVEN

  JUST BEFORE MOVING to The Old Meuse, I did my first radio broadcast for the BBC, at a place called the Aeolian Hall in Bond Street, in London. My parents were performing on the show. I do not know why I was asked to perform as well, but I sang the “Polonaise” from Ambroise Thomas’s opera Mignon. In rehearsal, the engineers kept asking me to back off from the microphone because my voice was blasting their sound system, but the broadcast went well, and may have contributed to what happened next.

  Not long after, my stepfather brought home a famous producer, the managing director of the Moss Empires circuit, named Val Parnell. Pop had met him at the golf club, and being the good salesman that he was, he’d persuaded Mr. Parnell to come and hear his “extraordinary little stepdaughter with the phenomenal voice.” I remember being summoned in from the garden and asked to sing for this impressive gentleman. My mother accompanied me on the piano.

  The next thing I knew, I was invited to take part in Mr. Parnell’s new musical revue in London called Starlight Roof. The production was to be staged at the London Hippodrome, which was at the corner of Leicester Square and Charing Cross Road. I was given a contract for one year, pending the show’s success.

  Mum and Pop had been professionally represented by the agency of Lew and Leslie Grade (Lew later became Sir Lew, and then Lord Grade, of television and film production fame). But at this time, an American by the name of Charles L. Tucker became their agent, and subsequently mine. Charles was from Hartford, Connecticut. He was a comfortably large, elegantly dressed man with a cheerful, moon-shaped face, gray, curly hair, and a wonderful chuckle. He had been a vaudeville violinist in the States, but had moved to London and become a talent agent, and he represented some fairly high-end clients.

  AS THE NAME suggests, Starlight Roof was glamorous—a
series of assorted theatrical entertainments strung together: sketches, songs, dance, comedy. The show was a perfect night out. It was light, witty, elegant to look at, and featured several big production numbers. There were two performances a night—one at 6:00 and one at 8:35.

  The all-star cast included Vic Oliver, a stylish musician and comedian who played the violin and conducted the orchestra occasionally; Pat Kirkwood, one of the reigning glamour ladies of the day; the comedians Fred Emney and Wally Boag; a beautiful ballerina by the name of Marilyn Hightower; and a young newcomer, Michael Bentine. The show was staged by Robert Nesbitt, a dignified gentleman with dark, brilliantined hair. He had a fine reputation for bringing class and distinction to his productions, and his mere presence commanded everyone’s attention.

  During rehearsals, I would sit in the theater and watch the lighting being designed and the numbers being rehearsed. I saw truly talented people doing their stuff, and it was a big learning curve for me. It was my first taste of real glamour—of the art and magic of professional stagecraft.

  Originally, I was to sing Weber’s “The Skater’s Waltz,” a fairly innocuous song, not particularly difficult. I appeared in the show as if I were a member of the audience.

  Wally Boag was a loose-limbed, adorable American who told stories and did silly dances, flinging his amazingly double-jointed legs out to the side and twisting them in all directions while at the same time making extraordinary balloon animals. By the end of his act, he’d created a giraffe, an elephant, and several dogs and make-believe creatures. Vic Oliver would come onstage and suggest that Wally give them away to the patrons in the theater.

  Wally asked, “Who’d like one of these?” and as people came forward, I would run down from the back of the stalls, having been waiting behind an exit curtain, saying, “I’d like one, please!”

  My costume was a pale blue, pleated smock made of silk, with a line of white rickrack at my bosom, such as it was. Over it was a simple blue coat with patch pockets on the front. On my feet I wore socks with ballet slippers—odd things to be wearing, considering I was supposed to be a member of the public.

  Wally and Vic Oliver deliberately left me until last. As I was given my balloon, Mr. Oliver would say, “How old are you?”

  “I’m twelve,” I’d reply. “How old are you?”

  “I think I’d better ask the questions!” he’d respond, after the chuckles subsided. “Apart from going to school, what do you do?”

  “I sing!”

  “Would you care to sing for us tonight?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “What would you like to sing?”

  “I’d like to sing ‘The Skater’s Waltz.’”

  “Oh, lovely!” he’d say with a twinkle. “Just the kind of junk I like!” And he’d conduct the orchestra for me.

  There was a fair-sized orchestra in the pit, but there was also another onstage called George Melachrino’s Starlight Orchestra. This consisted of mostly stringed instruments, and the musicians were very good and elegantly dressed in white dinner jackets. Vic Oliver loved to conduct; in fact, after Starlight Roof ended, he traveled around England conducting with various symphony orchestras.

  Literally the day before our opening night, the producers decided that I appeared too innocent, too young to be in a sophisticated revue. My being in the show was coming across as unnecessary and perhaps even inappropriate. I was to be let go. Mum, Pop, and Charles Tucker descended upon poor Val Parnell and his assistant Cissy Williams. I remember hanging back and waiting while they had a long, heated conference.

  “You cannot do this to a young child!” they protested. “First of all, it’s her big break; secondly, she’ll be heartbroken. Third, we can make what she does even better.”

  Mum and Pop asked me to sing the “Polonaise” from Mignon, which I did. The “Polonaise” is a hundred times more difficult than “The Skater’s Waltz”—it’s a real coloratura tour de force, finishing with a high F above top C. Originally written in French, the English translation is silly beyond belief, but I belted it out, leaping octaves and ripping off cadenzas and changes of key with bravura and dash. When I finished, there was a momentary pause—then, to everyone’s delight, I was reinstated in the show.

  OPENING NIGHT WAS October 23, 1947. Mum escorted me up to London on the train. As we walked from the station to the theater, we saw an English flower seller tucked into a convenient corner of Leicester Square, with her baskets and flowers spread around her.

  “I’ll buy you some flowers for luck,” said my mother.

  “What does she need luck for, dearie?” the flower seller queried, in a strong Cockney accent.

  “Well, do you see that name on the bottom of the poster there?” Mum pointed at it. “That’s my daughter, and she’s going to be opening tonight, singing in the show.”

  “Then you ain’t buyin’ these,” said the lady, handing me a beautiful fresh bunch of violets. “I’m givin’ them to ’er for good luck.”

  Later that evening, when my big moment came, I ran fearlessly down the theater aisle. I went up onstage, sang the “Polonaise” from Mignon, and at the end I hit that high F above top C. There was a hush—and then the audience went absolutely wild. People rose to their feet and would not stop clapping. My song literally stopped the show. The aria was so difficult, and I was barely twelve years old, a sprite of a thing, really, with this freakish voice, and it caused a sensation. It was the first of three major stepping-stones in my career.

  The press followed us home that night. They took photographs of me posed on the bed with my teddy bear, and bombarded me with questions.

  The next morning, Starlight Roof received very good notices, and I was treated exceedingly well. “Prodigy with Pigtails!” and “Pocket-money Star Stops the Show!” the reviews said.

  Needless to say, the flower seller’s gift was indeed a lucky one, and violets took on a new meaning for me in the years that followed.

  TWELVE

  WE PLAYED TWO performances every night but Sunday, with no matinees, for a total of twelve shows a week. It quickly became obvious that I could not attend school regularly, so a tutor was hired for me. The London County Council, which protected children in the theater up to the age of fifteen, insisted that I have a chaperone to and from the theater, as well as a private dressing room. I was also not allowed to take a final curtain call with the company, since the law stated I could not appear on stage after 10 P.M. Historically, children in the theater had been treated appallingly—so the government had strict rules under the Child Labor Law.

  My first tutor was a young, pretty, ineffectual woman, whose name I don’t recall. I walked all over her, claiming that I was far too busy to do homework. Within two months she was gone, and a new tutor, much older, by the name of Miss Gladys Knight was hired—and she brooked no excuses. She was a disciplinarian, a darling, and a good teacher. We worked together for four hours every day, and I finally began to get the education I should have had all along.

  It became increasingly difficult for Mum to travel up to London with me every evening, so sometimes Uncle Bill came with me, sometimes Aunt Joan, and then eventually, as the year continued, a lady called Mickey Smith was engaged to become my chaperone.

  “Auntie Mickey,” as I called her, was a genteel spinster. Her sister was nanny to Lord and Lady Rupert Nevill’s children, which Mickey flaunted, albeit discreetly. She was a plain woman, who had a large gap between her teeth, and blinked a lot behind her thick spectacles—but she knew a great deal about being appropriate.

  She said, “Julie, your nails are appalling. I shall give you a manicure, but I want you to scrub them completely clean before I start to file them.” I returned to the sink several times before she was satisfied.

  It seems I was belting out my aria twice nightly with dirt under my fingernails, holes in my socks, and looking scruffy beyond words. So between shows, after my homework was completed, she would push back my cuticles and polish my nails or give me a p
edicure. My hair was brushed and braided, my outfit pressed and kept clean, and in general I looked a lot better. I was grateful for the attention.

  Auntie Mickey lived in Surbiton, three stops before Walton on the railway line. At the end of each evening, we’d get on the train together in London and she would get off first at her station and I would go on alone to mine. My family would pick me up from there, or I would walk home.

  I began to rate myself in terms of how well I sang each night. I kept a little book, writing “X” for excellent or “Fairly Good” or “TERRIBLE.” Because I had to manage that F above top C twice a night, I developed an excruciating habit of testing and re-testing the high note to make sure it was always there. I must have driven everyone crazy, because eventually a complaint was made to the stage manager. But I needed to ensure that my voice was lodged and secure, particularly if I wasn’t feeling very strong.

  There were nights when my voice did not hold up, of course. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally I swallowed or gargled my top note from either sheer fatigue or stress. Truthfully, I think that performing an aria twice a night for a year was more than any twelve-year-old should have been doing. I had the facility, but there were nights in the smoke-filled theater (and everybody smoked in those days) when my vocal cords dried up and the famous top F didn’t come out as well as it should have. On other nights, it was as easy as could be.

  I had at least two hours between my appearances, since I was in the first half of the show and then had to wait through the second half plus the interval between the shows. After I’d done my homework, my chaperone and I would sometimes go out into Leicester Square for a meal—usually to a chain restaurant such as Quality Inn or Forte’s. Leicester Square was gaudy, pungent with smells and bright with neon, but it was always a treat for me.