Uncle Bill—“Dingle”—was my favorite chaperone, because he would often take me to a movie between shows. There was a cinema in nearby Charing Cross Road that just showed cartoons, and I had the best time watching an hour of Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, and all the great animated funnies from America. After this happy distraction, we’d go back to the theater, I’d sing my song again, and be taken home.
When my parents escorted me up to London, they would go to the Backstage Club between shows, a theatrical hangout where they could drink and socialize. Because I was underage, I wasn’t allowed in the club, so I would have to stay in the hall—where I could smell and see the bar and hear the clink of glasses.
The Backstage Club had one of those wonderful cage elevators, which was operated by a lever. One had to anticipate exactly when the elevator would align with the floor of one’s choice. The porter, an old man in a shabby uniform, befriended me and would let me try operating the lift, and I became pretty good at conveying customers up and down.
Driving home with my parents at night, I would notice elegant women standing in doorways or walking the streets of Mayfair. On foggy nights when London was blanketed by a pea souper, these mystery ladies would lurk on corners or stand near the curb.
“Those are prostitutes,” Mum would explain.
When I grasped what they were all about, I asked, “But where do they go? Where do they live?”
“They probably have little apartments somewhere, or they get taken into the hotels,” Mum replied. The area was pretty notorious—Shepherd’s Market and Park Lane especially. The ladies struck me as being sad, somewhat mysterious, and no end intriguing.
DURING THE YEAR I was in the show, I developed the most intense crush on our headliner, Vic Oliver. In truth, he was probably older than he looked—with a balding patch in his hair—but he seemed totally suave, wore an immaculate white evening jacket, and to me, seemed the epitome of class and style. He was married to Winston Churchill’s daughter, Sarah, and appeared to travel in upper-class circles—always going to supper after the show accompanied by a group of friends. I found myself fantasizing about him and became a terrible groupie, hanging around the stage door for the chance to say good night to him. I didn’t know Pat Kirkwood very well, but I did get to know her understudy, Jeannie Carson. Jeannie was a member of the chorus, and was pretty and petite. She took over from Pat several times and was much loved by the company. I later worked with her again, and eventually she made quite a name for herself in English musical theater.
And there was Michael Bentine. Michael was attractive and brilliant, a young comedian with a shock of black hair and an enormous toothy smile. He had two appearances in the show, both times playing a frenetic, dedicated salesman. In the first segment, he attempted to convince the audience to purchase a toilet plunger by showing its many possible uses: a peg leg, a hat, or the electrical conduit from a tram to its wire. Later in the show he came back on with the upper half of a chair, extolling the many functions of its lattice woodwork.
While performing in Starlight Roof, Michael met and wooed a beautiful young ballerina in the chorus, Clementina, who was Marilyn Hightower’s understudy. Later, Michael and Clementina married, and I became godmother to one of their sons, Richard. Michael went on to have a wonderful career uniting with Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe, and Peter Sellers as founding members of The Goons, brilliant performers who were the precursors of the Monty Python gang. Michael was eccentric, energetic, and enthusiastic. One could not help loving him, and he became a lifelong friend.
DURING THE EARLY part of our run, a recording company expressed some interest in me, and I made several 78 acetate discs. I did the “Polonaise,” of course; the love song from Romeo and Juliet; another song called “The Wren”; and with Pop, I recorded “Come to the Fair.” One song, based on the Theme and Variations by Mozart with the title “Ah! Vous Dirai-je Maman,” had the most incredibly difficult coloratura passages and long cadenzas.
I was also invited to do a screen test for Joe Pasternak, a big film producer from the U.S. who had made all the films starring Deanna Durbin. Deanna was a popular young soprano in Hollywood, and I was often compared to her.
The screen test took place at MGM Studios in Elstree. A lot of still photographs were taken, but it soon became apparent that they needed to gussy me up a bit because I was so exceedingly plain. The hair department curled my hair into ringlets and I ended up looking like a ghastly version of Shirley Temple. We pressed on.
For the screen test itself I sang a song, then I talked to Mr. Pasternak on camera, and finally I performed a little scene. The storyline was that I was being tucked into bed by my mother, and we discussed the fact that my father had disappeared and not been home for years and years. (This made me tear up, which was embarrassing.) As I was lying in the bed, almost asleep, the door opened, a man entered, and I sat up with arms outstretched and cried, “Daddy!”
Suffice it to say that the end result was so bad that had it ever emerged, I might never have worked again. The final determination was “She’s not photogenic enough for film,” and that was the end of that.
SUBSEQUENT TO THE screen test fiasco, my mother decided I had better get some acting lessons, and for a while the local drama teacher came over to The Meuse to tutor me. I remember working on the death scene from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.
“Nurse? What should she do here?” I’d emote. “My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial!”
I was absolutely awful—nothing was thought out, there was nothing behind my eyes. I could actually see this poor lady gritting her teeth at the amateur theatricality of it all. Not that she was much help; she gave me no technique to work it through, simply, “Move here, do this, now say it for real.” It seemed another hopeless enterprise.
Mum also signed me up for piano lessons again, this time with an ex-pupil of hers who lived in the village.
Although the lady was adept at teaching the scales—the sharps, the flats, the fingering—the ironic problem was that I had such a good ear. I would pick up every piano piece too quickly and then not follow through on the actual reading of the music. I raced ahead of myself, learning everything by heart. I’m ashamed to say that to this day I do not read music well.
I must have played well enough, since I was entered for an early grade exam. I was certain I would fail because of my inability to read music, but I performed my Clementi pieces with great flourish, and the examiner seemed fairly impressed. To my total surprise, I won the top grade for that exam in the whole of Surrey. I was astounded—somehow I got a “highly commended,” and I received a book based on the life of Schubert as a prize from the county.
Of course my mother was pleased, but I remember ruefully thinking, “I still can’t read music.”
THIRTEEN
DURING THE RUN of Starlight Roof, Aunt Joan became pregnant. Being a dancer, she had always had a lovely slim figure. Throughout her pregnancy, she remained trim, dressed prettily, and looked adorable.
I sensed that she wasn’t thrilled about being pregnant; but she may just have been extremely nervous. She continued to teach throughout her term.
Geoffrey Wilby was born on April 21, 1948. It was a traumatic and difficult delivery, and tragically, the little boy’s head was badly damaged by forceps. He died eight days later.
Our household went very quiet for a while. Auntie came home, distraught. My mother took care of her, and my brothers and I kept a respectful distance. Aunt went into a real decline, and it certainly didn’t help her marriage to Uncle Bill. I don’t believe Auntie ever tried to become pregnant again, and I know that many years later she still mourned the loss of her son.
My mother made a callous remark to me at one point, which was indicative of the love-hate relationship between the two sisters.
“Joan should never have had a child anyway,” she said. “She doesn’t have the hips for it.”
BECAUSE OF THE County Council laws, I was only allowed to
perform in Starlight Roof for one year, and that year flew by. On the day of my last performance, I was so choked with sadness, I could barely sing. The company gathered at the side of the stage and applauded and cheered, and as I made my way back through the audience and went round backstage, they called words of encouragement.
“Well done, Julie!”
“We’ll miss you!”
I remember rushing past them in floods of tears and sobbing my heart out in my dressing room. I honestly thought that was the end of my career, the end of all the fun, and that I would never work again. I recognized, quite sensibly, that I might just be a flash in the pan. I’d sung the great song that I could sing; I’d done what I was asked to do. What on earth would there be out there for me ever again? I really thought, “That’s it. Now I have to get on with life and be just an ordinary girl.”
MY MOTHER FORBADE me to open any of my fan mail. While I was in the show, the stage doorman would give me a package of whatever letters came for me, and I would take them home to her. Mum worried that disturbed people might write to me and say inappropriate things. She also wouldn’t ever let me talk about my salary, saying, “One does not talk about how much money one earns, nor does one ever ask other people.” I was simply told that money was being put into an account for me, though I’m pretty sure that it was also being used to help with the family expenses. I got a weekly allowance of two shillings and sixpence, and once I really started working continuously, it was raised to one pound.
A week or two after the show ended, I said to my mother, “Oh, Mum, here’s some mail that I forgot to give you—and a telegram.”
My mother opened it. “Oh my God!” she said, and clutched her chest.
It was an invitation—a command—to appear at the Royal Variety Show that year. It had been in my pocket for two weeks, and the deadline for answering was literally the next day.
This “Royal Command Performance” (as it is formally known) is a one-night, annual show that draws on the best talent in Britain and raises huge sums for charity. The Royal Family always attends, and it is a grand and glorious evening for all concerned, including the Royals. Danny Kaye was to top the bill, since he was performing at the London Palladium that year. I was to sing the “Polonaise,” with Melachrino’s Starlight Orchestra, and to my delight, I was asked to lead the entire company in “God Save the King” at the finale.
FOR THE REHEARSAL the day before, the only outfit I had that was clean and halfway decent was a blouse, jacket, and my riding jodhpurs.
I was asked to sit on Danny Kaye’s lap for publicity pictures. There I was in this odd attire, and while the flashbulbs popped, Danny Kaye said, “What are you going to be singing?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose you’d know it,” I replied modestly. “It’s an aria, the ‘Polonaise’ from Mignon.”
“Oh, you mean the one that goes like this?” He hummed it perfectly.
His Majesty, King George VI, was ill at the time of this command performance, so Queen Elizabeth attended without him. The young Princess Elizabeth and her soon-to-be husband, Prince Philip, were also in the royal box.
I treasure a photograph of that night, taken from the side of the theater. I am standing on the stage and the Queen, Princess Elizabeth, and Prince Philip are watching along with the audience. A sign to the right of the proscenium shows that I was ninth on the program. A press photographer sent it to me, and for years, it was stashed away, forgotten and creased. When I rediscovered it, I had a new appreciation for its significance, and had it repaired. It now hangs in my office.
MY MOTHER LOVED to throw a good party. At least twice a year, Mum and Pop threw a huge bash at The Meuse, and throughout my teens these parties were undoubtedly the best in our little village.
The evenings began with Mum or Pop hosting at the bar. Once the guests had imbibed enough, the party moved into the big living room. The moment we all waited for was when Mum came in to play the piano. The carpet would have been rolled back, and she would gradually begin whipping up the intensity. I can still picture her, leaning into the piano, singing as well sometimes, her elbows wide for extra strength of sound, her skirt pulled above her knees. Her energy alone made the party shift gear and come alive. Those crimson stuccoed walls became sweaty, the dampness running down the stippled shiny paint. I remember the brown baseboards, the dark floors, the bright floral curtains at the leaded bay window, the dim light, the candles.
Auntie helped, too, pulling some of her pupils into the dance. We mostly wanted to jitterbug of course. Tappets was the best dancer, and as he got into the action, drops of perspiration would fly off him in all directions. Sue Barker and her parents attended, as did Trisha Waters, and anybody who was current in my parents’ life theatrically. Uncle Bill was always gallant and would asked me for a dance.
Pop would eventually sing. Guests would sit on the floor around the room, and he would stand by the piano with Mum accompanying him. Sometimes he sang wonderfully, other times he’d been drinking—and since he didn’t practice much, he was short of breath. Even then I’d think to myself, “What a waste of a good voice.”
I was always asked to sing as well, though I never liked to do so. I didn’t mind an audience in the theater, a distance away, behind spotlights, but with my friends being so close and looking into my face, I always felt shy and uncomfortable. I did it mostly for Gladys Barker, who was genuinely appreciative. I think she knew that it cost me a lot to do it with good grace.
Once the party settled in, and the diffident few had left, the fun really began. There were quiet lulls for eating, usually things like baked potatoes, maybe some stew. I remember pink blancmange and cups of tea. Mum would have a drink, usually scotch. People would chat and smoke, then it would start all over again.
Suddenly in the midst of it all, Mum, still playing the piano, would call out, “Julia! Go to bed!” as if she’d been remiss and I’d been naughty to take advantage by staying up so late. I would hang around as long as I could, and I doubt she really minded, but perhaps she thought it sounded appropriate to others.
The parties lasted well into the night. People crashed on couches, and later in the morning, amid the smell of beer and alcohol and cigarettes, there’d be bacon and eggs for the stragglers. The kitchen would be a complete mess, and the cleanup took forever.
My mother decided that my thirteenth birthday was a good excuse for a party. She was adept at running up simple dresses for me on her trusty sewing machine, usually strips of gathered material, hemmed in tiers for the skirt. They always looked pretty and were cheap to make. For this party, she made me an evening gown out of pink cotton, shirred at the bodice. She finished it the night before the party.
We had recently acquired a dog, a little corgi. His pedigree name was “Whisper of Whey,” but Auntie, with her flair for naming everything, said, “Let’s call him ‘Hush.’” Unfortunately, Hush was teased a lot by my brothers, who were too young to know any better, and as a result he was rather manic and snapped at people.
The morning of the big party, Hush saw the dress hanging on the kitchen door, jumped up, grabbed the hem, and shredded it. I was devastated, but Mum, bless her, went back to her sewing machine and managed to fix it just in time.
“These things are sent to test us,” she said, an expression she often used when life’s little problems threatened to overwhelm.
Came the evening and my mother was tearing around downstairs making sure that everything was ready, and I was sitting at the dressing table in my room, carefully applying a little makeup, with my dress laid out on the bed.
I clearly remember thinking to myself, “At this moment, I am as free as I am ever going to be.”
I knew somehow that I was still innocent, unfettered in any way. I was young enough that my parents were managing my career; I had no taxes to pay, no big responsibilities. I could see my mother’s problems, I could see my stepfather’s problems, I wasn’t yet cluttered by the obligations of being a grown-up. I knew that b
oys and all the mess of being adult would soon attack me, and I felt quite distinctly that this was probably the last moment in my life that would be relatively unpressured.
Mum had dressed my hair, pulling it straight back with a ribbon in a ponytail—and I thought it looked a bit severe.
But as I came down the stairs, my mother glanced up and stopped whatever she was doing to stare at me for a moment.
“Well, Julia,” she said. “You just might turn out to be quite pretty one day.”
I said to her, “I feel that I’m wiser now than I ever will be when I’m older.”
“And that is a very smart remark,” she replied.
FOURTEEN
A FEW WEEKS after I finished performing in Starlight Roof, my parents received an offer for me to be in the pantomime of Humpty Dumpty at a theater called the London Casino, and to play the egg itself. Miracle of miracles—another job!
English pantomimes are seasonal Christmas extravaganzas—mostly for children, though adults join in the fun—and they are nearly always based on the great fairy tales: “Cinderella,” “Red Riding Hood,” “Aladdin,” “Jack and the Beanstalk,” “Mother Goose,” “Dick Whittington.” If a story is produced in London one year, it goes out to the provinces the next, probably with the same sets, which have been whittled down to accommodate the new venue.
Humpty Dumpty was written, produced, and directed by Emile Littler. Emile and Prince Littler were impresario brothers who became the most powerful figures in the West End and the provinces, with a virtual monopoly on producing musicals and pantomimes throughout the country. Prince was by far the better known, having become chairman of Moss Empires in 1947, which encompassed the biggest theater circuit in England. If one booked a Moss Empires tour, it was considered an “A” tour.
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