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by Julie Andrews

  Pantomimes are not mimed shows, as the word might imply. Far from it. In my youth, pantomimes did not have songs written especially for them as they do now, although they were musical in content. Popular songs of the day were incorporated into the old stories, so the scripts often sounded quite ridiculous. The Prince might say to the Princess, for example, “Oh, dear Princess, I love you so much that…(key note on the piano)…I want to take you on a slow boat to Chi-na…”

  The tradition of pantomime is that there is always a principal girl and a principal boy to play the serious leads. In those days, the principal boy was always played by a woman, and his/her costumes were always designed to show off his/her best features. In the case of Humpty Dumpty, our principal boy was Pat Kirkwood, who had great legs, and she played the role of “Prince Rupert, of Truly Rural.”

  The men had all the comedic roles. The mother, or the postmistress, for example, was played by a man in drag. There was always a comedy slapstick scene, usually a kitchen scene, with hilarious misunderstandings and pies flying in all directions, or a laundry washroom scene with suds everywhere. With plenty of glamorous production, there was usually a glorious ballet to close the first half, and of course a wedding or a happily ever after scene at the end.

  Every comedian who worked in a “panto,” whether playing a henchman or a silly farmer or whatever, would contribute his usual shtick to the show. Depending on what his forte was, his material was simply inserted into the script, so the whole story would come to a halt for a sketch or something as ridiculous as an army drill that was all messed up. Somehow the result was a wonderful, odd conglomeration: a hodgepodge of popular songs, comedy, craziness, and fun.

  Vic Oliver played “King Yolk of Eggville” in Humpty Dumpty, and a wonderful comedian called Richard Hearne, popularly known as “Mr. Pastry”—an adorable, bumbling television character beloved by children—played “Agatha Applepip, the Postmistress of Moth-Hole Village.”

  REHEARSALS BEGAN AT the London Casino itself. At lunch break that first day, Charlie Tucker took my mother and me to an upscale restaurant called Isolabella, not far from the theater. It was a restaurant he often visited, and as a result we received the most immaculate service.

  On subsequent days, however, I was not escorted. I traveled to London and went through the rehearsal process alone. I had been given pocket money to get something to eat for myself, so on the second or third day I brightly decided to go back to the Isolabella, which seemed safe.

  When I asked for a table, the maitre d’ looked me and up and down and said, “Are you alone?”

  “Well, yes, I am. I was here the other day…”

  He seated me reluctantly. I looked at the menu and suddenly realized how much everything cost. I ordered a very simple salad and sat there feeling painfully embarrassed. From then on I sat in the lobby of the theater at the lunch hour, eating sandwiches I brought from home.

  Compared to the relative elegance of Starlight Roof (and even other pantomimes), Humpty Dumpty was an oddity. The cast included characters named Tiddley-Winks, Penelope the Horse, and…the Wuffem-poof! The latter was a long, blue, feathered piece of material. Pantomimes feature a great deal of audience participation, and in this case the patrons were told that if they ever saw the Wuffem-poof, they should shout a warning. The Wuffem-poof would show up in any scene, working its way across the set or appearing over the proscenium on the wall behind someone’s head. The audience, especially the children, would go crazy—yelling, “Look out, it’s behind you!” (Most pantos feature similar games, and “It’s behind you!” is a stock phrase associated with the genre to this day.)

  My first entrance in the show was accompanied by great flashes of lightning and a blackout. The big, prop egg on the wall toppled backward and I, lying on my back in a second, cracked egg backstage, would be thrust upright and through a hidden door in the wall during the blackout to be revealed, sitting cross-legged and surprised, at the foot of it.

  I was dressed as a boy, with shorts, suspenders, and a jacket. I don’t remember much about my role, but at some point in the show I sang an obligatory song, “I Heard a Robin Singing,” which had nothing whatsoever to do with the story. Fortunately, once again, I received a lovely ovation from the audience on opening night, and the following morning the headlines of one review stated: “Young Julie Andrews as usual stole the show.”

  I spent a good deal of time traveling back and forth to the theater. Oddly, I do not recall the presence of a regular chaperone, though there must have been one. I do remember sitting on the train all by myself, frequently with orange pancake makeup all over my legs. They were normally pale and skinny, and you could have bowled a hoop through them. My self-description at the time was “boss-eyed, buck-toothed, and bandy.” It had been suggested that I paint my legs to give a healthier effect for the show. I would apply the color in the evening, and be so tired when I got home that I wouldn’t bother to wash it off. If we had a matinee the next day, which we often did, it really didn’t seem worth taking a bath to remove it, since it would be going on again so soon—so I’d go back up on the train with the makeup, rather streaky now, still on my legs! God knows what the state of my sheets was in those days, but I do remember getting some odd looks on the train.

  At one point during the run of the show, I came down with the mumps. I kept telling my mother that my glands felt a bit swollen, but by the time I had been diagnosed, I was already past the infectious stage. Mum said, “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this!”

  CHRISTMAS THAT YEAR was memorable. Donald received a toy trumpet from Santa in his stocking. The blasts of sound began at about 5:30 A.M., and continued until breakfast, by which time the family was ready to throttle him. Mid-morning, after the main presents had been given, I innocently said, “I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t seem like Christmas this year.” My mother gave me such a glare that I quickly shut up.

  She had a tradition at Christmas that I continue to this day. Having two young sons who barely looked at one gift before pouncing on another, she wisely saved one small gift each for the evening. She called them “tree gifts,” and each member of the family was given a little parcel which had been hidden in the branches of our Christmas tree. It was a great way to extend the festivities and to gather the family one last time. If we were lucky, there was a pleasant sense of unity. We had hot drinks and snacks by the fire, and were then bundled off to our respective beds, happy and content.

  ONE EVENING, DURING a performance of Humpty Dumpty, I happened to notice three extremely rowdy teenage boys in the front row. They were restless, nudging each other and roaring with laughter, having a terrific night out.

  I remember thinking, “Ugh, boys!”

  Later, as I was traveling home, the same lads suddenly appeared at the door of my train compartment.

  “We just saw you in Humpty Dumpty!” one of them said.

  I recognized them instantly.

  “Oh, yes. I remember you sitting in the front row,” I said, somewhat pointedly.

  They were still giggling and being silly, and I couldn’t wait to get rid of them—but to my surprise, they, too, got off at Walton-on-Thames station. As we clattered down the iron staircase, one of the boys said, “You live in Walton, too? Where do you live?”

  Doing some quick thinking, I sagely replied, “Oh, the other side of the bridge,” and left it at that. I dashed to Mum, waiting in the car, and thought, “Well, I’ve got rid of them!”

  The next morning there was a knock at the door of The Meuse.

  “There are two boys here. They want to talk to you,” Mum said, intrigued.

  Apparently the great adventure for the fellows had been to find all the Andrews families in the phone book that lived “on the other side of the bridge,” and they’d worked out which house might be mine and then come to supposedly ask for my autograph.

  They turned out to be a pair of robust, good-natured brothers, by the name of Tony and Richard Walton. Richard was th
e youngest; Tony was a year older than I.

  My mother, who had been hovering, asked where they went to school.

  Tony said, “I go to Radley College,” which was a boarding school in Abingdon, Oxfordshire. Richard was preparing to enter Pangbourne Naval Academy. Both boys were home for the Christmas holidays.

  A week later, my mother said to me, “You’ve received a charming letter from that boy who came to the door.” It was eight pages, on very small note paper.

  “I am one of the boys who came and visited you last Sunday. (The fattest one, who was 14),” Tony wrote. “…It was grand fun coming to your house and talking to you, and I hope we did not keep you too long. I got your record on Monday, and I think it is ‘jolly dee!’…I am trying to write a sort of children’s book, it is all about a rabbit called Wiggin. I am doing it because I like drawing and painting…” He included five or six pen-and-ink drawings of characters from the book, which were charming, and signed it “Yours very thankfully, (i.e. Love from) Tony Walton,” followed by a sweet caricature of Humpty Dumpty.

  “This is enchanting,” my mother said. “He’s gone to so much trouble, I want you to answer it.”

  “Oh gosh, Mummy!” I replied, somewhat aghast. “He’s just a boy. I don’t want to answer that. I don’t want to write to him. I don’t like him…”

  My mother insisted. “Julie, you will answer this. You should, and it’ll be nice to have a friend.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but with her help, I composed a reply and thus began a correspondence, which to my surprise quickly switched from being a chore to being a pleasure.

  The next time Tony came home on holiday, he appeared at our front door again—and we began an easy and pleasant relationship. I could never have guessed the effect this young schoolboy was to have on my life.

  “Would you like to come to tea at my house?” Tony asked one day. I was still painfully shy and somewhat loath to go, but I went.

  Tony’s mother and father were enchanting people. Dr. Lance Walton and his wife, Dawn, and family lived in a big residence called “Nethercliffe,” a black and white, half-timbered Tudor-style house, with French windows at the back leading to a generous garden.

  I met Tony’s fun-loving older sister, Jennifer, who seemed really friendly, and his adorable younger sister, Carol. His dashing younger brother, Richard, whom I had already met, was also there. Mrs. Walton was exceedingly pretty and vivacious. She was a terrific hostess, the epitome of how you would imagine a doctor’s wife to be. Dr. Walton was a craggy, handsome man, an orthopedic surgeon who worked extremely hard dividing his time between a Harley Street office in London and a private practice at his house.

  They instantly welcomed me into the family. Everything about their home was gracious, warm, and lovely. There were fresh-cut flowers and bowls piled high with fruit. Candles and magazines were comfortably placed around the house; a cozy fire was in the grate. The best silver was laid out. A trolley was wheeled into the living room at tea-time, full of tempting goodies. Everything was soothing, pleasant, and spoke of a real home—quite a contrast to my own rather sad and disorganized one.

  My mother, realizing that Tony was now a friend and a decent boy, encouraged me to go for walks with him. Tony would come up the drive promptly as my lessons with Miss Knight were ending for the day, pushing or riding his bike, and I would either take my own bike and join him, or we would walk together. Our route was always the same—the road up to the station, then across and down toward the Half-Way House (a local pub on our village green) and back up West Grove. These walks gave Tony and me wonderful opportunities to talk.

  We chatted endlessly about what we both liked, how it was for him at school, what he did there. He was incredibly creative, designing school theater projects, and making and operating puppets for a production of The Magic Flute, which he also directed. I told him that I enjoyed writing stories in my spare time, and I came up with ideas for two tales about an orchestra—“Conceited Mister Concerto” and “Peter Piccolo’s Great Idea.” Tony offered to illustrate them. Letters went back and forth while he was at boarding school, with “Peter Piccolo” or “Mister Concerto” drawings arriving regularly in the post.

  There came a day when Tony’s parents asked if I would like to go with them to visit Tony at his college for the summer picnic, a special yearly event called “Gaudy.” With some trepidation, I went. I wasn’t sure how I should behave or whether I would seem appropriate.

  My mother had some American friends, a pilot and his wife, who were stationed in England just after the war. Clothing and supplies were still extremely limited for us, so occasionally this husband and wife would give us secondhand items sent over from America, and we were always very grateful.

  This particular year, they sent me three dresses, but they barely fit. I was beginning to grow in all directions, so they were rather tight. I chose to wear one, a taffeta plaid dress, with a little high collar, for the Radley picnic.

  We took a tour of the school, which was magnificent, then sat on the lawn under a tree with Mum Walton presiding over our meal. There were delicious cucumber sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, and the freshest tomatoes I’d ever tasted, plus cookies, cakes, and bananas. With the sun shining and a gentle breeze, that meal seemed like the best I’d ever had.

  Everything was perfect, except for my taffeta dress. It was so tight under the armpits that it rubbed me raw, and I began to sweat. Being a hand-me-down, it was a little spoiled anyway, and by the end of the day, I smelled positively rank. Everyone else was relaxed and easy, having a great time. I was horribly aware of my state and acutely embarrassed all afternoon.

  MY MOTHER WAS impressed by the Waltons. She envied Dawn, I believe. She once said how fortunate Dawn was to be placed on such a wonderful pedestal by her husband. Mum didn’t begrudge Dawn anything, but she longed for that style of living. I suppose we both felt ourselves on a lower social level than this lovely family.

  Occasionally, Dr. and Mrs. Walton took business trips to America, where Dawn could also take the sun for her arthritis. One year, they became aware that young Carol was really unhappy they were going away, so they simply packed her up and took her with them.

  Each summer the entire family went for a wonderful vacation at a hotel just outside Bournemouth, on the South Coast. There was always an empty feeling while they were away and when I didn’t see Tony.

  At Christmastime, their house was decorated marvelously, and mistletoe was hung over the front door. I knew that Tony hoped to kiss me there, but I was too shy, and wanted nothing to do with it. I think he won out with a peck on my cheek.

  AFTER THE WAR ended, it was a surprise for many when Winston Churchill, who had done so much to lead the country throughout World War II, was not reelected. The Labor Party gained power, and Clement Attlee became prime minister.

  The National Health Service was created, and suddenly Dr. Walton had to change his life radically. From being a private doctor and surgeon, he was now obliged to donate half his time performing operations and giving consultations to those who couldn’t afford private medicine.

  Although he still had private patients, these new regulations probably halved Dr. Walton’s income. He was very respected, both in Walton and in the London community of surgeons, and received a good salary for his private work.

  Now expenses in the Walton household suddenly had to be reduced, and I sensed there was enormous panic on Dawn’s part. I remember her cancelling all the magazine and newspaper subscriptions, saying, “We’ve got to cut down in every possible way we can.”

  A polio epidemic had been creeping steadily across both America and England. Dr. Walton was much impressed by the work of a nurse called Sister Kenny, who was a pioneer in the treatment of infantile paralysis, cerebral palsy, and polio in the United States. He became passionate about using her methods in England, reinvigorating tissue with fascia massage and heat, which helped bring circulation back to seemingly dead areas. I helped christen and open the home
for polio patients that Dr. Walton founded, called “Silverwood.” He really was a man ahead of his time.

  FIFTEEN

  MUM, POP, AND I spent the summer of 1949 working in Blackpool, the most popular resort on the northwest coast of England.

  It wasn’t a pretty town, but it boasted three long, fairly attractive piers—the South, Central, and North—and they each had a theater, which, during the season, was in full swing. There was a fair amount of rivalry between them, each vying with the others as to who could put on the best show. Their productions were equal to those in London in terms of scale, and to play a summer show at Blackpool was to be guaranteed a full three months of work.

  Blackpool seemed to me an aptly named town. Trams ran all around the city. The beaches were packed with people. I remember being amazed by the men, workers and miners who would go down to the beach in their dark suits, to sit in deckchairs. Some would even keep their bowler hats on. Some rolled up their shirtsleeves and trousers and placed newspapers over their faces to protect them from the sun. Very few wore bathing trunks. The beaches were literally black with men in suits.

  Blackpool was also famous for its “illuminations.” North Country people referred to them as “the lights.” These were enormous displays of lightbulb art, vast superstructures all along the seafront. Sometimes the bulbs would wink or appear to chase each other; other times they’d just be set pieces. There was also a huge Ferris wheel. It was all a part of the attraction of the holiday season, and people thronged into the town. There were bed-and-breakfast accommodations in every house along every side street.

  Blackpool was a riot of neon—yet to me, it seemed a dark and disturbing place. The stench of fish and chips and ale and toilets along the beachfront, the seething mass of humanity that went from pier to pier, the trams that constantly rattled past provided a rather sordid setting for the events that followed.