Win would serve up great meals: fresh beans, potatoes, tomatoes, and peas, all from their little plot. My relationship with her in those days was a little strained. I suspect that it was a chore for her when I visited, but like any good stepparent, she understood and accepted the slight hostility coming from me. She knew that the most important thing for me was to spend time with my father.
One memorable night, Dad said, “There’s something I want to share with you.”
He had collected me from the theater and it was close to midnight as we drove up the moonlit lanes of Leith Hill. We came to an open patch with a five-barred gate and Dad parked the car and we got out.
“Now,” he said. “Be very quiet.”
I kept still and listened.
I became aware that all around us, in every direction, the nightingales were in full voice. Their singing echoed across the downs.
“Isn’t that lovely, Chick?” he said.
It was an intimate moment between us, and I realized he was trying to give me an antidote to whatever else was going on in my life, to the dramas happening at Walton. As always, it was hard to return home after one of those visits.
MUM AND I didn’t tour much with Pop after that fateful summer in Blackpool. From their original billing as “Ted and Barbara Andrews—with Julie (in small letters underneath),” it had now become “Julie Andrews—with Ted and Barbara.” It must have rankled my stepfather and made him feel emasculated. In spite of his having originally been the one who encouraged me to sing, I suspect it hurt him to be displaced by a fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.
Mum and Pop had apparently bought The Meuse with every penny they had, and they were now in well over their heads. My mother’s conversations about it were quite open, and in the back of my mind there was a constant anxiety that, unless I kept working, we would lose our home. In truth, we probably would have. It mattered desperately to me that we hold onto it—the thought of returning to some place like Mornington Crescent was unbearable. So when gigs came along, and Pop wasn’t asked, Mum and I took whatever we could. In between, I continued my studies with Miss Knight.
The more Mum and I performed alone together, the more my act developed. With my mother accompanying, I would sing a few arias, then a ballad, then she would play a piano solo, and finally I would come back and do a big medley, followed by a farewell song. It was similar in structure to the show that she and Pop had performed for years.
Wherever we went, I was still made to do my singing practice every day. The grand piano would have been pushed to the bare back wall of the theater, tucked away in a corner of the stage, and my mother would insist that I sit at it and do my scales.
The big safety curtain was usually raised, exposing the empty auditorium, and there were always a few stagehands and ushers milling about. I was acutely conscious of them stopping to listen to me. I would pick out the notes, doing my five-nine-thirteen’s, and feel embarrassed at having to do warm-ups in front of them.
We mostly traveled by train. I would stock up with every book or magazine I could get my hands on—Girls’ Crystal and The Girls’ Own Paper, books by Enid Blyton. Reading was my favorite pastime, but I was always amazed that for those several hours of travel, my mother would just sit and stare out of the window. She never read a newspaper or bought a book; she never amused herself in any way. I couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized she must have been using the journey to put her world in order again. She was so stressed, and with so much to think over and deal with, simply sitting and staring must have been a form of therapy for her. I doubt she even noticed the countryside.
A memorable journey was a trip to Aberdeen, Scotland, for a week. Mum and Pop had been rowing dreadfully, and she wept all the way north. I think she was suffering a mini-breakdown. She was worried about finances, the boys, her marriage. I remember trying to infuse her with my energy. I hugged her, tried to comfort her, and told her we were going to have a great week of peace and quiet.
“…and I will help make it right and continue working,” I said. “We will get through this.”
Then and there, I committed myself wholeheartedly to assuming responsibility for the entire family. It seemed solely up to me now to hold us together, for there was no one else to do it.
There are, of course, funny memories, too, particularly of the characters we met and the acts that performed on the same bill with us. One was a North Country comedian called Albert Modley. He never played in the south of England, but was very popular in the north. He was a little fellow, deliciously cheeky and childlike. He would pretend to be a naughty schoolboy, and part of his act was to play with a set of drums. He simply toyed with them occasionally, absently thumping the bass drum or banging a cymbal. He would pretend to be a tram driver and whirl the cymbal arm, and the cymbal itself, round and round, pretending it was the lever that operated the tram.
Albert would jog along, commenting on the various people he pretended were aboard his vehicle. At one point, he would say with an impish smile, “We’re going to Duplicate!”
“Duplicate” was the name written on the backup tram in places like Blackpool that picked up the leftover tourists who didn’t make it onto the first tram. “We’re going to Duplicate!” became a stock phrase in our house.
Once, we were on the bill with Albert, along with a bear act. Word went round that when the bears were performing, no one was to cross behind the backdrop, because the bears always turned and attacked whomever they sensed was behind them.
One night, after making me promise to stay safely in our dressing room, my mother headed off for her usual drink at the bar. She locked the door behind her, since the bears traveled along our corridor on their way to the stage. Suddenly I heard the doorknob rattling, and moaning coming from the other side. I was rigid with fear, until I realized it was just Albert teasing me and enjoying himself hugely.
Mum often came back from these trips to the bar fairly tipsy, and consequently the second performance never went as well as the first. She would dominate with her accompaniment, thumping away at the piano and pushing me on if I tried to do a beautiful rallentando or express myself in some way. I would introduce her solo in a gracious manner, and she would play something like “The Dream of Olwen”—a very corny piece with her famous double octaves added at the end, all of which she now fluffed dreadfully.
As I stood in the wings, waiting to return to the stage, I wished fervently that she would be more respectful of her craft and get back to being the beautiful pianist that she had once been, and could still be. She hardly practiced at all anymore. She must have been so overwhelmed and preoccupied. But I longed for her to be as disciplined as I was trying to be. I felt the act could have been so much better if only she had cared to try.
SEVENTEEN
I CONTINUED TO work with Madame Stiles-Allen. Early in my relationship with her, she decided to stop teaching in London and remain in Yorkshire, where her home was. Once she moved north permanently, it became obvious that if my voice was to continue to improve and I was to take my lessons seriously, the only thing I could do was to go up there to study with her. Sometimes it would be for a long weekend, sometimes a full week at a time.
She lived in a rambling, half-timbered farmhouse in a village called Headingly, just outside Leeds. “The Old Farm” had a giant kitchen that doubled as a dining room, with an Aga cooker and a large fireplace. The furniture was old but comfortable, with loose floral-patterned slipcovers on the sofas and chairs. There was an authentic spinning wheel in the big, main hallway, and its spools and treadle, evoking another era, fired my imagination. The halls were lit with gas lamps, their flames sputtering above the tiny gas jets.
A vast, upstairs music room contained bookcases piled high with books and files, her big, grand piano, and an old, hand-cranked phonograph on which we would listen to 78-rpm records of Caruso, Gigli, Galli-Curci, and Adelina Patti. The room wasn’t used much, the main reason being the cost of hea
ting in the bitterly cold, damp winters. There was a smaller teaching room right next to it, with an upright piano and an electric fire, and this was where Madame primarily worked with her students.
My mother would put me on the train, and Madame’s husband, Sidney George Jeffries-Harris, simply known as Jeff, would pick me up at Leeds and drive me out to Headingly. A dapper, retired army man with a small military mustache, Jeff was as diminutive as Madame was large. Though he had served in India and had a sparkling but sardonic sense of humor, one got the feeling that Madame undoubtedly ruled the household. They had a teenage son, Michael, who was a few years older than I.
Madame had a live-in housekeeper, a friend for many years, called Jessie. Although slightly younger than Madame, she was equally large and very robust, with a great sense of humor and a jolly spirit.
Lunch was the main event of the day. Michael would come home from school, and we would all sit around the big square table in the old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen and eat our fill. Jessie cooked enormous meals: mutton stews with large boiled potatoes and peas and carrots.
Jeff brewed his own homemade ginger beer, which Madame adored. It was potent, gaseous stuff, and whenever a bottle was opened, the cork simply exploded out of it. Madame would drain her ginger beer from a tall glass; then, taking the large damask napkin from her lap and putting the corner of it up to her face, she would belch hugely—an enormous “trombone slide” with an actual bass tone to it. She would flutter her long eyelashes and smile sweetly.
“Excuse me!” she’d say demurely.
Sometimes I would sit in on other pupils’ lessons. Madame thought this important, and I did pick up a great deal, just watching and listening. Simply talking with Madame, I would discover that my voice had a better pitch to it. Madame’s voice was so warm and melodious—so exquisitely placed—that I would find my own lifting in imitation.
She once described the joy of singing with a full orchestra: “As if one is being carried aloft in the most wonderfully comfortable arm-chair.” I knew exactly what she meant.
During those lessons, Madame gave me a valuable piece of advice, which has stayed with me over the years.
“Julie,” she said. “Remember: the amateur works until he can get it right. The professional works until he cannot go wrong.”
In the evenings, we’d retire to her small study where there was a fire. She would sit in an armchair on one side of it and Jeff would occupy the chair on the other side, puffing on his pipe and reading. Sometimes Jessie would come in and join us. Madame did exquisite embroidery, which she said helped her to relax. She bought me silk threads and an embroidery frame, put some handkerchief material over it, and taught me to do some basic stitches, which I truly enjoyed. As we embroidered together, we would all listen to the radio or sit and talk.
Quite often, during those evenings, she would counsel me, “When you get older, darling, buy property. You will never lose on property. You can always trade up, and it will always be something to fall back on. It’s a wonderful investment for your money.” I have tried to follow her advice.
When the embers of the fire burned low, Madame and Jeff would go to their bedroom at one end of the house and I would head to mine, going down a long, drafty, gas-lit corridor, to a freezing cold room with a chamber pot under the bed. Once between the sheets, I never dared get out—not merely because of the icy temperature, but because I was convinced that the place was haunted. I would burrow down, hiding, almost suffocating myself. I didn’t sleep much.
I WENT UP to Leeds fairly consistently during my teens. I would return home with my voice fresher and stronger, and my mother would immediately ask me to sing for her so that she could hear if I had improved.
Occasionally Madame would still come down to London, and I’d be able to pick up a quick lesson with her. Once, she stayed with us in Walton. She and my mother indulged in long discussions about spiritualism and particularly reincarnation. Madame believed in it wholeheartedly, and in fact, she felt sure that I was the reincarnation of the famous soprano Adelina Patti. My mother, who was superstitious, liked the thrill of believing reincarnation possible. I was completely spooked by their eerie conversations, and eventually chose not to listen to them, for my nights after that became fraught with the fear that ghosts were coming out of my closet or that someone who had “passed on” might be wishing to get in touch with me.
While she was with us, Madame attended a radio broadcast that I was doing. I sang the aria from La Traviata with the recitative “Ah, fors’è lui,” which leads to the very difficult “Sempre Libera.” There is an à cappella cadenza before the main aria begins. My pitch was usually flawless, but because Madame was in the audience, I tried too hard to sing correctly for her, and I began listening to my own sound. The result was that when I finished the cadenza, I landed a halftone high. As the orchestra picked up the melody, I realized that I was sharp. My mother, who was also in the audience, berated me for making the mistake. I’m sure she wanted me to shine for Madame as much as I did. I was mortified that I had goofed, especially as this had been a live radio broadcast. I was as much my own critic as anyone else.
Madame rose to my defense.
“Be gentle with her, Barbara, she sang beautifully. She was trying so hard; you have to be a little kinder. She’s only a young girl.”
Later, Madame said to me, “Your mother was inappropriate with you. I thought you sang well.”
I had never sung sharp before, but I learned to watch my pitch even more closely from then on. I was forever grateful to Madame for her kind words.
EIGHTEEN
SOMETIME THAT AUTUMN, my mother announced that she and I were going to a party at a friend’s house in a town nearby. On the way there, in the car, she said, “Julie, I want you to do me a favor. If I ask you to sing, will you do it?” I remember being miffed, because my singing was always something my mother used, in a way. I reluctantly agreed.
The party was at a pleasant house, set on a hill in an upper-middle-class residential area. I sang one song, with Mum at the piano, and was relieved when it was over. Afterward, the owner of the house approached me. He was tall and fleshily handsome. I recognized him as a man who had come round to visit at The Meuse once or twice, in earlier years.
This evening he came and sat on the couch beside me and seemed genuinely interested, asking questions almost piercingly. In retrospect, I remember feeling an electricity between us that I couldn’t explain.
As the party continued, my mother proceeded to get extremely drunk. When it came time to leave, she was clearly unable to drive. Though I was not yet licensed to operate a vehicle, I had been practicing with my dad in preparation for the test I would be eligible for the following year. After some confusion, my mother said, “You drive. I’ll show you the way.”
It was dark and foggy. We said good-bye to our hosts and I drove off, carefully concentrating with every fiber of my being on the road in front of me. I prayed that we wouldn’t be stopped by the police.
“Did you like that family?” Mum asked after a while.
“Yes,” I replied. “They seemed very nice.”
“Did you wonder why I wanted you to sing?”
“No, it didn’t cross my mind.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “What did you think of the husband?”
“He…seemed pleasant,” I answered, trying not to lose focus on the task at hand.
“Did you wonder why I took you there tonight?”
Suddenly I had the impression that something akin to a freight train was about to come at me. I had no idea what it was, but I had the distinct feeling that it was going to be unpleasant.
“Would you like me to tell you?” Mum’s eyes were a little moist.
“It doesn’t really matter, Mum, it’s fine.”
“Well, I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Because that man is your father.”
My brain slammed into defense mode. My very first thought was of the man I had supposed wa
s my father all these years. Words rushed to my mind’s eye: “IT DOESN’T MATTER. IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE.” Whether the man this evening was my actual father did not alter the fact that the man who had raised me was the man I loved. I would always consider him my father.
I tried to react carefully. Keeping my eyes on the road, I said something banal like “Oh, that’s interesting. How do you know?”
“I know,” she replied. “Can you imagine how long I’ve been waiting to tell you? Fourteen years…”
She explained that she had a one-time liaison with the man by a beautiful lake not far from Walton. She went on to say that it had been very hard to keep this secret for so long, and that she had no wish to hurt me, but the affair had been the result of an overwhelming attraction that she couldn’t deny.
It seemed to matter very much that I stayed quiet and calm, because she had become tearful, overwhelmed perhaps at getting this out of her system.
As I pulled the car to a halt on the gravel in front of The Meuse, there was an empty silence between us. She seemed embarrassed now that she had told me, and went quickly up to her room, leaving me to think about it as I prepared for bed.
For the next couple of days, she kept her distance from me. She didn’t say anything about the incident, and neither did I. I think I was afraid to. Eventually, however, I simply had to gain some clarity or go crazy.
“Mum?” I stood tentatively beside her at the kitchen stove. “You mentioned something in the car the other evening about that man at the party…Is it true what you said?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“How do you know,” I pressed, “since you were married to Dad at the time?” The question had been burning in my brain.
“Because Daddy and I weren’t being romantic in those days,” she said, after a moment.
Home Page 13
