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by Julie Andrews

  When we got back to our digs, she said, “I’m going to the loo,” which was at the end of a long hallway. After some time had passed and she hadn’t returned, I tiptoed down, very nervous of waking the landlady and causing a fuss. I tried the bathroom door. It was locked.

  “Mum?” I whispered. No reply. “Mum!”

  I heard a grunt from the other side.

  “Open up. You’ve locked the door.”

  She had fallen asleep on the john, and it took a while to awaken her and to encourage her to come back to our room. I managed to get her clothes off and put her on the bed, and she lay there, not wishing to turn the lights out. With some humor despite her condition, she groaned, “Oh, God. Over the bed, under the bed, anywhere but on the bed!”

  The following day, I woke her and helped her dress for our trip home on the ferry. The ocean was rough, and her hangover was monumental. She was dreadfully seasick.

  ONCE OR TWICE a year, Auntie held exams for her entire student body. She hired an examiner from the Royal Academy of Dance to come and test her ballet students, and another examiner came to judge her ballroom pupils. I was fairly good at ballroom dancing, because every chance I had, I would be in the studio joining the classes. I was excited about trying for my bronze medal, and with Tappets, who was a whiz, as my partner, I knew the exam would be a lead pipe cinch.

  Mum, Pop, and I were booked for a rare appearance together in Morecambe, Lancashire, that evening, and I hoped to take the long-anticipated exam before we commenced the journey north. But Pop was anxious to get on the road.

  “Julie’s got her exam this morning,” Aunt reasoned with him. “I’ll put her in first…”

  Sadly, the examiner ran late. Pop kept saying, “We’ve got to go, we’ve got to go, we’ll never make it in time!” Right down to the wire, my mother was torn between letting me take this exam and getting me into the car. Eventually, Pop said, “We cannot wait any longer.” The pleasure of doing the exam was snatched from under my nose by minutes, and all the way to Morecambe I wept and sulked about it.

  It wasn’t anybody’s fault, except perhaps the examiner’s, but it was a sad moment for me because passing the exam would have been so good for my ego. It was only a bronze medal, but I never had another chance to take the test.

  ALL OUR ENGAGEMENTS were booked by Charlie Tucker, who had managed both my parents’ act and mine ever since Starlight Roof. He had an attractive top-floor office in Regent Street. Much like a good “dog robber,” his desk drawers were stocked with perfumes, nylon stockings, pens, and cuff links from the U.S., which he handed out as favors to his clients. When my mother came to visit, Charlie would give her a bottle of perfume or some nylons to take home with her. Once or twice he gave me a bottle of Carnet de Bal by Revillon, which is a fine perfume, warm and luxurious, and occasionally, he would slip me a big, English £5 note. He would also take us both to lunch, at elegant places like the Caprice, or the Savoy. I remember walking beside him in London, and it felt like we were standing on top of the world; no poverty, no unpleasantness. Lunch was special, with clinking china and silverware, soft lights, pink tablecloths, and attentive waiters—a glimpse of a world otherwise beyond reach.

  Miss Teresa Finnesey was Charlie’s secretary. Everyone referred to her as “Finney,” and she was the classic sweet battle-axe straight out of Central Casting. She was a good Catholic woman who loved Charlie dearly, even though he drove her to distraction. She kept his office running smoothly and was always kind to me, but if she was in a bad mood or if she and Charlie were rowing…look out!

  Sometimes Charlie would berate my mother if he saw that my socks had holes or weren’t especially clean.

  “Barbara!” he would rant. “For God’s sake, how could you let her walk around like that!”

  Charlie was responsible for sending me to a good American dentist working in London. I had a gap between my two front teeth and, alas, a crooked canine. I was fitted with a night retainer.

  Because he went back to the States a couple of times a year, Charlie always kept me abreast of the latest shows on Broadway. He told me about The King and I, starring Gertrude Lawrence, saying what a phenomenal success she was. Then he said, “One of these days, Julie, you’ll be doing something like that, too.” I never believed him, of course.

  When we saw a woman in a fur coat, he said, “You’ll have one of those before long.”

  “A fur coat?” I replied, amazed. “I’ll never be able to afford that!”

  “Julie, I promise you, by the time you’re in your late teens, you’ll have your first fur.” There was something about his blind faith in me that made me feel that it might actually be possible.

  I complained to him once about my mother, and he admonished me.

  “Yes, she is a difficult woman,” he said. “But she is your mother, and you must always show respect.”

  “But she’s out at night drinking, she leaves us alone…,” I protested.

  “Yes, but she is your mother, and you must never, ever bad-mouth her,” he repeated firmly. It stopped me in my tracks.

  During those early years, Charlie was very good to me. I was a young, silly girl, and he groomed me in many ways. Were it not for him, I would never have been who I am today, and I thank him with all my heart for the things he did for me.

  TWENTY-ONE

  IN LATE OCTOBER of that year, Pop managed to procure three seats for a preview of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s South Pacific, starring Mary Martin and Wilbur Evans, and as yet relatively unknown actors Larry Hagman (who was Mary Martin’s son and played Yeoman Herbert Quale) and Sean Connery (a mere chorus boy at the time). It all happened quite suddenly. Pop said, “We’ve got tickets—we’re going,” and Mum, Pop, and I set off for a night on the town, which was a rare occasion in itself.

  The show was wonderful. What a difference between the tackiness of vaudeville and a legitimate American musical at the famous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Mary Martin was enchanting as Ensign Nellie Forbush—washing “that man right out of her hair,” onstage, no less!

  Wilbur Evans, a lovely baritone, played opposite her as Emile de Becque, and sang the glorious ballads “Some Enchanted Evening” and “This Nearly Was Mine.” The male chorus performed “There Is Nothing Like a Dame” and brought the house down. There was a big orchestra, and the musical arrangements by Robert Russell Bennett were superb.

  I will never forget the feeling of sitting in the packed theater watching that preview. I was in awe of it. Envious, too. I also felt a little hopeless. I thought I had neither the talent nor the experience to join that world. When the show opened, a week later, it captivated London.

  ALTHOUGH I WAS very busy in 1951, I was somehow able to keep up a semblance of a social life. I was still seeing a great deal of Tony and the Waltons, and occasionally, when I went home for weekends, Mum would take us out for a summer drink to some lovely spot—a club, or a pub, on the river.

  We sometimes visited a place called the Gay Adventure. Its lawns swept down to the River Mole, and though it was a bit of a white elephant, students from Auntie’s dancing class as well as Auntie, Uncle Bill, Tony, his brother and sister, and I enjoyed going there.

  Early one beautiful summer evening, when everyone else was drinking indoors, Tony and I walked down to the river. We lay on the grass under a tree and chatted. At one point, Tony said, “Look at the pattern of lace the leaves make against the sky.”

  I looked at the canopy above us, and suddenly saw what he saw. My perspective completely shifted. I realized I didn’t have his “eyes”—though once he pointed it out, it became obvious. It made me think, “My God, I never look enough,” and in the years since, I’ve tried very hard to look—and look again.

  WHEREVER I WAS working, I would do everything I could to get home between gigs, even for twelve hours. I had horrible separation anxiety while I was away, always worrying and wondering. Would my mother be all right? How were the boys holding up? I would travel all the way down from the n
orth of England to spend just one day with the family, returning the next day for another week’s work. Whenever I made it home, Mum would do whatever she could to make it special. There’d be a big Sunday lunch, and Dingle and Auntie would be there. They’d try to stoke me up with love and attention.

  Around this time, Mum had a hysterectomy. It was a miserable time for her, and she was away for a few days. Pop was drinking again. Not on a binge, but certainly drinking. I felt I had to be alert, careful.

  I was in my bedroom one evening, just about to climb into bed, when he came in, ostensibly to check on me because my mother was away.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  I noticed that he smelled of alcohol and was breathing heavily. He stood in the center of the room, said good night, and moved to kiss me on the cheek. Suddenly, he said, “I really must teach you how to kiss properly,” and kissed me full on the lips. It was a deep, moist kiss—a very unpleasant experience.

  Somehow I got him out of the room, pushed him maybe, saying, “Good night, Pop,” minimizing the assault. I closed the door and climbed into bed.

  Ten minutes later, he came back in. I was burrowed beneath the covers, facing the wall. He leaned over me and tried to kiss me again. I rolled nearer the wall and mumbled, “I’m really sleepy. Good night, now!”

  Whatever decency was left in that befuddled brain of his made him leave. I prayed he wouldn’t come back and, mercifully, he didn’t.

  The next day, I mentioned the incident to Aunt Joan. She didn’t make a great fuss about it, but her lips pursed and she said, “I see. Well…I’ll speak to Uncle Bill about it and we’ll come up with something.”

  She was obviously very concerned, because by that evening Dingle had put a bolt on my door.

  Pop did try to visit again that night, but obviously couldn’t get in. He was puzzled as to why the lock had been installed. I don’t know what I said, except perhaps that I needed my privacy. I do know that the lock made me feel a little safer, though he could easily have broken it.

  My mother returned, horribly beat up from her operation. Her muscles were so weak, and I helped her try to climb the stairs so that she could rest in her bedroom. Her legs just wouldn’t support her, and she was alarmingly fatigued. She sat on the stairs, overcome with depression, and simply wept. I rushed to get her a cup of tea and she sat awhile, drinking it slowly, then, still seated, she carefully eased herself backward up the remaining steps. My heart ached for her.

  Aunt must have told her about the incident with Pop. Mum never discussed it with me, but all hell let loose between her and my stepfather. There was a strained feeling in the house, an icy coldness between my parents.

  My relationship with Pop after that was more distant than ever. He never tried anything with me again, and I did my best never to be alone with him.

  MY MOTHER SELDOM talked to me about sex, but one day we were chatting about Tony Walton and she suddenly said, “You know he’s such a nice boy. I suspect he’ll make a great lover one day.”

  “EEEEUW Mum!” I protested. “I’m not interested in that. He’s just a friend.”

  But I was aware that my body was changing: my breasts were budding, my waist was tiny, my legs long (albeit still bandy!). I remember being suspicious and careful with men when they were near me. Dingle gave me a big hug—he often did—but it suddenly didn’t feel right anymore. Charlie Tucker gave me a fond squeeze when I was in his office, and I shrugged him away. Maybe the encounter with Pop had left its mark.

  Fortunately I also became aware that I had a sense of humor, and I realized with some delight that I could make the family laugh. I don’t know how I discovered I could do it; maybe I’d been exposed so often to the humor in vaudeville. My antics and impersonations would make everyone smile and giggle. It made my brothers feel better, the whole family seemed to enjoy it, and it gave me a new sense of control over my environment.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THAT CHRISTMAS OF 1951, I was invited to play the role of Princess Balroulbadour—the principal girl—in Emile Littler’s holiday pantomime Aladdin back at the London Casino. Jean Carson was to play the title role.

  Aladdin was an elaborate production. The Genie’s cave at the end of the first act was dazzling to behold, and there was a huge ballet, beautifully designed and executed, in the second act.

  I wore exotic, sparkling headdresses, which I loved, and a lot of satin kimono-style robes with long, draped arms. The setting was Middle-Eastern, but I looked more Japanese than Persian. I also wore ballet slippers, to keep my height down and make Jean Carson look taller than me.

  The cast included a Danish acrobatic troupe, the Olanders—five lads who, clad in silk pantaloons and waistcoats, performed death-defying gymnastics: springboards, leaps, balancing acts. Every time they were onstage, I had to come down to watch—they were that good. A special combination of bravura and muscular strength, with lean, beautiful bodies.

  One of the acrobats—the best—was a young man called Fred who executed something like twelve amazing butterfly leaps around the stage. He was attractive, fit (obviously), and very gentle and dear.

  My mother knew that I was fond of him, and she said, wisely, “Bring him down to The Meuse for a weekend.” Later she joked that he never stopped swinging from our chandeliers (we didn’t have any).

  My mother was ever-present. Fred and I would sit on the couch, bodies pressed together, and there was a lot of hugging and kissing. Mum plied her sewing machine across the room, her back to us but rigidly alert.

  I was heartbroken when the run of the show ended. Fred went off with the Olanders as they continued to tour around England and Europe. Later in the year, I went with Auntie Gladdy to see their act at a theater outside London and was able to say hello to him backstage. My heart broke all over again because I thought this would be the last time I’d ever see him.

  Walking along the station platform to board our train home, I was miserable. I said something dramatic to Auntie Gladdy, like, “How will life ever be the same?” I must have been a complete bore all evening, because she simply exploded.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Julie! You’ve got your whole life in front of you. You don’t think there’ll be other lovely young men?”

  She said it so clearly that life just fell back into perspective, thank goodness. Fred occasionally wrote to me from Denmark, but eventually our friendship just petered out.

  DURING THE RUN of Aladdin, I traveled to London, as always, on the train. I would then either take a taxi or go on the Underground to the theater, do my two performances, then travel home late at night. If my mother or Dingle didn’t pick me up from the station, I would walk home. There was an outside light by The Meuse’s front door, but my mother would often forget to turn it on. The long driveway with the towering rhododendron bushes on either side was dark as could be, and I would whistle cheerfully in order to confound the molester I imagined was waiting to pounce on me.

  I complained about the front door light and expressed my fear to Mum.

  “Who on earth would be interested in you?” she said. “Why would anyone want to attack you?”

  That did the trick!

  ON FEBRUARY 6, 1952, King George VI died. He had been our monarch for sixteen years—almost my entire life—since reluctantly being crowned after the unexpected abdication of his brother, Edward, in 1936.

  He had been in failing health for some time. The war had taken its toll, and his heavy smoking had led to the development of lung cancer. Princess Elizabeth had assumed more and more of her father’s royal duties as his health deteriorated. She received the news of his passing during the first stage of a Commonwealth tour to Kenya, Australia, and New Zealand. Having left Britain a princess, she returned as Queen at the age of twenty-five.

  FOLLOWING ALADDIN, I spent the spring touring the provinces in a revue produced by Charlie Tucker called Look In. Charlie had many clients, and he decided to put several of them together in one show, presumably to guarantee them
work. I believe it was his first attempt at a production, and it was tacky beyond words.

  Among the many venues, we played at the Theatre Royal—Portsmouth, the Birmingham Hippodrome, the Nottingham Empire, the Palace in Blackpool, the Finsbury Park Empire in London (which I liked, as it meant I could stay at home and travel up to the show each day), the Bristol Hippodrome, and theaters in Swindon, Cardiff, Swansea, and Northampton.

  The show starred a comedian, Alfred Marks, with whom I had briefly worked on the radio show Educating Archie, but I didn’t know him very well. He seemed a little hedonistic, a man with large appetites. His girlfriend, Paddie O’Neil, was also in the show. She was bleach-blonde—a soubrette—and onstage she exuded a winning awareness of all things sexy. She and Alfred made a good team.

  Both the show and the tour were done on a shoestring; the costumes were rented, which meant they had all been worn before. The sets were pieced together from other productions. The title of the show referred to the increasing importance of television in people’s lives, Look In being a take on the more familiar “Listen In” catchphrase used by radio.

  Because I was touring on my own, my mother and, I suspect, Charlie Tucker asked Alfred and Paddie if they would keep an eye on me and take me under their wing. Initially I slept in the same room as they did, on a rollaway cot. I would take myself to bed early and they would return to the hotel quite late. It was difficult for me, and must have been truly irritating for them. None of us was happy about the arrangement, and a separate room for me was soon provided.

  Paddie behaved strangely toward me. On the one hand, she kindly showed me how to put on a basic stage makeup. In those days, one plastered greasy panstick on one’s face, but it would cake around the hairline. “Once you’ve put it on and powdered, take a toothbrush and scrub the hairline to get the pancake and powder out and smooth the edge a little better,” she told me. But another time, as she came offstage, I was in the wings and gushed, “That was great, Paddie. Oh, I do love you!” She brushed past me and said, “Well, I hate you.”