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by Julie Andrews

  My family and I watched the ceremony at home and were enthralled by it, most of all by the young queen bearing the weight of the heavy seven-pound jeweled crown, and sitting for hours in her voluminous white satin embroidered gown. The music was glorious and inspiring—a full orchestra, massed voices, fanfares. It was a spectacular affair. Her Majesty’s speech to the nation was deeply moving; this lovely young woman, dedicating herself to the service of the British people. That night, all across Britain, just about every peak and hill had a bonfire burning atop it. Typically, my father went alone to the crown of Leith Hill, and privately pledged fidelity to his new queen.

  WHENEVER MY MOTHER and I were in London, we would drive down The Mall toward Buckingham Palace and look to see if the Royal Standard was flying over the roof. (I still do. If the flag is raised, that means Her Majesty is home.)

  “She’s in,” my mother would say.

  “Gosh, I wonder if I’ll ever meet her,” I’d muse. “Do you think she’ll ever ask me to tea?”

  “Well, maybe one day. If you try very hard.”

  There were many glamorous events and galas during the time of the coronation, and my mother and I were invited to perform one evening at a hotel on Park Lane. We set off in Bettina, our trusty car. There was a low bridge on the way to London, where the road took a huge dip. We were decked out in our best attire, and as happens so often in England, it was simply teeming with rain. Ahead of us, under the bridge, was a vast body of water.

  “Oh, just plow through it,” I advised Mum. “If we go fast enough, we’ll come out the other side.”

  Mum gunned the engine, and Bettina came to a hissing stop right in the middle of the pool. Her motor had completely flooded. Dressed in our finery, we waded out of the deep water and stumbled to a garage to ask for the car to be towed to safety. We never did make the concert.

  The beautiful and historic palace of Hampton Court on the river Thames was illuminated for the coronation and opened to the public. My mother, Pop, my brothers, and I went to view it. It was a balmy summer evening, with a strong scent of flowers in the air. The river nearby sparkled, reflecting the many lights. Strolling through the exquisite gardens under the stars, it was unbearably romantic. Everyone seemed to have a partner. I longed for someone I could share it with.

  Tony was in Canada, and though he wrote practically every day, I think I missed him then more than I ever had before. The memory of that evening in Hampton Court is still seared on my brain today because it was so beautiful on that English summer night. I couldn’t bear that someone of Tony’s sensibility wasn’t seeing and sharing it with me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  DURING THE TOUR of Cap and Belles, I began to have serious doubts about my prospects for the future. I started to ask myself what I really had to offer, what I’d learned, what I hoped to achieve. I was now seventeen, still traveling endlessly, still singing the same songs night after night. My youthful “freak” voice seemed to be changing, and I worried what my appeal would be once I lost that gimmick.

  My education had been pretty nonexistent, and I had learned no other craft. I was busy taking care of the family and bringing home the money, but I felt as if I was going around in circles. I had good instincts; I knew how to be decent and polite. But inside there was a locked-up individual, doing all the moves and trotting out the form like a hamster on a wheel.

  Then, lo and behold, I was offered the title role in Cinderella at the London Palladium.

  The theater has tremendous prestige and a great history. It was the jewel in the crown of the Moss Empires Corporation. Almost every American headliner has performed at the Palladium. It holds more than two thousand people, yet standing on the stage, one feels one can touch the entire audience. It is immaculate—nothing like the tacky vaudeville theaters I’d been playing in. It is also the best theater in London in which to see a pantomime.

  Everything about that 1953/1954 production of Cinderella had a certain elegance. The show was glamorous and the costumes were fresh. The staging was by Charles Henry, who had also been involved in Starlight Roof, and Pauline Grant was the choreographer.

  Richard Hearne played Cinderella’s put-upon father; Max Bygraves, the now-famous comedian whom I had first met on Educating Archie, played Buttons, who was enamored of Cinderella; Adele Dixon was Prince Charming; and Joan Mann played the Prince’s Valet, Dandini.

  Richard Hearne, that masterful clown, incorporated his Mr. Pastry character into his role, and he was totally endearing. The sketch he was famous for, and the audience waited for it, was “The Lancers”—an old-fashioned dance designed for a group of people, with a driving, jolly tune. Though Richard danced “The Lancers” solo, he performed it as if he were being pulled in every direction by a large and enthusiastic crowd.

  Adele Dixon was married to a Cartier. The cast would show up in rehearsal clothes each day, and she would arrive wearing some exquisite suit made of wonderful fabric. Her trademark was a beautiful silk flower on her lapel—a chrysanthemum or a soft bunch of violets. She was perhaps a tad older than most people who played a principal boy, and she didn’t have the great legs that Joan Mann did—but what she didn’t have in pizzazz she made up for in style. She was an elegant, classy Prince Charming, and I was very admiring of her.

  The production values on the show were terrific; there were revolving stages, and real white ponies pulling the spectacularly gilded coach. (The ponies were adorable, but had a phenomenal talent for taking a dump onstage whenever I had friends in the audience.) There was a glorious transformation scene when the Fairy Godmother worked her magic, enabling Cinderella to go to the ball. In the grand finale wedding sequence, my crinoline was so huge that I had to arrive backstage dressed in my bodice, sleeves, and petticoat, and walk into the crinoline skirt, which was braced on a stand because it was so bejeweled and cumbersome. The company, Prince Charming, and I were brought up from below stage on a hydraulic elevator, to be revealed in a sparkling white set and costumes for the final tableau.

  Cinderella was very successful, and we received great reviews. After the opening night my mother said, “Julie, this is the perfect part for you at the perfect age. It couldn’t have come at a better time in your career.” I did two shows a day from December till March, and I loved it all.

  Whoever plays the Palladium has a brass nameplate nailed to his or her dressing room door. At the end of the show’s run, the plaque is given to the actor in acknowledgment of having played the great theater. My dad took mine and set it on a wooden stand, and I have it to this day.

  In spite of the success of Cinderella, I still didn’t feel that I would have an ongoing career. I could perform in radio, vaudeville, and pantomime—but I felt that with Cinderella, my career had peaked.

  THERE WAS A very successful musical play running in London called The Boy Friend, written and composed by Sandy Wilson. I hadn’t been able to see the show, because of my own performance schedule, but it had been playing to enormous popularity and huge success—so much so that two American producers, Cy Feuer and Ernest Martin, purchased the rights for Broadway. They were renowned for such blockbuster hits as Guys and Dolls and Can-Can. Since the London producers had no desire to release any of their talented cast members, Feuer and Martin decided to form an entirely new company for the Broadway production.

  Charlie Tucker reported that a lady called Vida Hope, the director of The Boy Friend, was coming to see an afternoon performance of Cinderella. Later, I learned that Hattie Jacques—the kind comedienne who had been in Educating Archie—had suggested to Vida that she take a look at the young lead at the Palladium. Sandy Wilson accompanied Vida to the theater. The next thing I knew, I received a surprise offer of a two-year contract to play the role of Polly Browne in The Boy Friend on Broadway. I wonder if Hattie ever realized what a catalyst she was for me.

  Given the fact that I was almost single-handedly holding the family together, that Pop was drunk a great deal of the time, that my mother was unhappy and my y
oung brothers miserable, there was every reason not to go. As I have mentioned, I always had terrible separation anxiety about leaving home, and the prospect of being away from my family for two years tore at my heart.

  I wrestled with the decision at length. How could I abandon everyone? It sounds a little grandiose, but I thought everything would fall apart if I left. How would they manage? How would I manage on my own in a new, strange country? It wasn’t that I didn’t have ambition. It was just that The Boy Friend seemed an impossibility for me. The anxiety was paralyzing.

  I decided to talk to my father. He visited The Meuse and we walked in the garden together. I became tearful as I told him that I didn’t know what to do about the offer to go to the United States—and for two whole years, for heaven’s sake!

  “Chick,” he said gently, “I think you should go. It’ll be the best thing in your life, and look, it could last a mere two weeks…two months. No one can say for sure that it’s going to last two years. It’ll open up your head, and you will see America. You should not miss that opportunity.”

  As always, he was the voice of reason.

  Many years later, I asked him if it had been difficult to counsel me that way.

  “I was dying inside,” he replied. “I knew that I would not see you for a while, and that was so hard. But I also knew that it was the best thing that could happen to you.”

  I made my decision. With uncharacteristic stubbornness, I dug in my heels for the first time in my life and said to Charlie Tucker, “I cannot do it for two years, but I will do it for one.” Charlie was simply horrified and told me I couldn’t dictate to the American producers like that. But I was adamant, and with the hysterical feeling that comes from total panic, I said, “Look, I don’t care! If they don’t want me, that’s all right.”

  I think I hoped that my insistence on a one-year contract instead of two would lead Messrs. Feuer and Martin to pass on their offer. To my great surprise, they agreed to my terms.

  TWENTY-SIX

  CINDERELLA ENDED ITS run in March, and I was not expected to leave for America until August. In the interim, Charlie Tucker told me that he had an offer for me to play an American girl from the South in a new “play with music” called Mountain Fire. I had always hoped to try legitimate theater, and here I was being asked to do a play. “Legit” at last!

  I met the director, Peter Cotes, and his wife, Joan Miller, in their Kensington apartment. I think they hired me because I was the appropriate age and suitably nubile—it certainly wasn’t for my Southern accent, which was, quite frankly, appalling.

  The play, set in the mountains of Tennessee, was a dark, sad allegory based on the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. It was written by Bill Birney and Howard Richardson, who had also written the very successful Dark of the Moon.

  I began to work on my role with Joan Miller. She tried to help me find the nuances that were needed for the part, but true to form—as with sad songs and the dreadful screen test—the emotions consumed me. The result was floods of tears, every day. I dreaded going to work.

  Gillian Lynne, the now-famous choreographer of such triumphs as Cats and The Phantom of the Opera, played a young, wanton girl in the show. Jerry Wayne, who played the traveling salesman who seduced my character, Becky, was attractive, but at the time he was on a health kick, and he ate garlic until it was coming out of his ears. His clothing, breath, hair, everything reeked—and we had love scenes together. Someone told me that if you eat garlic in self-defense, you don’t notice it on someone else, so I began to eat a lot of garlic myself. It didn’t make the slightest difference, except to make other members of the company keep their distance from us both.

  The music was by Stefan de Haan, a charming man, about fifteen years older than I, who also served as our musical director. He was European, erudite, shy, and fun. Our director couldn’t decide whether he wanted the orchestra in the pit or offstage, or no orchestra at all. This was a play, after all, so he then thought maybe one instrument, a guitar, would be enough. We tried the show a different way every night.

  Peter still wasn’t satisfied. He thought maybe the musical introductions to the songs were impeding the flow of the story. Seeking to help, I made a suggestion.

  “I’ve got perfect pitch. Perhaps I could just start my songs myself and the accompaniment could creep in later?”

  Peter looked at me blankly. “But what about everybody else?”

  “Ah! Well, I don’t know about everybody else,” I said, “but certainly in the duet with Jerry, for instance, I could hum his note quietly for him. He could pick it up from me and continue on.”

  We tried it that night. At the appropriate moment I hummed the note for Jerry, and he said, “What?”

  “Hmmmm,” I repeated, a little louder, hoping the audience wouldn’t hear me. Needless to say, he never found the note, and it was a disaster.

  The truth was, the play was not good, and although the company tried to make it work, we all sensed it was going to be a flop. I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that had the eminent London critic Kenneth Tynan seen my performance, it would have been the end of any career I hoped to have. Mercifully, Mountain Fire folded out of town.

  The American producer of The Boy Friend, Cy Feuer, came to see the show before it closed, and when he visited me backstage, the only thing he managed to say to me about the play or my part in it was, “You’ve got perfect pitch!” He was a sparkling, jovial man with a freckled face and a sandy crew cut that made his head look like a bullet. I liked him immediately.

  Speaking of perfect pitch, my mother had it, too. We would often play the game of “Guess That Note.” Actually, only Mum’s pitch was perfect—mine is merely relative, meaning that I hear middle C in my head (having always begun my scales on that note), then I judge other notes by their distance from that. The interesting thing is that as the years went by, I regularly won the game, and Mum—who had been so right initially—was a whole tone flat. We would both stomp into the living room and hammer at the piano keys to prove our point. Ironically, these days my sense of pitch has also lowered. I guess everything drops with age!

  WHILE WE WERE on the road with Mountain Fire, I began a friendship with a young Canadian actor in the play named Neil McCallum. He was very accomplished and had an endearing, asymmetrical face. Our relationship quickly blossomed into romance.

  That July, after the show closed, Neil, Stefan, Aunt Joan, and I took a small vacation together. We rented a little riverboat and journeyed up the Thames. Auntie and Stefan got on very well, and she became an unspoken chaperone for Neil and me. We made a compatible foursome.

  The boat was a little cabin cruiser, about thirty feet in length. We had a bunk each, and there was a small shower and head. Neil and Stefan were in charge of all things nautical. Auntie and I made beds, set out breakfast, put out the fenders and ropes, and generally made ourselves useful. In the evenings we moored on the towpath and went to a local pub for supper, or cooked aboard in the tiny galley.

  For ten pleasant days we headed toward Oxford and then back. The sun shone occasionally, but mostly it poured with rain. We didn’t care—it was an adventure.

  Neil came down to The Meuse and was very kind to my brothers, even building Chris a swing in the garden. Shortly before I was due to leave for the United States, Neil had to return to Canada. I said to my mother, “Mum, I want to go down to Southampton to see him aboard his ship.” She said, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  But my compulsion to be with him until the very last moment was too strong. Against her instincts and wishes, I said, “Mum, I have to do this. I’ll be back in the morning once he’s gone.”

  So I went. I knew my mother was concerned.

  On the train down to Southampton, my time of the month suddenly and surprisingly commenced with a vengeance. I was mortified—and maybe a tad relieved. Neil and I spent the night together, but it was purely platonic. It must have been frustrating as hell for him. He promised that when I got to New York, he w
ould come down to visit me. The next morning, he boarded his ship and I waved until he was out of sight…then took the lonely train journey back to Walton-on-Thames.

  When I arrived home, my mother was not there. She may have been annoyed at me, and decided not to be present when I returned. She may have just gone to the pub for a drink. Whatever, the house was depressingly empty, I felt miserable and sorry for myself, and I went to lie on my bed. Mum eventually showed up and came to find me. When I tearfully told her that Neil and I had not consummated our relationship, she wept also—with relief.

  The grand pack-up for America began.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A FAREWELL PARTY had been planned for me: a last big bash at The Old Meuse. Everybody came: Auntie, Dingle, my brother John, all the dancing students, Auntie Gladdy and her husband Bill, Susan, Trisha Waters, friends from far and near.

  Pop became horribly drunk that night. He had a terrible case of gout, and was limping around on a cane. Toward the end of the evening, when the party was in full swing and everyone was dancing, he walked into the big living room and looked up at the saucer-shaped porcelain light fixture on the ceiling.

  “I never did like that thing!” he said loudly. He suddenly attacked it with his cane, smashing it to pieces.

  The guests made a swift exodus. My brothers and I were hurried to our rooms, and Pop went on a colossal rampage. He stormed around the house ranting and raving. He wrapped a towel around his fist and went out to Auntie and Dingle’s bungalow and punched out all the windows, saying, “I reckon that man owes me three hundred pounds!” He then punched Dingle, who somehow landed a punch of his own and gave Pop a bloody nose. My mother called the police, and Johnny called Dad, who came immediately and offered to take us all back to Ockley for the weekend.