Many years later, he wrote me a good letter, short and to the point, saying that he was aware that I knew of our connection and that if I cared to discuss it, he would genuinely welcome the opportunity. I thought about it for a long time, and finally replied—asking him to understand that since this could possibly hurt the man I considered to be my father, not to mention my siblings, it might be better to leave the situation as it was. He must have understood, for after that I simply received an annual Christmas card with his signature. I appreciated the gesture. I subsequently heard that he’d passed away.
ON MAY 5, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and her husband Prince Philip attended a performance of My Fair Lady, which, in my opinion, was much more glamorous than the opening night. The theater was festive, the royal box bedecked with flowers. Our performance shone. Afterward, the Royals spent time with Alan, Moss, and Binkie Beaumont, then came backstage and greeted the company. Her Majesty said that she had loved the show, and Prince Philip lingered and chatted, particularly to Rex. They must have passed on their enthusiasm to other members of the Royal Family, for on May 22, HRH Princess Margaret came to see us.
Probably the most meaningful performance we ever gave was when Sir Winston Churchill came to see the show. We all knew he was in the audience, and we understood that he would not come backstage to visit because he was elderly and in frail health. He had requested that a copy of our script be sent to him, and he read it in advance. Our entire company played that performance of My Fair Lady for him and him alone—this extraordinary man whom we loved, admired, and respected so much.
THREE MONTHS AFTER we opened, the stress of eight performances a week began once again to take its toll on my voice. But this time I knew what to do. Every Wednesday and Saturday I visited a fine ear, nose, and throat specialist, Dr. John Musgrove, whose offices were on Harley Street. He was dashing, British to a fault, always attired in a morning suit, and he was exceedingly good to me.
I continued to have throat infections from time to time, and Dr. Musgrove decided that my wisdom teeth should be removed as soon as possible since they were impacted. It took some arranging, but I went briefly into the London Clinic, had all four of the offending teeth extracted, and was back in the show three days later.
It was also essential that I have my tonsils removed, but that operation would have to wait until the work in My Fair Lady was over.
Dr. Musgrove kept my voice maintained, as Dr. Rexford had in New York City, and I could not have survived without his help.
ONE SUNDAY NIGHT, Tony and I were visiting his family in Walton-on-Thames. We were having a quiet supper by the fire. Life was very good indeed, and Tony and I were sitting side by side on a low footstool, balancing our dinner plates on our knees. We looked at each other and smiled, and I honestly don’t know how it came about, but one of us whispered to the other, “We should get married soon.” And then, “Should we mention it now?”
So we suddenly said, “We were just talking about getting married.”
I thought the Waltons would explode with joy. They opened a bottle of champagne and toasted us. It was as if we had truly announced our engagement, whereas we were simply floating it out there as a thought. But from then on everyone assumed that we were formally engaged, so that was that.
Not long afterward, Tony and I received an invitation to attend a Royal Garden Party on July 17 at Buckingham Palace. What a thrill—but what should I wear?
There was a designer called Rachelle who had made some of my dresses when I was touring in the early years. She was impoverished and totally hopeless at keeping her books. More often than not she asked for a loan, but she was a good designer and fitter, and she had good seamstresses working for her. I found some black-and-white printed silk material, and she designed and made me a lovely afternoon dress, which I wore with a wide-brimmed, black straw hat.
As we were driving to the palace, I thought of the days when I would say to my mother, “Do you think I’ll ever get to have tea with the Queen?”
The atmosphere in the garden at Buckingham Palace was cheerful but formal. There was a huge marquee beneath which strawberries and cream and tea and scones were being served. White tables and chairs dotted the lawn, and people were milling about waiting for Her Majesty to arrive.
Suddenly, Tony and I were approached by Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandra, the Queen’s cousin. She was approximately my age, and she stopped and chatted with us for a while.
“I’m so pleased about your recent engagement,” she said. “I wish you both every happiness.”
I was startled that she knew, since we had only just announced it publicly.
I RECEIVED A phone call from the secretary to Sir Victor Sassoon, hotel magnate and businessman. Would Tony and I care to join him for lunch at Claridge’s? We were intrigued.
At the luncheon, Sir Victor—suave, elegant, and silver-haired—asked me if I would object to the use of my name for one of his racing fillies. He had originally wanted to use the name “My Fair Lady,” but that had been already taken. I had no objection, and we had a pleasant time together. The filly was sired by Pinza, the famous Derby winner. When Sir Victor found out that Tony and I had recently announced our engagement, he gave the horse to me as a wedding present. I was stunned.
She was stabled in Ireland, and I never, ever saw her. Her papers were passed on to me, however. Sir Victor explained that she didn’t have the speed required for the track, but that she would make a fine brood mare because of her good genes. So he had the filly “covered”—impregnated—and when he handed her papers to me, she was supposedly already in foal. I thought this was all extremely generous.
There were complications with the birth—or she never conceived—I cannot remember which, so she was “covered” again, and then I received word from the stables that something else had not gone as planned. Months later, after having paid considerable expense for a horse I had never seen—and with no sure knowledge that any offspring had survived, or even been born—we began to feel that something odd might be going on. None of us had any knowledge whatsoever of horse breeding, and we had left the filly’s care in the breeder’s hands. Charlie Tucker was overseeing it all for me, and he finally suggested that we sell the little mare, as she was costing me so much. I wanted to fly over to Ireland to see her at least, but there seemed no convenient time. Sadly, my namesake was passed on to someone else. For all I know, there may be several fine breeding lines out there, all foaled by my little filly.
FROM JULY 22 through July 25, I made a recording of Rudolf Friml and Herbert Stothart’s famed operetta Rose Marie, with the glorious baritone Giorgio Tozzi. We were accompanied by the New Symphony of London under the direction of the esteemed Broadway conductor Lehman Engel. He had conducted Fanny and Wonderful Town on Broadway, as well as several Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. He was meticulous, consummate at what he did, and he helped me rise to the challenge of pure operetta. I enjoyed the whole experience. What astounds me is how I fitted it into my busy schedule. No wonder I occasionally had vocal problems.
UP TO THIS point in my life, I had muddled through with things like answering my correspondence and noting down appointments, chores, laundry, dry-cleaning pickups, etc. Charlie Tucker paid all the main bills for me. I had a modest checking account, and submitted receipts and check stubs to him on a monthly basis. But life was becoming so full, and I really needed someone to help me sort it out.
Charlie interviewed a lady called Alexa Weir. She was single, middle-aged, dressed rather severely, and had a stiff carriage, but she had a quiet sense of humor and was obviously very competent. She took over my life—lock, stock, and barrel. I had an inkling that she had been requested to report my every move to Charlie, but I was grateful to her, for she took a big load off my shoulders.
She was at the theater most performances, and kept note of my house seats and who was requesting them. She became my “personal dragon”—the buffer between me and nearly everyone else. She dealt w
ith my fan mail, kept the flowers in my dressing room fresh, and shopped for whatever I needed.
It was obvious that I couldn’t stay at the Savoy Hotel forever. Alexa’s entrance into my life coincided with Charlie finding me a lovely little apartment at number 70 Eaton Square, in Belgravia. It had a small kitchen, two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a living room, and tall windows throughout that furnished good light and a view the length of the square.
Tony and I moved in together (much to Charlie’s annoyance), and it was a perfect abode for the two of us.
We went to Harrods and bought some furniture, including a small Steinway piano, which Charlie grudgingly allowed. I didn’t have a dishwasher or anything practical, but I did have a grand piano, and it had a glorious tone.
The building had a superintendent named Bob Chatwin. He was a dour but decent man who lived in the basement apartment and managed the boilers, the general cleaning, and made sure all the brass on the doors was polished. We saw him once in a while, but we saw a great deal more of his wife, Becky.
She was tiny, almost dwarflike, rotund, and bespectacled. She was, in fact, technically blind and entitled to a white stick, which she disdained to use. She was also the cleanest, most forthright lady, a small dynamo. Number 70 Eaton Square was her world.
I would hear my letterbox flapping, and when I opened the door, Becky would be on her knees trying to peer in to see if anybody was home. She knew the details of every tenant in our building; she was nosy, she was a gossip, and I loved her.
“I can tell when something is dirty,” she would say. “I feel dust.”
She would run her soft little hand in a slow, sure movement across surfaces, and could sense with her fingertips if something wasn’t clean.
“I can teach you how to clean your house in five easy moves,” she said to me. “You’ll need a stiff, short-handled brush, a very soft short-handled brush, a vacuum cleaner, and a duster.”
Getting on her hands and knees, she showed me how to work around the base of the wainscoting with the stiff brush. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she would lift all the dust and lint from the edges of the carpet about a foot into the room. She used the soft brush to wipe every top surface: picture frames, doorways, shelves, window casings, and so on. She vacuumed up whatever was on the floor, and at the very end she would go over all the important surfaces with her soft duster.
She taught me how to wash a pile of dishes efficiently in a very small sink. I’d fill one of the dirty saucepans with hot water and suds, creating in essence a second sink, and throw in all the cutlery, then I would run the hot water in the main sink, dip a long-handled scrubbing brush into the soapy pan, wash a plate, rinse it under the tap, and set it out to dry. I learned to do everything in rotation; glasses first, plates next, then cutlery and, last of all, the saucepan that had been soaking all along. Becky’s tuition was helpful, since housekeeping was something I didn’t have time for.
Becky’s main task was to clean for the English lord who lived in the apartment above us—Viscount Margesson. He was tall, dignified, and had a wonderful plummy voice. Becky idolized him.
I asked her if she knew a good laundry. She replied that I needed a personal laundress, and that she had a friend by the name of Olive Faigan who would be just the ticket.
Olive had worked in a professional laundry, and was superb at ironing and pressing. She came into our lives, and I have never had my wardrobe or my linens better cared for.
Becky wasn’t finished with us, however. She arranged for Lord Margesson’s valet, a Mr. Cole, to spare Tony a couple of hours a week. This quiet gentleman would come and collect Tony’s clothes, and they would be returned by day’s end, steamed, pressed, and spot-cleaned.
This was the perfect built-in godsend for a working couple. I remember the delight with which I viewed my wardrobe. I could pick out any dress and wear it instantly, thanks to Olive, Mr. Cole, and sweet Becky, who wrapped us, my home, and my housekeeping, into one perfect package.
Tony had been asked to design a production of a musical by Sandy Wilson, of The Boy Friend fame, called Valmouth. His sets and costumes for it were exquisite. He had commandeered our second bedroom as a workroom/study for himself. As the months went by, my attempts to keep that room tidy became more and more futile as pads, pencils, inks, drawings, models of sets, memorabilia, and reference books filled every available nook and cranny. My dad built some bookcases for us in our front hall, which helped a little. He also gave us a house-warming present—a hand-turned wooden fruit bowl, which I still treasure.
THAT SUMMER, I had a consultation with the designers at Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum who, because of the success of My Fair Lady, were making a wax model of me as Eliza Doolittle. Photos were taken, not only of me but of my costumes, and I stood for extensive measurements of my entire body and face.
A gentleman came to our new apartment with six long, leather-bound jewel cases under his arm. He flung back the lids with a flourish and revealed pair after pair of glass eyes, all different colors and staring in all directions. He proceeded to hold up one eyeball at a time, comparing it to my own.
“No, not quite bloodshot enough,” he would say. Then “No, not quite yellow enough.”
It was bizarre.
ONE MATINEE AFTERNOON, Paddie O’Neil—the big, brassy blonde from my early vaudeville days—suddenly showed up at our stage door during the performance. I had not seen her for years. For some reason, Alexa was not around. Not wishing to be snooty, I suggested to the stage doorman that he send her to my dressing room. I had a very brief moment between scenes to make a quick costume change and to say hello to her. I could not fathom why she had come to see me.
She said she was just in the neighborhood. As I changed and fixed my hair and makeup, I said, “I’m so sorry, Paddie, but I’m due onstage.”
Then she did something rather scary. As I moved to leave the room, she deliberately tried to delay my exit. Leaning nonchalantly against the dressing table, she held me at the door with her questions.
I kept saying, “Paddie—I must go,” and she said, “But just let me add one thing,” or “Oh, one more question…” There was a smile playing around her mouth, as if she hoped I would miss my entrance and she was enjoying herself.
Eventually, I just dashed for the stage. When I returned, she had gone.
I can only think that the venom or the envy or the sadness in her must have been all-consuming. She later died of cancer, and when I heard about it, I felt an ache of compassion. Who knows what she was thinking or feeling that day.
I CAME DOWN with a terrible cold and was out of the show for a few performances. When I recovered, I remember thinking it was essential to get myself back into shape; this was the moment to be fitter than ever before. I decided to do a really good, vigorous workout.
I stretched, but obviously did not warm up enough, for as I moved on to the heavier exercises and attempted one that was fairly strenuous—a swing to the right, a swing to the left, and a swing all the way round—I flung myself into it, and at the first rotation, threw my back out completely. I simply could not move. I was due back in the show that night, and wondered if this was something that I had done subconsciously to avoid returning. I literally dragged myself to my bed and lay there in agony.
It was lucky that my brother, Johnny, was with me. He was doing his obligatory two years in National Service, but was on a break and had traveled up from the country for a visit. He phoned Tony’s father, Dr. Walton, telling him my dilemma, and the good man promised to drive up to London and give me an adjustment as soon as he was finished with his patients.
I lay on my bed for several hours, completely unable to move, my back in an excruciating spasm. Eventually I developed a terrible need to relieve myself, but I couldn’t possibly make it to the bathroom. I called Johnny.
“I’m desperate,” I explained. “There’s a bucket in the kitchen. Maybe if you brought it in…?”
With agonized groans and many contorti
ons, I succeeded in using it. I think Johnny and I bonded as never before, and we still laugh about it.
Dr. Walton arrived and maneuvered me onto his table. With a long massage and a great deal of manipulation, he helped me become mobile once again. He had never had reason to treat me before, but after one look at my back he said, “You know, you have a nasty curvature of the spine—a scoliosis.” It was the first I’d heard of it. Dad W. felt that it was probably congenital. Thank heavens for his good care, guidance, and tuition about it—for in the years since, it has continued to plague me, and I’ve had to make accommodations for it such as special stretching exercises and adjustments to my shoes. Several days, several treatments, and some relaxing pills later, I returned to the show.
THIRTY-NINE
TONY AND I purchased a miniature gray poodle puppy, and we called her Shy. She was a sweetly feminine little dog. Once she was housebroken, she went with us everywhere.
She would listen to me vocalizing at my piano and would throw her pretty head up, her mouth slightly pursed, and howl to the skies. I discovered to my surprise that I could almost make her sing scales. It was all very cute, but also somewhat annoying because I could not get on with my practice once Shy began to vocalize, so I would place her in the corridor while I did my scales. I’d hear her scratching at the door, then I’d see her little black nose appear beneath it and hear a lot of breathy huffs and puffs. I would say, “Shy,” in a warning voice and she would try her best to contain herself, uttering muffled scales in a tiny voice until she could stand it no longer—at which point she would let go again with a full-throated howl.
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