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by Julie Andrews

  I had no wish to modify the gown once the wedding was over, so I carefully packed it away, hoping that perhaps one day it might be used by a daughter. I remember Olive Faigan helping me fold it into a box with sheets of tissue and many mothballs, and I hoped it wouldn’t become yellowed. It survived well, and many years later, to my delight, all the buttons and the lovely embroidered roses were incorporated into our daughter Emma’s wedding dress—which Tony also designed—when she got married.

  Tony and I wished to be married at St. Mary’s Church, in the parish of Oatlands, near Walton and Weybridge. The church is picturesque—the prettiest in the area. Its lichen-covered gate has a little V-shaped roof over it, and a country path leads up to the church doors.

  Our minister, the Reverend Keeping, was a charming man, kind and gentle in our meetings with him.

  On one occasion we were introduced to the organist who would be playing at the ceremony. He announced proudly that he had “the finest organ in the south of England.” Tony and I couldn’t look at each other, and later relayed the story with relish.

  It wasn’t enough that I was born in the adjacent village; I had to prove residency in the parish of Oatlands in order to obtain the permit for us to be married at St. Mary’s. We decided that I would move into the nearby Oatlands Park Hotel for the better part of six weeks.

  Charlie Tucker was none too happy that I was getting married. I think he felt that Tony wasn’t old enough, sophisticated, or wealthy enough for me. Some rather unusual things began to happen which left me feeling a bit paranoid. I can’t prove that Charlie had anything to do with them, but I’m fairly certain that he did.

  Out of the blue, a gentleman called Carl Lambert contacted me. He was a psychiatrist with offices on Brook Street in Mayfair, and he claimed he had been commissioned to write a series of articles on the subject of fame for The Times of London. After several persistent phone calls, and Charlie assuring me it was a good thing to do, I agreed to the interview.

  I met the doctor occasionally for lunch. He was Austrian, charismatic, elegant, and erudite. Our conversations covered many subjects. For our final interview he asked me to go to his office, where I lay on his patients’ couch. I remember that I wept copiously, telling him a little about my early life. He touched my forehead gently when the session was over. In spite of all our meetings, no articles were ever published.

  About two weeks before the wedding, Charlie Tucker held a supper party at the Savoy. Pauline Grant was there, and I was invited to join them.

  At the table was a dynamic young man who went out of his way to be attentive. I’d never met him before, but it seemed that he was more than interested in me, and I confess he was a fascinating dinner partner. His focus was on me throughout the entire meal, and afterward he escorted me to the elevator as, for some reason, I was staying in the hotel overnight. He kissed me—quite deliciously, I might add—and said, “I wish you weren’t marrying Tony.”

  He told me he was returning to South Africa on business within a couple of days and wished he didn’t have to leave. He said he would be in touch with me. I received a beautiful bouquet of tuberoses from him, and then, strangely, I heard nothing more.

  My guess was that he had been asked by Tucker to loosen my resolve concerning marriage to Tony.

  Charlie’s attempts to control every aspect of my life were starting to become awkward, and though exceedingly grateful to him, I began to grow uncomfortable with his managerial style and the manner in which he represented me.

  Charlie’s reservations notwithstanding, the wedding ensued.

  FORTY-ONE

  MAY 10, 1959, dawned clear and sunny. I spent the night before the wedding at The Meuse. I had been nervous for several weeks, but on this day I felt calm and happy.

  Dressing for the wedding became quite hilarious. Aunt Joan was in a tizzy, dashing about asking, “Does my gown look all right? What about my hair?”

  I remember standing in the big living room at The Meuse, where we had placed a full-length mirror so that we could all check ourselves. I was alone, fully dressed and ready to go. Aunt was flitting all over the place, Mum was off finding her stockings. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “Well, here I am! It’s my wedding day—I wonder if they’ll get around to me?”

  Dad arrived in the limo, looking spiffy in his rented morning suit and top hat, and we headed for the church.

  One of the things I felt most grateful for that day was that I knew Tony as well as I did. Making such a huge commitment is daunting, to say the least, and to know that I was marrying my dearest friend was a great comfort—a safe, sure feeling.

  As we approached the church, the lane was lined with well-wishers who had come out to support their hometown girl. There was a large phalanx of press, but once inside the church, we were able to keep it to just family and friends.

  It was fun to see my mother and Win all dressed up. Pop was sober, and I sensed no danger that he was going to be difficult. Uncle Bill was an elegant head usher assisted by Tony’s brother, Richard, and my brothers, John, Donald, and Chris. Tony’s mother was pretty as ever; the fleet of great-aunts were ruddy-cheeked, robust, and looked extremely matronly.

  THE CEREMONY ITSELF was lovely. Afterward we drove to the Mitre Hotel, an old and charming establishment on the water’s edge opposite Hampton Court Palace. The river was sparkling, and the view of the palace, glinting in the sun, was magnificent.

  Tony and I stood for a long reception line. Among the nearly three hundred guests were Svetlana and Sudi, Zoë, Charlie Tucker, Lou Wilson, Maggie Smith, Stanley and Lainie Holloway. Toasts were made, the food was delicious. The many-layered cake was cut and pieces saved for absent friends. Speeches were delivered, funny and loving. Photographs were taken.

  Binkie Beaumont had given us a complete set of antique Chinese blue and white china: terrines, cups, saucers, sauce boats, milk jugs, a teapot, and plates of many sizes. My mother privately gave me a lovely silver rose bowl. She said she wanted me to have a gift that was just from her. It started a tradition, and I gave my daughters similar personal gifts when they got married. Moss and Kitty sent an engraved silver cigarette box. Neither of us smoked, but it looked elegant on our coffee table.

  God knows what chaos we left behind us—the clearing up, and all the wonderful gifts that were delivered to our apartment.

  I had reserved a room at the hotel in order to change for our flight to Los Angeles to tape The Jack Benny Show—and suddenly it was all over. In a blur of hugs, kisses, flash cameras, and rice, Tony and I departed for the airport.

  We slept on the flight and I remember opening my eyes just before landing. I looked at Tony in the seat beside me. He smiled.

  “Help!” I said to him in a very small voice.

  He nodded, knowing what I meant.

  The festivities were over; we were married and heading into the unknown.

  WE STAYED AT the Beverly Hills Hotel, and quickly made the acquaintance of Bud Yorkin, the director of The Jack Benny Show. Among other things he was renowned for having directed the Emmy-winning Fred Astaire TV specials, which were so stylish and elegant.

  Phil Silvers was a guest on the show, and just before the finale of the special, he said, “Julie. You are on your honeymoon…I have a favor to ask. May I dance with the bride?” and we waltzed together. He was a darling man and wonderfully funny.

  Jack Benny was kind and generous. He took us out to dinner one evening and afterward said, “Come back and see my house.”

  Opening the front door, he called, “Mary—we’ve got friends.” His wife was upstairs, and was obviously not happy about the unexpected visitors, because she never came down.

  One night after rehearsals, Bud Yorkin and his then wife, Peg, took us to one of the famous nightclubs on the Sunset Strip. A stripper named Candy Barr was appearing there. She was all the rage at the time, had an extraordinary body, and was a wonderful dancer.

  By the time we got past the huge bouncer at the
front door and arrived at our seats, the music was pounding and she was just ending her first session, already completely naked. I’d never seen a stripper in my life. I took one look at this lady dancing so erotically and I had to sit down rather quickly. Once I got my naïveté in check, we had a terrific evening.

  Our friend Edie Adams, married by now to Ernie Kovacs, invited Tony and me to a cocktail party at her house. It was pretty sumptuous, and the guests included some of the most important people in Hollywood.

  I remember seeing Jack Lemmon talking to the director Blake Edwards, the latter seeming handsome and charismatic, if perhaps a trifle arrogant. If I had known then that almost eleven years later I would be married to that extraordinary gentleman, I think I would have fainted dead away. (I think we all would have!) But I was on my honeymoon with Tony, and Blake and I at that time were ships passing in the night.

  As honeymoons go, it was somewhat lopsided—more of a working vacation, what with the fittings, the rehearsals, and the taping of the show. We never lolled by the hotel pool or had much chance to be together on our own. But still it was fun.

  The Jack Benny Hour aired on May 23, the same day that Tony and I flew back to England, so we were unable to watch it.

  The following day, I went back into My Fair Lady, and thus began our married life.

  FORTY-TWO

  ALTHOUGH MY CONTRACT in London was for eighteen months and I was due to leave the show in October 1959, I actually left on August 8, two months early, because by then I was exhausted and as neurotic about my voice as I could possibly be.

  I was seeing Dr. Musgrove on Wednesdays and Saturdays, taking injections of vitamins, having “diathermy” on my throat (a method of heating tissue electromagnetically and ultrasonically for therapeutic purposes), having the poison in my tonsils suctioned, trying in every way to keep myself going.

  Performing for two years in New York and sixteen months in London—not to mention all the rehearsals and being out of town—had been a marathon. I never knew on any given day whether my voice or stamina would hold up for me. Most of the time it did, but I was always a basket case of nerves.

  We received word that Annie Rogers was back in town after her tour of the U.S. in My Fair Lady. She had already been contracted to take over from me, and Charlie Tucker ascertained that she would be willing to start a little sooner if we could arrange it.

  Charlie and I went to see Binkie Beaumont.

  My guess was that he would say that I had to stay in the show and fulfill my contract, but I underestimated him. The case was put to him; since Annie was willing to begin, could I possibly depart two months early? He looked at me and he looked at Charlie. Finally he said, “Look, I will grant you this permission, but…” He stabbed a finger at Charlie. “I do not want you making that young lady work for the next three months. I want you to promise that she will have every chance to really rest and recuperate.”

  I felt as if the cavalry had arrived, and I hugged him. How dear of him to so completely understand.

  When I finally ended my run in My Fair Lady, it was as if I emerged from a long, narrow tunnel into the bright sunlight. The world was suddenly in Cinemascope, and I had a life once again. I had tremendous affection and fondness for the show, and I received a wonderful send-off from the company…but the relief was overwhelming.

  Like Rex, I threw a party for the company, and my diary entry for that week simply says, “Lovely, loverly end to show—very sad but very glad, too. People so sweet and kind.”

  The experience of that show will forever remain in my bones. There is a line from the song “Just You Wait,” in which Eliza imagines the King declaring, “Next week, on the 20th of May, I proclaim ‘Liza Doolitle Day.’” Every May 20, I still receive cards from friends and fans.

  Often I am asked how I felt about not landing the role of Eliza in the film version of My Fair Lady. I know Alan hoped that Warner Bros. would cast me, but eventually the role was given to Audrey Hepburn. At the time, I completely understood their choice. Warner Bros. needed a big name for the marquee, and although I had starred on Broadway, that was a very small pond compared to the rest of America and the world. In later years, I did wish that I had been able to record my performance somehow, somewhere, for posterity—or at least for my grandchildren. Audrey and I became good friends, and one day she said to me, “Julie, you should have done the role…but I didn’t have the guts to turn it down.”

  A FEW MONTHS prior to my departure, Alan and Moss asked me to read an extraordinary book based on the Arthurian legend, called The Once and Future King, by T. H. White. They hoped to make it into a musical, and asked if I would play the role of Queen Guenevere.

  Tony and I read it cover to cover, adored it, and embraced the idea, though I couldn’t imagine how Alan and Fritz could manage an adaptation, since the book was actually a compilation of four complete novels.

  It seemed a monumental task, but nevertheless it was scheduled for production a year hence.

  Charlie almost kept his promise to Binkie, and for the next two months I did not work. I saw friends and family, went shopping, had my hair done. We went to the theater and to the ballet—but mostly I just took it easy.

  That month we received the devastating news that Kay Kendall had died from leukemia. It was sudden, and deeply sad that such a bright light had left us so soon.

  We escaped to Paris for a weekend in October and, later, went down to Oxford for a week, where Pieces of Eight was doing a pre-London tryout.

  IN LATE OCTOBER of 1959, I began work on a four-part series for the BBC called The Julie Andrews Show. We would tape one show a week. Pauline Grant was the director, Kenneth MacMillan the choreographer, and Tony designed the settings. It was decided that not only would I sing and entertain, but I would also try some celebrity interviews. My guests included Vic Oliver, Richard “Mr. Pastry” Hearne, the comedian Kenneth Williams, and Pietro Annigoni.

  While we were brainstorming ideas, Pauline said, “Why don’t we try to get the author T. H. White for an interview?” Since I was contracted for Camelot, it seemed like an absolute must.

  We heard that Mr. White was a recluse, living on the remote Channel Island of Alderney, and that he probably would not consider coming to the mainland for something so trivial. The offer was made anyway, and to our astonishment and delight, he accepted. (Later, when we asked him why he agreed to appear, he said it was because he knew nothing about television and wanted to learn how the cameras worked and what happened on the set.)

  It was arranged that I would pick him up after he had checked into his hotel. I remember driving him around Hyde Park Corner, by Apsley House. As usual the traffic was going in all directions, and he said, “My goodness, London is busy. How do you drive through all of this?”

  Living as a hermit on his little island, I think he was amazed and bewildered at the crazy tumult of London life.

  Within days, Tony and I fell in love with this endearing, professorial man. He looked almost exactly like Ernest Hemingway, though Tim was taller. His beard was a little yellow from cigarettes. He had a fine head of white hair, and his wardrobe was mostly corduroy and casual, though he often sported a startling red bow tie.

  He came onto our studio set and pottered around, and when we finally did the interview, he sweetly put up with my asking him some pretty banal questions. I was nervous about interviewing people, and wasn’t very good at it. He really seemed to be enjoying himself, however, and even if he wasn’t, he would never have shown it. Tim had a personal code of honor that required him to behave as decently to everyone as the medieval knights in his wonderful book.

  I mentioned to him that I was soon to have my tonsils removed.

  “You must come and stay with me!” he cried. “The sea air will be great for your recuperation. Please come to Alderney—I would love that!” We promised we would try.

  We ended up with four fairly good shows, the final episode airing on Christmas Eve. Also in December, I appeared in a mi
dnight gala at the Lyric Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, to raise funds for the thousands so calamitously affected by the collapse of the Malpasset Dam in Frejus, France. It was an all-star lineup, with American and British stars.

  Those who could sing or dance did so. The actors made the introductions, and it was my good fortune to be introduced by Sir Ralph Richardson. We had never met, but I admired him enormously.

  When it was time for my appearance, he made a fairly grand speech, then announced in his unique voice, “On these ‘Lyric’ boards it is my pleasure to now introduce the one, the only, the sublime…Miss Julie Anderson!”

  There was dead silence as the audience tried to fathom who this person might be. I walked onstage, lamely whispered “Andrews,” and sang whatever I was supposed to sing.

  The next day I received a small bouquet of violets from him and a letter written on a large piece of stationery with just two words per line.

  “Dear Miss Andrews,” it said in the smallest handwriting, “I am so sorry that I did not introduce you correctly last night but my car was towed away and I’m afraid I was not my usual self. Please accept these flowers as my apology.”

  The year ended with another performance of Cinderella—but this time I was happily attending Prokofiev’s ballet at the Royal Opera House and Svetlana was dancing the title role. The evening was unforgettable.

  FORTY-THREE

  AROUND CHRISTMASTIME OF 1959, something that had been nagging at the back of my brain came into focus. I had been uneasy about my brother Chris for quite a while. With Donald away in the merchant navy, my youngest sibling was now more alone than ever. The Meuse was run-down, gloom permeating every room. Mum was absent and at the pub most lunchtimes and evenings. The “local” was her crutch, and the lovely pianist who once had such a fine technique was now merely a bar entertainer thumping at the keys, her drinking cronies encouraging her lifestyle. Pop had a succession of jobs, first selling cash registers, then working at Hotpoint and, finally, Green-shield Stamps, so he, too, was not around very much. Aunt, now divorced from Uncle Bill, continued to teach, but she eventually moved her school into the village hall and took rooms for herself down the road. The studio at the back of our house, and the little bungalow, fell into disrepair.