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by Julie Andrews

  The toll on Chris was evident; he was now thirteen, pale, abstracted, and if not already there, heading for a major depression. I suddenly realized that unless he got away, the conditions he was living in would have a lasting effect.

  I found a good boarding school, Pierrepoint House, in Frensham, Surrey, and in late March, Chris sat for the entrance exam and passed it with flying colors. His first semester would be in the fall. Mum and Pop were thrilled, and though I sensed Chris might be homesick and anxious (though there was little to be homesick about), anything was better than staying where he was. Certainly he would be stimulated and in a better environment.

  In late January 1960, I went back to New York to tape a two-hour prime-time variety special for CBS called The Fabulous Fifties, which chronicled the most popular theater, movies, books, and music of the decade. Even though Rex and I were no longer doing My Fair Lady, we filmed scenes replicating the rehearsal process. I was shown working with Alfred Dixon, the dialogue coach who helped me perfect my cockney accent, and that scene segued into my performing “Just You Wait.” Rex did a sketch about his singing with an orchestra for the first time. The special received an Emmy for outstanding variety programming.

  I also appeared in a live, colorcast production of The Bell Telephone Hour, a classy and prestigious series. The episode was entitled “Portraits in Music,” and was hosted by the poet Carl Sandburg.

  Knowing that we would be heading back to New York at the end of the summer for Camelot, my hope was to return to London and spend a few months just being Mrs. Tony Walton. There was also the matter of my tonsils, and now seemed the best possible time to have them taken out. But Tony and I had to miss the wedding of Princess Margaret and Tony Armstrong-Jones at Westminster Abbey, to which we had been invited.

  I went into the London Clinic and had the operation, which, at age twenty-four, was complicated and quite painful. Then, as we had promised Tim White we would, we headed to the island of Alderney so that I could recuperate in the bracing sea air.

  We flew across the English Channel in a small passenger plane and landed on a tiny airstrip in the middle of a cow pasture. Tim met us at the airport, such as it was, in his “country squire” wagon, and we drove to his house at Connaught Square, in the village of St. Anne’s.

  The island was simply magical, a mile and a half wide by three miles long, with tall cliffs at one end; heather, gorse bushes, cobblestone streets, and gaily painted stone cottages; and a sweet harbor and lighthouse down on the flat end. From almost every vantage point, one could see the sea.

  Because of its strategic location in the English Channel, it had been heavily fortified over the centuries with Roman, Georgian, Victorian, and finally German structures—forts, gunneries, bunkers, lookouts—as well as being honeycombed with tunnels and storage vaults. Most of the latter were now being gradually reclaimed by nature, grown over with wild blackberries, nettles, grasses, and thistle.

  Tim was indeed a recluse. Born Terence Hanbury White in Bombay, India, in 1906, he had moved to England with his parents at the age of five. He had been a teacher and head of the department of English at the famous boarding school, Stowe, in Buckinghamshire. After several years there, he retired and lived in a small cottage on the school estate to pursue his writing, and the falconry he loved. It was there that he wrote the first volume of his magnificent work, The Once and Future King. He lived in Ireland for a while, but in 1945, he moved to Alderney.

  Tim’s house was actually two stone cottages made into one, with a small rocky garden and a swimming pool in the back. He told us that because a “great star” was coming to stay with him (me!), he had put his house in order. It was freshly whitewashed, and he had completely redecorated in a sort of mini-Versailles style. There were twinkling plastic chandeliers and wall sconces, new fixtures, throw rugs, and laundry baskets. He was very proud of his decorating skills.

  When we went down to the kitchen on the first morning to make a cup of tea, we found everything painted a fire-engine red, including the fixtures and fittings. The cupboards were filled with sticky spice jars in horrible condition, grubby tins, sauces, and greasy packets of this and that. Piles of old manuscripts were stored in his oven and stacked under the overhead grill, and the dilapidated fridge was bare. I immediately set about cleaning everything, and threw out as much dated food as I dared. Tim obviously never used his kitchen.

  We learned that he was taken care of by a woman called Maisie Allen and her husband, Archie, who was in charge of the waterworks on the island. They lived in an old house on Victoria Street, the narrow cobbled road that ran through the village. Poor Archie had a rigid neck and had to turn his entire body left or right to look at anything. Maisie was a warm soul, sensible and honest as they come. She tolerated Tim’s occasional verbal abuse, put up with his moods, and I suspect, like all of us, was bewitched by this wonderful author. He would go down to the Allens’ for lunch every day, so all he had to do was make a pot of burned coffee for himself in the morning.

  Tim seemed very fond of me, and he was amazingly perceptive. I had a habit of boosting my own morale, albeit in a humorous way. After completing a chore, I was inclined to state, “I think I did that rather well, don’t you?” He quickly cottoned on.

  “Let’s pay Julie a compliment before she pays herself one,” he’d say with a teasing smile, or “Let’s tell Julie she’s pretty today…pretty Julie!”

  He had a big, floppy red setter dog named Jenny (after Guenevere) whom he adored, and she was extremely pregnant. When she finally whelped, Tim said, “We’ll leave Julie alone with Jenny because she needs to see this. She’ll be having a baby of her own one day.” I watched Jenny give birth to ten beautiful puppies. Tim found a home for every one of them.

  He seemed to love having us for company. He delighted in showing us his world, driving us everywhere, stomping across fields and along the beautiful beaches. He showed us the thirteen forts and castles—one of them of Roman origin—built at strategic places on the island, some restored and privately owned, others in ruins. We explored the German gun emplacements left after the Nazi occupation during World War II. We climbed down a precipitous cliff to a rocky beach called Telegraph Bay.

  Tim had huge mood swings. On a good day, he was the best companion you could ever ask for. Anything you wanted to know, Tim was the one to tell you. He knew everything about the universe: the stars, nature, fishing, sailing, geology, history. He was Merlin: wise, thoughtful, caring, dear.

  But there were black days, when he was appallingly rude to people. And when he was drunk, it was best to leave him alone. There is a legendary story that some people knocked at his door late one stormy evening.

  “We are collecting for Jehovah’s Witnesses,” they said, timidly holding out a tin cup.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place!” Tim declared, grabbing the cup. “I am Jehovah!” And he shut the door in their faces.

  One day, Tony deliberately and provocatively asked Tim why he hadn’t written anything since The Once and Future King.

  “Of course I’ve written!” he snapped. He stomped off and sulked in his room for the rest of the day.

  The following morning he came into our room, his large velour dressing gown flapping around him, and threw long, thin ledgers onto the bed.

  “You think I haven’t been writing?” he sneered. “Read those!” Then he disappeared again.

  Tony and I pored over the pages all day and way into the night. They were a treatment of Tristan and Isolde, an outline for a huge novel, which, alas, he never completed. It was riveting stuff—all his notes, the details in the margins.

  Another time he was in his room far too long, sodden with depression. We kept calling, “Tim, are you coming down?” “Tim would you like something to eat or drink?” No response. Being new friends, we were not sure what to do.

  Tony found some Dylan Thomas poems recorded by the author, so he put “Do not go gentle into that good night” on the old phonograph and tur
ned the volume up very loud. After the poem was over, there was a long silence. Then Tim’s choked voice bellowed, “PUT IT ON AGAIN!” Tony played it again—and again—and eventually Tim came downstairs.

  I believe Tim may have been an unfulfilled homosexual, and he suffered a lot because of it. He drank a great deal—mostly Pernod, especially in the winter—but was sober all summer, and there was a reason for that. There was a young man whom he adored, and he talked to us about him endlessly. His parents allowed him to visit Tim every summer, and Tim lived for those times, teaching the boy how to fish, swim, sail, hawk, what to read. I do not think the relationship was ever consummated, but the lad’s parents became worried and he was eventually forbidden to see Tim. It broke Tim’s heart and made him very bitter.

  OUR VISIT CAME to an end and Tim drove us back to the little airport. On the road, we passed three small white semidetached cottages. A “For Sale” sign hung in one of the windows.

  “There you are, Tone!” I pointed at it. “That’s what we should do. We should buy that cottage and then we can come back whenever we want.”

  As we arrived at our apartment in London, the phone was ringing. It was Tim. “You know that house you saw?” he said. “Well I bought it. Do you want it?” I was stunned. “It’s all right, you don’t have to have it,” he added quickly. “I can sell it in an instant.”

  “Tim…I’ll get right back to you,” I stammered. Tony and I conferred excitedly, and then I called Charlie Tucker. The price was £2500. Charlie said, “You can’t afford it.” But Tim had made this kind effort, and I couldn’t believe that we wouldn’t get a loan from the bank. Very grudgingly, Charlie allowed it. I think he thought us completely mad and irresponsible. We pooled what little savings we had, and “Patmos,” as the cottage was called, became ours.

  It transpired that Tim hadn’t bought the house at all! Wily fellow that he was, he had merely told the seller that he thought he had a customer. Patmos became our tiny second home, and we adored it. It was a lucky purchase, for so many happy things came about as a result of it: holidays that the entire family and friends enjoyed; the purchase in Alderney by Ma and Pa Walton of their retirement cottage (not that Dad Walton ever truly retired); and my sister Celia met her first husband in Alderney. Tony and I had the place for many years, and eventually deeded Patmos to our daughter, Emma, on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday. Now so many of the grandchildren enjoy the island.

  Earlier that year, knowing that I would be traveling a great deal, we placed Shy in our vet’s superb kennels in Kent. We decided that, to keep her occupied, we would breed her. She gave birth to five adorable puppies and we gave one of them to Svetlana and Sudi. They named him Khalu, and he became their cherished companion for many years.

  THAT SUMMER, WE spent two weeks in Juan les Pins with the Waltons. Mum and Dad W. rented an apartment on the promenade with easy access to the beach. Tony and I had a lovely, lazy time with them, swimming, sunbathing, shopping, and taking leisurely dinners in the evening at the local restaurants.

  After they departed, we stayed on in the South of France, joining Svetlana and Sudi in Monaco and spending the next two weeks at the glorious Old Beach Hotel out on the peninsula. Our circular room was right above the rocks overlooking the Mediterranean, so the sound of the surf was constant and heavenly. We took breakfast in our room and made tea in glasses with one of those filaments that heats the water. One exploded in the bathroom one day, and I hurriedly cleaned up before the hotel staff got wind of it.

  Svetlana went to the marketplace every day, which was quite a long walk. She knew Monaco well, because her father had been ballet master there for many years. Occasionally we all went to the market with her and watched her pick out cheeses, fruits, salamis, long baguettes, wine, and flowers. Every item was carefully selected by her, handled, smelled, tasted. We would go down on the beach and stuff ourselves with our delicious picnic lunch, and follow that with a good siesta. We were compatible friends, and there was not a moment’s discomfort between us.

  Svetlana took at least two classes a week at the excellent local ballet school. I was amazed at her discipline. She said she simply had to do it or she suffered later.

  I slept and sunbathed to my heart’s content. I lay on the beach and got a lovely tan. Stretching out on my stomach, I would undo the back of my bikini top to avoid strap marks, and one day, having fallen fast asleep, I was completely doused by a wave from the incoming tide which was chillingly cold on my warm back. I shot up with a scream, only to realize that my top was still lying on the ground.

  It was a glorious holiday, and I feel sure that the relaxed, carefree summer was one of the reasons I never missed a performance during the eighteen months I was in Camelot.

  FORTY-FOUR

  JUST BEFORE DEPARTING for New York, I drove down to Ockley to spend a day with Dad, Win, Johnny, and Shad. It was a Sunday, and Dad was playing cricket for the home team. He was passionate about the game and played every weekend that he could. He often said how much he wished I would come and see a match.

  The family sat on the grass under a tree, Leith Hill in the distance providing a perfect backdrop for the village green and its smooth-as-velvet cricket pitch. We lazed and chatted and watched the game progress, the afternoon heat, the click of the ball, the occasional cry making one inclined to nod off. But when Dad came out of the pavilion and walked onto the pitch, we all perked up. He looked dashing in his whites, and I am sure he was acutely aware of our presence, and he must have hoped to play a respectable game. Indeed he did. The runs began to mount up: thirty—forty—would he make fifty? Johnny and I looked at each other; we were in an agony of expectation and nerves. Forty-eight, forty-nine—we held hands—and suddenly fifty runs were on the board. Good old Dad!

  We felt hugely relieved and happy. Clapping enthusiastically, we heard “Howzat?”, and at fifty-one, Dad was bowled out. But by then it didn’t matter. We piled into the pavilion for tea. Win was helping out that day, as she often did, her homemade cakes and cookies set out for all to enjoy.

  That evening, over drinks and dinner at the pub, it was sweet to watch Dad, a pint in his hand, flushed and rosy, chatting up the afternoon with us and his pals.

  The local garage owner, another cricket enthusiast, had promised every Ockley member who made fifty runs or more a half gallon of free petrol. Dad duly got his.

  It was one of those pastoral, English summer days, perfect in every way—and I will always remember it.

  TONY AND I departed for New York in late August. We traveled with Shy, and immediately moved into a sunny, furnished apartment overlooking the East River. It was very different from the dark little ground-floor flat we occupied during My Fair Lady, and the view of the river with tugs and cargo barges plowing up and down and the 59th Street Bridge close by was a soothing pleasure.

  My assistant, Alexa, was with us. She had her own room in the apartment, and she quickly got to work, finding us a young lady named Lilly Mae, who cooked and cleaned for us, and going on shopping blitzes, buying necessary bits and pieces for our comfort and a new typewriter for herself. Tony commandeered our small study and made it his work studio. I began costume fittings for Camelot.

  From day one, we kept up a steady stream of correspondence with Tim White, and he with us, and our letters were filled with enthusiasm for all that was happening concerning his wonderful book and its becoming a major Broadway musical.

  A fine cast had been assembled. Richard Burton, the charismatic theater and film actor, was King Arthur. Robert Goulet, a Canadian newcomer at the time, who had a magnificent baritone voice, was Lancelot. Robert Coote played the bumbling King Pellinore, and Roddy McDowall was the evil Mordred. Though his role was not large, Roddy had lobbied passionately for the part, and would brook no argument, wanting to come aboard for the joy of it and to be with chums. John Cullum, now a star in his own right, was a member of the chorus, and an actress called Mel Dowd played Morgan Le Fay. Once again, Hanya Holm was our ch
oreographer, Franz Allers our maestro, and Abe Feder our lighting designer. A lovely gentleman named Robert Downing was our stage manager, and Bernie Hart assisted him. I was among good friends.

  REHEARSALS BEGAN IN New York on September 3, 1960, and members of the company worked once again in the rooftop theater of the New Amsterdam on 42nd Street, while the principals rehearsed and blocked the show at the old 54th Street Theater.

  As with My Fair Lady, I superstitiously looked for omens as I drove to work that first day, and I spotted a couple, so it seemed all was in our favor. Good!

  Moss had kindly invited spouses and close friends of the principals to the reading, so including the sixty-odd members of the production, there was quite a crowd sitting in the audience.

  Oliver Smith’s luminous designs, which brilliantly evoked the illustrated manuscripts of the Middle Ages, were on display. Moss had asked Adrian, one of the most eminent names of Hollywood costume design, to conceive the wardrobe for the show. He was the first of several casualties suffered as the show progressed. He died from a heart attack before completing his work, but he had designed the bulk of it, and his original exquisite sketches were also on display. A devotee and assistant of his, Tony Duquette, was brought in to oversee the costumes and to design the remainder.