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by Julie Andrews

  We stayed once again at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and had a quiet, celebratory dinner there that first evening. The following day, we were driven to the Disney Studios in Burbank. Walt proudly hosted us. We had lunch in the Disney commissary, famous in those days for its good food. People were on the lawn playing table tennis; there were trees everywhere; the streets were neatly signposted.

  Walt had a grand office at one end of the animation building. On the walls of his inner sanctum, lacquered plaques told of his many films. There were awards everywhere, plus a huge board showing the grosses of every single movie he had ever made. It was mind-boggling to see the numbers.

  Walt was a workaholic, arriving at the studios around six A.M., long before anyone else. He’d roam the animation building, checking the designs on people’s desks to see what was being accomplished. Nothing could escape Walt’s eagle eye.

  The first day was all about meeting everyone, being shown the studio, seeing the storyboards of Mary Poppins. These were sketches of every scene in the movie, pinned around the office walls, so we were able to get a very clear idea of what Walt had in mind for this production.

  The next day, a Saturday, Walt took us to the races. He was an investor in the Hollywood Park racetrack, and he invited Tony and me to join him and his diminutive wife, Lillian, in his private box. We could not have been more spoiled.

  We were informed that there was a horse running that day called “Little Walt.” Because he had just been blessed with a new grandson who had been named after him, Walt put a lot of money on this horse, a rank outsider. Tony and I didn’t have much between us, but thought we ought to appear willing, so we put everything we had on it, crossed our fingers, and prayed. Amazingly, the horse romped home and we all made a bundle!

  Sunday was Mother’s Day, and Walt took us to Disneyland, which had been attracting massive crowds since it opened, and was flourishing.

  Seeing Disneyland for the first time is a riveting experience, but seeing it with Walt Disney as your guide was nothing less than extraordinary. He and Lillian had their own private apartment overlooking the town square of Main Street. It was a tiny replica of a Victorian residence, with a bedroom, kitchen, and offices, all in perfect scale, the furniture in proportion, pretty fringed velvet lamps strategically placed throughout. Apparently Lillian had wanted it that way, and Walt had humored her. Occasionally, for a special function or gala evening, they would gather with the family there, or perhaps even stay overnight in the early days. Nobody else ever used it. It was the Disneys’ private hideaway.

  Walt took us on a tour of the park in his golf cart. People recognized him, and waved or ran up to touch his sleeve. “God bless you, Walt!” or “We love you, Walt!” they cried. He had the kind of celebrity that rock groups now have. I suppose his is one of the most famous and beloved names in the world. Has anyone, anywhere, not heard of Disney?

  Walt took us on almost every attraction, including Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a submarine ride which was quite phenomenal. It closed in 1998, but happily re-opened in 2007, and was renamed Finding Nemo. We drove through Tomorrowland and Fantasyland. We went on the Jungle Boat Cruise and into the Tiki Room. We ate a great lunch in a private restaurant called “Club 33,” which was for special clients and friends. Then Walt escorted us to his newest creation, the Swiss Family Robinson Tree House.

  It was huge and completely man-made. Walt proudly told us how many leaves and blossoms it had. Children were scrambling all over it, climbing ladders, crossing bridges, and exploring the many little rooms.

  With a twinkle in his eye, Walt said, “…and they say only God can make a tree!”

  Later, we were invited back to the Disneys’ home, where Walt had a miniature steam train in the garden for his children and grandchildren. It was amazing to see the tiny railway line weaving in and out of the flower beds and to hear the shriek of the little engine, which Walt rode with enthusiasm. He always exhibited the delight of a child.

  The day after Disneyland, we returned to the studios and listened to all the terrific songs for Mary Poppins, written by the Sherman brothers, Robert and Richard. The latter played the piano enthusiastically. I recognized in the songs a kind of “rum-ti-tum” vaudeville quality, and, in a flash, the value of my early years in music hall fell into place.

  “Oh! I think I might know how to do this!” I thought. I suddenly realized that all the endless touring and hard work had not been wasted after all.

  Concerning his request that Tony bring his portfolio to Hollywood, Walt took one look at his work and signed him on the spot, commissioning him to design the film sets for Cherry Tree Lane and the interior of the Banks household, plus all the costumes, for which Tony ultimately received an Oscar nomination.

  Walt had an infallible gift for spotting talent in people. I should add the word “decency” as well. Down to the lowliest go-fer in his vast organization, I never met one soul who wasn’t kind, enthusiastic, and generous. The Disney aura touched everyone on the studio lot in those days, and anyone who didn’t have these qualities didn’t last long.

  It was very easy to gasp a grateful thank-you to Walt and to accept his invitation to be in the film.

  FORTY-NINE

  AT THE END of May, we flew home to London. Alexa had left the U.S. the previous autumn. She had taken Shy with her, depositing her at our English vet’s country home to serve out her quarantine and to be mated once again. Three weeks after we returned to Britain, we departed for Alderney, and spent a grand and glorious summer there in our little cottage. Though we had owned it for over a year, we hadn’t yet claimed it as our own, and it seemed the perfect place to enjoy the days of my pregnancy.

  From time to time, I popped back over to the mainland for checkups with my obstetrician, and to interview prospective nannies, but for the most part we spent the next two months cleaning, painting, buying furniture and necessaries, and generally playing house on the island.

  Because Alderney is so small, it does not have many trees, and there is often a biting wind that cuts like a knife. If you survive the first three days there, you end up feeling fresh, cleansed, and rudely healthy. I never felt better—and I loved being pregnant.

  My dad had been over to the island prior to our arrival, and he had supervised on our behalf the painting throughout of our tiny cottage, and had done a few extra things, like putting up towel rails and making sure the lights worked and the beds didn’t collapse when we used them.

  Our first day there we shopped for a mass of food items, bath mats, Kleenex, toilet paper, paraffin, aprons, tins for storage, clothes hangers, and shelf paper. I cooked brunch for Tim and Tony—eggs and bacon, tomatoes and toast. Even though we hadn’t unpacked, we took a quick drive around the island with Tim and his ever-present and rambunctious red setter, Jenny. In contrast, our little Shy was a model of good behavior. We stopped to admire the stone arch that Tim had built in my honor next to the little outdoor stage in his garden. He said it was a Roman triumphal arch, and in the cement, at the top of the curve, were the words, “DIVA IULIA.”

  We returned to our fresh, clean cottage to discover that the propane gas wasn’t working properly. The men fiddled with it, and I kept fearing they were going to blow us up. I panicked at the thought of the roast lamb I was planning to cook on Sunday. Having never cooked one before, I figured that in our tiny and ancient oven, it was going to need about nine hours’ cooking time, which almost turned out to be the case.

  Alderney was quaint, and seemed untouched by the passage of time. The milkman still delivered foaming, creamy milk in an old tin churn every morning. If we wanted more, we just left him a note. We had no phone, so we had to use Tim’s or the airport’s to make any calls. The weekly supply boat was often delayed by fog or rough seas, which resulted in produce sometimes being hard to come by. And that summer, there was a drought on the island, so the water was switched off every night between 10:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M. None of this bothered us at all.

  T
he Royal Engineers were visiting, building a slipway in the harbor, putting up radar, repairing broken steps. Their brass band played in Connaught Square each afternoon outside Tim’s house, and the islanders, especially the children, loved to come and watch. The engineers played appallingly, and offered excruciating arrangements of Cole Porter, Gershwin, and Irving Berlin. One day, they played a selection from My Fair Lady. It was hilarious, and so incongruous to hear the music on that tiny island, so far from Broadway. I thought I should write Alan to say, “Now, that’s real fame!”

  We rented a tiny car, a Morris Minor. Tony did not drive, since during his stint in the Royal Air Force, a memo had been issued, stating, “This man is not equipped with a proper sense of danger,” and he had been deemed too “absentminded and reckless” to operate a moving vehicle. I therefore chauffeured us all over the island, across the fields and up the steep cliffs, bouncing along dirt roads and doing three-and four-point turns on the hairpin bends. Once, I got stuck in the mud and had to be towed out.

  Tony and I sunbathed on quiet beaches. I exposed my enlarging belly to the skies, hoping that our baby would somehow benefit from the air and sun. My upper torso was now sporting “une belle poitrine,” and I had the bra size I’d always longed for.

  Tony had been commissioned to design two book jackets. He commandeered our small dining table, and the pile of papers and sketches began to spread across the entire room. In spare moments, we read J. D. Salinger, made papier coupés, and wrote ridiculous limericks.

  Tim was expecting company, and when it came to preparation, he always left things until the last minute. He stomped about rather sulkily, wondering who was going to put him in good order. I don’t know where kind Maisie was, but, armed with a pair of rubber gloves, and wearing one of my new aprons, I marched down the lane to his house and swept, dusted, polished, and cleaned his tiny kitchen and downstairs bathroom. Everything was hopelessly dusty.

  We, too, had a constant stream of visitors—Dad, Win, Johnny, Celia, Mum, Auntie, Donald and Chris, all the Waltons, my old chum Sue Barker, and Sudi, to mention just a few. The latter was hilarious, shooting endless photographs and cine film to share with Svetlana, who was working in London. His voice boomed up and down the high street as he shopped in every store, apologizing to everyone he inconvenienced. Showing him our island, we had to stop every few seconds for photo opportunities, Sudi calling, “Julis! Please get out of the car! Make a pretty picture—talk to me—hallo! Wave! That’s it!” Stephen Sondheim came for a brief weekend, and we had great fun together. I worried that perhaps Alderney was too bare, too cold and wet for him, but he declared that it suited his brooding personality very well, and that he couldn’t be happier.

  In August, when Dad came, we joined in the celebrations of Alderney Week, and went down to the village to watch the three-legged race and the quoits competition.

  The summer flew by. Tim began drinking again, and was occasionally irrational and verbally abusive. One evening, he took Tony and me to dinner at a fancy restaurant on the island. Dressed appallingly, he insisted on having Jenny in the “No Dogs Allowed” dining room, whereas we had left Shy in his car. He was so rude to the waiter and in such a foul temper that I finally called him on it. He stomped off in a huff before dessert, driving away, leaving little Shy to run around the parking lot, and us to foot the bill and get a cab.

  Tony was always more than ready to forgive his transgressions, but I felt that this time Tim had gone too far. He was irritating, thoughtless, behaving like a spoiled child. I was pretty far along in my pregnancy, and not inclined to be tolerant. I pulled back from Tim for the rest of the holiday, and I regret it deeply, for though we patched it up, it was never quite the same again.

  Tony and I traveled back to England. We enrolled in National Childbirth Trust classes, and I studied the Lamaze technique of childbirth. Tony learned what was expected of him on the big day. We hired a very qualified baby nurse, a New Zealander named Vel McConnell, to help me with the baby for the first few weeks. We purchased baby clothes and bedding. My mother bought a beautiful, classic pram and gave it to us. Tony moved his mess of designs out of our little guest bedroom, and stuffed them all over the small apartment, under our bed, behind the curtains. We made a nursery of the guest room, with a bed for the nanny and a pretty crib for the baby.

  We spent some lovely evenings with Svetlana and Sudi, going to their apartment in Hans Crescent to socialize, since there was no room in ours. Our friend, the photographer Zoë Dominic, was there often, as was Rudolf Nureyev, newly arrived in England and now the toast of London. One evening, he sported a huge Russian overcoat and I climbed into the sleeves with him. Zoë snapped a photo of us both, snuggled together inside.

  Sudi gave me D. W. Winnicott’s wonderful book on pregnancy, childbirth, and the first stages of infancy. It was all about trusting one’s instincts. I pored over it, took comfort from it, and shared some of it with Tony. I read Dr. Spock cover to cover, as well.

  I was becoming a little nervous, eating too much, and feeling heavy and unpretty. I went to Harrods, and though I only had a couple of weeks before my due date and my old clothes would soon be in use again (the larger ones, anyway), I purchased a lovely, burnt orange silk shantung maternity dress, which helped boost my morale.

  Four weeks passed and there was still no sign that our baby was ready to come into the world. I went into the London Clinic and the baby was induced. Tony sat on the bed, and rubbed my back during my labor, and I railed at him for bouncing about too much.

  I did not know until later that Svetlana had come to the hospital and had kept vigil in the hall all evening. She refused to come in lest she disturb me. As I was being wheeled to the delivery room, I sensed her presence beside me for a moment, and heard her soft voice, whispering, “Good luck, Julis.” I was deeply touched that she was there.

  Emma Katherine Walton was born a few minutes before 1:00 A.M., on Tuesday November 27, 1962.

  The next morning, as I was recuperating in my hospital room, the phone rang. Thinking it would be a family member, I somewhat groggily picked it up. A voice at the other end of the line said, “Hello? This is P. L. Travers.”

  “Oh, hello, Miss Travers!” I stammered, gathering my wits as best I could. “How nice of you to call…”

  “Well, talk to me!” she said brusquely.

  “Oh—well—I’ve just had a baby and I’m feeling a bit exhausted…”

  “Yes, yes,” she interrupted, “but you’re going to be playing Mary Poppins?”

  “Yes, Miss Travers.”

  “Well, you’re much too pretty, of course. But you’ve got the nose for it!”

  Later, we met in person when I went to tea with her, and once Tony and I had settled in Los Angeles, we corresponded, because she wanted to be kept in the loop. She became a bit of a thorn in Disney’s side, and Walt had to ultimately tell her, rather firmly, that she didn’t have the right to dictate how he should make a film. Apparently she was not that thrilled with the movie, but it became a huge annuity for her.

  Three days after Emma was born, Tony had to leave for America to prepare for his work on Poppins. Sudi happened to visit me just after he departed, and found me weeping copiously.

  “Oh, my dear Julis,” he kept saying, “You have the baby blues. Poor Julie-gee!”

  “But he’s gone,” I sobbed, feeling utterly abandoned, and with the responsibility of a new baby and no idea how to take care of her weighing heavily upon me.

  Emma and I stayed in the clinic for two weeks (one did, in those days). We bonded quickly, and, as I nursed her, the wonder of motherhood flooded over me. Her birth coincided with a monstrous smog that blacked out London and killed many elderly people. The clinic closed its doors and insulated the windows, but still the yellow crud seeped and curled into the room. I feared our lovely daughter would suffer dreadful complications; she never did, and it was the last pea souper that London ever had.

  Tony and I were late deciding our baby’s
name. I had Sarah, Joanna, Emily, Emma, and Susan on our list for girls. An Irish nurse brought her to me from the nursery one evening, crooning, “Come along, Emma, it’s time for your feed.”

  “How do you know she’s an Emma?” I asked in surprise.

  “Well, the newspapers printed the list, didn’t they? I’ve always called her Emma.”

  So Emma she was—and it suited her.

  My mother came to visit, and Auntie, Dad, Win—even some of the great aunts came up to London to peek at the new arrival. It was a sweet time, with so much love spread around. Charlie Tucker visited. Alan and other friends from America sent telegrams and cards. Carol Burnett became Emma’s godmother, Svetlana also; Lou Wilson, her godfather.

  Tony phoned me every day while he was in Hollywood, and he returned home two days after we moved back from the hospital to our little flat in Eaton Square.

  Vel McConnell, the baby nurse, was the greatest help, and I was so grateful to her. She looked a bit Mary Poppins–ish herself, thin and tall, with dark hair. She stayed two weeks with us, and when she left, I was nervous coping with Emma all by myself.

  Tony and I would stand in the nursery by Emma’s crib as she slept, and we’d do the classic new parent thing of checking to make sure she was still breathing. I managed to take her out for daily walks in the huge pram, which was ridiculously difficult to get up and down the two flights of stairs to our apartment, and I would sit with her in the winter sun in the little park in Eaton Square.

  Just before Christmas, Emma and I had our first photo session together with Zoë. Who could possibly have guessed then that one of those photos would end up, forty-something years later, gracing the cover of a little book Emma and I wrote together?

  We hired a sweet young nanny from Alderney named Wendy, whose parents ran one of the local hotels. Our apartment soon began to feel far too small. I remember being in the only bathroom, which I now shared with Tony, Emma, and Wendy. On the bathtub was a plastic V-shaped laundry stand, with all Emma’s clothes hanging on it. Under the washbasin was a huge diaper pail (no disposables in those days!). In the foyer was the enormous pram, and of course, Tony’s artwork continued to spread everywhere.