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D
URING THE RUN
of
Starlight Roof
, Aunt Joan became pregnant. Being a dancer, she had always had a lovely slim figure. Throughout her pregnancy, she remained trim, dressed prettily, and looked adorable.

I sensed that she wasn’t thrilled about being pregnant; but she may just have been extremely nervous. She continued to teach throughout her term.

Geoffrey Wilby was born on April 21, 1948. It was a traumatic and difficult delivery, and tragically, the little boy’s head was badly damaged by forceps. He died eight days later.

Our household went very quiet for a while. Auntie came home, distraught. My mother took care of her, and my brothers and I kept a respectful distance. Aunt went into a real decline, and it certainly didn’t help her marriage to Uncle Bill. I don’t believe Auntie ever tried to become pregnant again, and I know that many years later she still mourned the loss of her son.

My mother made a callous remark to me at one point, which was indicative of the love-hate relationship between the two sisters.

“Joan should never have had a child anyway,” she said. “She doesn’t have the hips for it.”

BECAUSE OF THE
County Council laws, I was only allowed to perform in
Starlight Roof
for one year, and that year flew by. On the day of my last performance, I was so choked with sadness, I could barely sing.
The company gathered at the side of the stage and applauded and cheered, and as I made my way back through the audience and went round backstage, they called words of encouragement.

“Well done, Julie!”

“We’ll miss you!”

I remember rushing past them in floods of tears and sobbing my heart out in my dressing room. I honestly thought that was the end of my career, the end of all the fun, and that I would never work again. I recognized, quite sensibly, that I might just be a flash in the pan. I’d sung the great song that I could sing; I’d done what I was asked to do. What on earth would there be out there for me ever again? I really thought, “That’s it. Now I have to get on with life and be just an ordinary girl.”

MY MOTHER FORBADE
me to open any of my fan mail. While I was in the show, the stage doorman would give me a package of whatever letters came for me, and I would take them home to her. Mum worried that disturbed people might write to me and say inappropriate things. She also wouldn’t ever let me talk about my salary, saying, “One does not talk about how much money one earns, nor does one
ever
ask other people.” I was simply told that money was being put into an account for me, though I’m pretty sure that it was also being used to help with the family expenses. I got a weekly allowance of two shillings and sixpence, and once I really started working continuously, it was raised to one pound.

A week or two after the show ended, I said to my mother, “Oh, Mum, here’s some mail that I forgot to give you—and a telegram.”

My mother opened it. “Oh my God!” she said, and clutched her chest.

It was an invitation—a command—to appear at the Royal Variety Show that year. It had been in my pocket for two weeks, and the deadline for answering was literally the next day.

This “Royal Command Performance” (as it is formally known) is a one-night, annual show that draws on the best talent in Britain and raises huge sums for charity. The Royal Family always attends, and it is a grand and glorious evening for all concerned, including the Royals. Danny Kaye was to top the bill, since he was performing at the London Palladium that year. I was to sing the “Polonaise,” with Melachrino’s
Starlight Orchestra, and to my delight, I was asked to lead the entire company in “God Save the King” at the finale.

FOR THE REHEARSAL
the day before, the only outfit I had that was clean and halfway decent was a blouse, jacket, and my riding jodhpurs.

I was asked to sit on Danny Kaye’s lap for publicity pictures. There I was in this odd attire, and while the flashbulbs popped, Danny Kaye said, “What are you going to be singing?”

“Oh, I don’t suppose you’d know it,” I replied modestly. “It’s an aria, the ‘Polonaise’ from
Mignon
.”

“Oh, you mean the one that goes like this?” He hummed it perfectly.

His Majesty, King George VI, was ill at the time of this command performance, so Queen Elizabeth attended without him. The young Princess Elizabeth and her soon-to-be husband, Prince Philip, were also in the royal box.

I treasure a photograph of that night, taken from the side of the theater. I am standing on the stage and the Queen, Princess Elizabeth, and Prince Philip are watching along with the audience. A sign to the right of the proscenium shows that I was ninth on the program. A press photographer sent it to me, and for years, it was stashed away, forgotten and creased. When I rediscovered it, I had a new appreciation for its significance, and had it repaired. It now hangs in my office.

MY MOTHER LOVED
to throw a good party. At least twice a year, Mum and Pop threw a huge bash at The Meuse, and throughout my teens these parties were undoubtedly the best in our little village.

The evenings began with Mum or Pop hosting at the bar. Once the guests had imbibed enough, the party moved into the big living room. The moment we all waited for was when Mum came in to play the piano. The carpet would have been rolled back, and she would gradually begin whipping up the intensity. I can still picture her, leaning into the piano, singing as well sometimes, her elbows wide for extra strength of sound, her skirt pulled above her knees. Her energy alone made the party shift gear and come alive. Those crimson stuccoed walls became sweaty, the dampness running down the stippled shiny paint. I remember the brown
baseboards, the dark floors, the bright floral curtains at the leaded bay window, the dim light, the candles.

Auntie helped, too, pulling some of her pupils into the dance. We mostly wanted to jitterbug of course. Tappets was the best dancer, and as he got into the action, drops of perspiration would fly off him in all directions. Sue Barker and her parents attended, as did Trisha Waters, and anybody who was current in my parents’ life theatrically. Uncle Bill was always gallant and would asked me for a dance.

Pop would eventually sing. Guests would sit on the floor around the room, and he would stand by the piano with Mum accompanying him. Sometimes he sang wonderfully, other times he’d been drinking—and since he didn’t practice much, he was short of breath. Even then I’d think to myself, “What a waste of a good voice.”

I was always asked to sing as well, though I never liked to do so. I didn’t mind an audience in the theater, a distance away, behind spotlights, but with my friends being so close and looking into my face, I always felt shy and uncomfortable. I did it mostly for Gladys Barker, who was genuinely appreciative. I think she knew that it cost me a lot to do it with good grace.

Once the party settled in, and the diffident few had left, the fun really began. There were quiet lulls for eating, usually things like baked potatoes, maybe some stew. I remember pink blancmange and cups of tea. Mum would have a drink, usually scotch. People would chat and smoke, then it would start all over again.

Suddenly in the midst of it all, Mum, still playing the piano, would call out, “Julia! Go to bed!” as if she’d been remiss and I’d been naughty to take advantage by staying up so late. I would hang around as long as I could, and I doubt she really minded, but perhaps she thought it sounded appropriate to others.

The parties lasted well into the night. People crashed on couches, and later in the morning, amid the smell of beer and alcohol and cigarettes, there’d be bacon and eggs for the stragglers. The kitchen would be a complete mess, and the cleanup took forever.

My mother decided that my thirteenth birthday was a good excuse
for a party. She was adept at running up simple dresses for me on her trusty sewing machine, usually strips of gathered material, hemmed in tiers for the skirt. They always looked pretty and were cheap to make. For this party, she made me an evening gown out of pink cotton, shirred at the bodice. She finished it the night before the party.

We had recently acquired a dog, a little corgi. His pedigree name was “Whisper of Whey,” but Auntie, with her flair for naming everything, said, “Let’s call him ‘Hush.’” Unfortunately, Hush was teased a lot by my brothers, who were too young to know any better, and as a result he was rather manic and snapped at people.

The morning of the big party, Hush saw the dress hanging on the kitchen door, jumped up, grabbed the hem, and shredded it. I was devastated, but Mum, bless her, went back to her sewing machine and managed to fix it just in time.

“These things are sent to test us,” she said, an expression she often used when life’s little problems threatened to overwhelm.

Came the evening and my mother was tearing around downstairs making sure that everything was ready, and I was sitting at the dressing table in my room, carefully applying a little makeup, with my dress laid out on the bed.

I clearly remember thinking to myself, “At this moment, I am as free as I am ever going to be.”

I knew somehow that I was still innocent, unfettered in any way. I was young enough that my parents were managing my career; I had no taxes to pay, no big responsibilities. I could see my mother’s problems, I could see my stepfather’s problems, I wasn’t yet cluttered by the obligations of being a grown-up. I knew that boys and all the mess of being adult would soon attack me, and I felt quite distinctly that this was probably the last moment in my life that would be relatively unpressured.

Mum had dressed my hair, pulling it straight back with a ribbon in a ponytail—and I thought it looked a bit severe.

But as I came down the stairs, my mother glanced up and stopped whatever she was doing to stare at me for a moment.

“Well, Julia,” she said. “You just might turn out to be quite pretty one day.”

I said to her, “I feel that I’m wiser now than I ever will be when I’m older.”

“And
that
is a very smart remark,” she replied.

A
FEW WEEKS
after I finished performing in
Starlight Roof
, my parents received an offer for me to be in the pantomime of
Humpty Dumpty
at a theater called the London Casino, and to play the egg itself. Miracle of miracles—another job!

English pantomimes are seasonal Christmas extravaganzas—mostly for children, though adults join in the fun—and they are nearly always based on the great fairy tales: “Cinderella,” “Red Riding Hood,” “Aladdin,” “Jack and the Beanstalk,” “Mother Goose,” “Dick Whittington.” If a story is produced in London one year, it goes out to the provinces the next, probably with the same sets, which have been whittled down to accommodate the new venue.

Humpty Dumpty
was written, produced, and directed by Emile Littler. Emile and Prince Littler were impresario brothers who became the most powerful figures in the West End and the provinces, with a virtual monopoly on producing musicals and pantomimes throughout the country. Prince was by far the better known, having become chairman of Moss Empires in 1947, which encompassed the biggest theater circuit in England. If one booked a Moss Empires tour, it was considered an “A” tour.

Pantomimes are not mimed shows, as the word might imply. Far from it. In my youth, pantomimes did not have songs written especially for them as they do now, although they were musical in content. Popular songs of the day were incorporated into the old stories, so the scripts often sounded quite ridiculous. The Prince might say to the Princess,
for example, “Oh, dear Princess, I love you so much that…(key note on the piano)…I want to take you on a
slow boat to Chi-na…
”

The tradition of pantomime is that there is always a principal girl and a principal boy to play the serious leads. In those days, the principal boy was always played by a woman, and his/her costumes were always designed to show off his/her best features. In the case of
Humpty Dumpty
, our principal boy was Pat Kirkwood, who had great legs, and she played the role of “Prince Rupert, of Truly Rural.”

The men had all the comedic roles. The mother, or the postmistress, for example, was played by a man in drag. There was always a comedy slapstick scene, usually a kitchen scene, with hilarious misunderstandings and pies flying in all directions, or a laundry washroom scene with suds everywhere. With plenty of glamorous production, there was usually a glorious ballet to close the first half, and of course a wedding or a happily ever after scene at the end.

Every comedian who worked in a “panto,” whether playing a henchman or a silly farmer or whatever, would contribute his usual shtick to the show. Depending on what his forte was, his material was simply inserted into the script, so the whole story would come to a halt for a sketch or something as ridiculous as an army drill that was all messed up. Somehow the result was a wonderful, odd conglomeration: a hodgepodge of popular songs, comedy, craziness, and fun.

Vic Oliver played “King Yolk of Eggville” in
Humpty Dumpty
, and a wonderful comedian called Richard Hearne, popularly known as “Mr. Pastry”—an adorable, bumbling television character beloved by children—played “Agatha Applepip, the Postmistress of Moth-Hole Village.”

REHEARSALS BEGAN AT
the London Casino itself. At lunch break that first day, Charlie Tucker took my mother and me to an upscale restaurant called Isolabella, not far from the theater. It was a restaurant he often visited, and as a result we received the most immaculate service.

On subsequent days, however, I was not escorted. I traveled to London and went through the rehearsal process alone. I had been given pocket money to get something to eat for myself, so on the second or
third day I brightly decided to go back to the Isolabella, which seemed safe.

When I asked for a table, the maitre d’ looked me and up and down and said, “Are you alone?”

“Well, yes, I am. I was here the other day…”

He seated me reluctantly. I looked at the menu and suddenly realized how much everything cost. I ordered a very simple salad and sat there feeling painfully embarrassed. From then on I sat in the lobby of the theater at the lunch hour, eating sandwiches I brought from home.

Compared to the relative elegance of
Starlight Roof
(and even other pantomimes),
Humpty Dumpty
was an oddity. The cast included characters named Tiddley-Winks, Penelope the Horse, and…the Wuffem-poof! The latter was a long, blue, feathered piece of material. Pantomimes feature a great deal of audience participation, and in this case the patrons were told that if they ever saw the Wuffem-poof, they should shout a warning. The Wuffem-poof would show up in any scene, working its way across the set or appearing over the proscenium on the wall behind someone’s head. The audience, especially the children, would go crazy—yelling, “Look out, it’s
behind
you!” (Most pantos feature similar games, and “It’s behind you!” is a stock phrase associated with the genre to this day.)

My first entrance in the show was accompanied by great flashes of lightning and a blackout. The big, prop egg on the wall toppled backward and I, lying on my back in a second, cracked egg backstage, would be thrust upright and through a hidden door in the wall during the blackout to be revealed, sitting cross-legged and surprised, at the foot of it.

I was dressed as a boy, with shorts, suspenders, and a jacket. I don’t remember much about my role, but at some point in the show I sang an obligatory song, “I Heard a Robin Singing,” which had nothing whatsoever to do with the story. Fortunately, once again, I received a lovely ovation from the audience on opening night, and the following morning the headlines of one review stated: “Young Julie Andrews as usual stole the show.”

I spent a good deal of time traveling back and forth to the theater. Oddly, I do not recall the presence of a regular chaperone, though there
must have been one. I do remember sitting on the train all by myself, frequently with orange pancake makeup all over my legs. They were normally pale and skinny, and you could have bowled a hoop through them. My self-description at the time was “boss-eyed, buck-toothed, and bandy.” It had been suggested that I paint my legs to give a healthier effect for the show. I would apply the color in the evening, and be so tired when I got home that I wouldn’t bother to wash it off. If we had a matinee the next day, which we often did, it really didn’t seem worth taking a bath to remove it, since it would be going on again so soon—so I’d go back up on the train with the makeup, rather streaky now, still on my legs! God knows what the state of my sheets was in those days, but I do remember getting some odd looks on the train.

At one point during the run of the show, I came down with the mumps. I kept telling my mother that my glands felt a bit swollen, but by the time I had been diagnosed, I was already past the infectious stage. Mum said, “Don’t you dare tell
anyone
about this!”

CHRISTMAS THAT YEAR
was memorable. Donald received a toy trumpet from Santa in his stocking. The blasts of sound began at about 5:30
A.M
., and continued until breakfast, by which time the family was ready to throttle him. Mid-morning, after the main presents had been given, I innocently said, “I don’t know why, but it just
doesn’t
seem like Christmas this year.” My mother gave me such a glare that I quickly shut up.

She had a tradition at Christmas that I continue to this day. Having two young sons who barely looked at one gift before pouncing on another, she wisely saved one small gift each for the evening. She called them “tree gifts,” and each member of the family was given a little parcel which had been hidden in the branches of our Christmas tree. It was a great way to extend the festivities and to gather the family one last time. If we were lucky, there was a pleasant sense of unity. We had hot drinks and snacks by the fire, and were then bundled off to our respective beds, happy and content.

ONE EVENING, DURING
a performance of
Humpty Dumpty
, I happened to notice three extremely rowdy teenage boys in the front row.
They were restless, nudging each other and roaring with laughter, having a terrific night out.

I remember thinking, “Ugh,
boys
!”

Later, as I was traveling home, the same lads suddenly appeared at the door of my train compartment.

“We just saw you in
Humpty Dumpty
!” one of them said.

I recognized them instantly.

“Oh, yes. I remember you sitting in the front row,” I said, somewhat pointedly.

They were still giggling and being silly, and I couldn’t wait to get rid of them—but to my surprise, they, too, got off at Walton-on-Thames station. As we clattered down the iron staircase, one of the boys said, “You live in Walton, too? Where do you live?”

Doing some quick thinking, I sagely replied, “Oh, the other side of the bridge,” and left it at that. I dashed to Mum, waiting in the car, and thought, “Well, I’ve got rid of
them
!”

The next morning there was a knock at the door of The Meuse.

“There are two boys here. They want to talk to you,” Mum said, intrigued.

Apparently the great adventure for the fellows had been to find all the Andrews families in the phone book that lived “on the other side of the bridge,” and they’d worked out which house might be mine and then come to supposedly ask for my autograph.

They turned out to be a pair of robust, good-natured brothers, by the name of Tony and Richard Walton. Richard was the youngest; Tony was a year older than I.

My mother, who had been hovering, asked where they went to school.

Tony said, “I go to Radley College,” which was a boarding school in Abingdon, Oxfordshire. Richard was preparing to enter Pangbourne Naval Academy. Both boys were home for the Christmas holidays.

A week later, my mother said to me, “You’ve received a charming letter from that boy who came to the door.” It was eight pages, on very small note paper.

“
I am one of the boys who came and visited you last Sunday. (The fattest
one, who was 14),”
Tony wrote.
“…It was grand fun coming to your house and talking to you, and I hope we did not keep you too long. I got your record on Monday, and I think it is ‘jolly dee!’…I am trying to write a sort of children’s book, it is all about a rabbit called Wiggin. I am doing it because I like drawing and painting…”
He included five or six pen-and-ink drawings of characters from the book, which were charming, and signed it “
Yours very thankfully, (i.e. Love from) Tony Walton
,” followed by a sweet caricature of Humpty Dumpty.

“This is enchanting,” my mother said. “He’s gone to so much trouble, I want you to answer it.”

“Oh gosh, Mummy!” I replied, somewhat aghast. “He’s just a
boy.
I don’t want to answer that. I don’t want to write to him. I don’t
like
him…”

My mother insisted. “Julie, you
will
answer this. You should, and it’ll be nice to have a friend.”

I wasn’t so sure, but with her help, I composed a reply and thus began a correspondence, which to my surprise quickly switched from being a chore to being a pleasure.

The next time Tony came home on holiday, he appeared at our front door again—and we began an easy and pleasant relationship. I could never have guessed the effect this young schoolboy was to have on my life.

“Would you like to come to tea at my house?” Tony asked one day. I was still painfully shy and somewhat loath to go, but I went.

Tony’s mother and father were enchanting people. Dr. Lance Walton and his wife, Dawn, and family lived in a big residence called “Nethercliffe,” a black and white, half-timbered Tudor-style house, with French windows at the back leading to a generous garden.

I met Tony’s fun-loving older sister, Jennifer, who seemed really friendly, and his adorable younger sister, Carol. His dashing younger brother, Richard, whom I had already met, was also there. Mrs. Walton was exceedingly pretty and vivacious. She was a terrific hostess, the epitome of how you would imagine a doctor’s wife to be. Dr. Walton was a craggy, handsome man, an orthopedic surgeon who worked extremely hard dividing his time between a Harley Street office in London and a private practice at his house.

They instantly welcomed me into the family. Everything about their home was gracious, warm, and lovely. There were fresh-cut flowers and bowls piled high with fruit. Candles and magazines were comfortably placed around the house; a cozy fire was in the grate. The best silver was laid out. A trolley was wheeled into the living room at tea-time, full of tempting goodies. Everything was soothing, pleasant, and spoke of a real home—quite a contrast to my own rather sad and disorganized one.

My mother, realizing that Tony was now a friend and a decent boy, encouraged me to go for walks with him. Tony would come up the drive promptly as my lessons with Miss Knight were ending for the day, pushing or riding his bike, and I would either take my own bike and join him, or we would walk together. Our route was always the same—the road up to the station, then across and down toward the Half-Way House (a local pub on our village green) and back up West Grove. These walks gave Tony and me wonderful opportunities to talk.

We chatted endlessly about what we both liked, how it was for him at school, what he did there. He was incredibly creative, designing school theater projects, and making and operating puppets for a production of
The Magic Flute,
which he also directed. I told him that I enjoyed writing stories in my spare time, and I came up with ideas for two tales about an orchestra—“Conceited Mister Concerto” and “Peter Piccolo’s Great Idea.” Tony offered to illustrate them. Letters went back and forth while he was at boarding school, with “Peter Piccolo” or “Mister Concerto” drawings arriving regularly in the post.