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Another dreadful day, little Chris accidentally soiled the toilet seat. Being only a toddler, he hadn’t thought to clean it, and when Pop discovered it he rubbed Chris’s nose in it to teach him a lesson.

Mum was appalled, but attempted to soften the impact by saying,
“You know, at times Pop can be a very kind man. He does have a tender side.”

At the age of five or six, Don was enrolled in St. Martin’s boarding school in Walton-on-Thames, not far from our house. It was difficult for him. The other children at school would say, “But you live just around the corner. Why are you
boarding
?” The justification was that our parents were away so much of the time, traveling and performing.

Chris started boarding school a year or two later, when he was just four. He was terribly homesick, and there was a lot of bed-wetting. It was heartbreaking. I don’t know whose idea the boarding school was, or how Mum felt about sending Don and Chris away—whether or not she felt any guilt. Maybe she felt the boys would be safer. I vowed never to do that to my own children, and worried that I, too, might be sent off.

Auntie was busy teaching in her studio, making a living, so she was unable to help with the boys. “Dingle” had developed tuberculosis as a result of his incarceration during the war, and he was thin and weak. But Aunt did cook a roast or a stew for us all occasionally, which was wonderful. We would go over to the Bung and enjoy it, or she would bring it into our house. But, like the rest of us, she was scared of Pop, and disliked him intensely. She didn’t really venture into Mum and Pop’s life after that summer in Blackpool, although she was ever-present in mine, and in many ways a second mother to me.

I began to menstruate, and it happened at a time when Mum and Pop were away. I vaguely knew what was happening to me, and I went across to Aunt and said, “I may be wrong, but…”

“Oh, Julie!” she said. “You’ve become a woman.”

I didn’t feel much like a woman. Here I was, singing my big arias and pretending to be “the little girl with the phenomenal voice.” To my shame, I still had to wear the smock dresses that kept my developing chest flat, and ankle socks with Mary Janes. There was not much grace to my growing up.

D
AD AND WIN
moved to a village on the Sussex/Surrey border called Ockley. Dad said Ockley had the ideal distribution of education: one school, two churches, and four pubs.

He and Win bought a semidetached cottage in a row of five, which had once been the gardeners’ quarters of a huge estate. Although very modest, “Leith Vale” had a lovely view across the fields to the manor house.

Whenever Dad came to pick me up, he would say, “Shall we go home directly, or shall we take the pretty way?” If time permitted, we would drive together through the countryside, choosing all the little roads rather than the main one. We would pass through exquisite villages, and Dad would bring to my attention some feature of the land or explain its historic significance. He taught me to appreciate real English country hedges, and told me what trees and bushes they were made of. We would admire the lilac or mimosa, and the great clumps of rhododendrons.

One of our delights was to drive over Leith Hill, a beautiful spot below which Ockley lies. Tiny hamlets cling to the side of the hill and the trees on the crown grow in great arches over the narrow lanes. From the top, one can see the South Downs, and my father would point out Chanctonbury Ring—a perfect circle of trees on another hill in the distance, possibly once a Druid site. Dad showed me traces of the old Roman road running through the countryside, now mostly hidden. A tower had been built by an eccentric on top of Leith Hill, in order to bring the elevation up to exactly one thousand feet. To this day, Leith Hill becomes a sea of bluebells in the late spring, a shimmering haze in every direction.

If time allowed, we would stop for a pub lunch, probably a “ploughman’s”—cheese and pickles and good bread—or a piece of pork pie and a glass of lemonade. Driving with Dad provided wonderful quality time for us both.

I remember my first stay in Ockley. I have never seen so many daffodils in my life—they were everywhere, in riotous display. Ockley was a hundred times more rural than Beckenham or Walton. There was a small, ancient church named Okewood, which was in a sylvan setting of exquisite beauty. On the way there, primroses were dotted in clumps beneath birch trees. Baby rabbits scampered and played. The church had been built as a token of gratitude by a man who had survived the attack of a wild boar. It stood on a slight rise; a tiny gate opening onto a pebble path led through the moss-covered headstones to the main porch. Dad loved to visit it, especially at Easter, for then the little chapel was filled with fresh flowers.

Leith Vale was surrounded by farms. Standon Farm, across the lane, had a bull, and Johnny made me weak with laughter when he bellowed from his bedroom window like a cow and received an answering call from the bull. He and I took a leisurely walk one late afternoon and were just turning for home when we spotted a large bird with a bullet head and an enormous wing span, flying very low along the lane toward us. It was the local barn owl. It did not see us until it was very close, at which point it veered off into a nearby tree. Johnny and I stood utterly still in silence, wondering what the owl would do next. After turning its head several times from side to side, it suddenly dropped from the tree in a straight dive. Its huge wings beat on the grass and it lifted off a moment later and flew right past us again, a tiny rodent in its beak. We rushed home to tell Dad about our wonderful adventure.

Wherever he lived, Dad’s first priority was his garden, and I remember him sweating it out in Ockley, planting stands of runner beans and rows of potatoes, which were essential to the family. Dad would go out to the nearby ditches with a wheelbarrow and dig up huge, heavy clumps of leaf mold. He worked it into the garden soil, providing it with all the necessary nutrients.

Win would serve up great meals: fresh beans, potatoes, tomatoes, and peas, all from their little plot. My relationship with her in those days was a little strained. I suspect that it was a chore for her when I visited, but like any good stepparent, she understood and accepted the slight hostility coming from me. She knew that the most important thing for me was to spend time with my father.

One memorable night, Dad said, “There’s something I want to share with you.”

He had collected me from the theater and it was close to midnight as we drove up the moonlit lanes of Leith Hill. We came to an open patch with a five-barred gate and Dad parked the car and we got out.

“Now,” he said. “Be
very
quiet.”

I kept still and listened.

I became aware that all around us, in every direction, the nightingales were in full voice. Their singing echoed across the downs.

“Isn’t that
lovely,
Chick?” he said.

It was an intimate moment between us, and I realized he was trying to give me an antidote to whatever else was going on in my life, to the dramas happening at Walton. As always, it was hard to return home after one of those visits.

MUM AND I
didn’t tour much with Pop after that fateful summer in Blackpool. From their original billing as “Ted and Barbara Andrews—with Julie (in small letters underneath),” it had now become “Julie Andrews—with Ted and Barbara.” It must have rankled my stepfather and made him feel emasculated. In spite of his having originally been the one who encouraged me to sing, I suspect it hurt him to be displaced by a fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.

Mum and Pop had apparently bought The Meuse with every penny they had, and they were now in well over their heads. My mother’s conversations about it were quite open, and in the back of my mind there was a constant anxiety that, unless I kept working, we would lose our home. In truth, we probably would have. It mattered desperately to me that we hold onto it—the thought of returning to some place like Mornington Crescent was unbearable. So when gigs came along, and Pop
wasn’t asked, Mum and I took whatever we could. In between, I continued my studies with Miss Knight.

The more Mum and I performed alone together, the more my act developed. With my mother accompanying, I would sing a few arias, then a ballad, then she would play a piano solo, and finally I would come back and do a big medley, followed by a farewell song. It was similar in structure to the show that she and Pop had performed for years.

Wherever we went, I was still made to do my singing practice every day. The grand piano would have been pushed to the bare back wall of the theater, tucked away in a corner of the stage, and my mother would insist that I sit at it and do my scales.

The big safety curtain was usually raised, exposing the empty auditorium, and there were always a few stagehands and ushers milling about. I was acutely conscious of them stopping to listen to me. I would pick out the notes, doing my five-nine-thirteen’s, and feel embarrassed at having to do warm-ups in front of them.

We mostly traveled by train. I would stock up with every book or magazine I could get my hands on—
Girls’ Crystal
and
The Girls’ Own Paper,
books by Enid Blyton. Reading was my favorite pastime, but I was always amazed that for those several hours of travel, my mother would just sit and stare out of the window. She never read a newspaper or bought a book; she never amused herself in any way. I couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized she must have been using the journey to put her world in order again. She was so stressed, and with so much to think over and deal with, simply sitting and staring must have been a form of therapy for her. I doubt she even noticed the countryside.

A memorable journey was a trip to Aberdeen, Scotland, for a week. Mum and Pop had been rowing dreadfully, and she wept all the way north. I think she was suffering a mini-breakdown. She was worried about finances, the boys, her marriage. I remember trying to infuse her with my energy. I hugged her, tried to comfort her, and told her we were going to have a great week of peace and quiet.

“…and I will help make it right and continue working,” I said. “We
will
get through this.”

Then and there, I committed myself wholeheartedly to assuming responsibility for the entire family. It seemed solely up to me now to hold us together, for there was no one else to do it.

There are, of course, funny memories, too, particularly of the characters we met and the acts that performed on the same bill with us. One was a North Country comedian called Albert Modley. He never played in the south of England, but was very popular in the north. He was a little fellow, deliciously cheeky and childlike. He would pretend to be a naughty schoolboy, and part of his act was to play with a set of drums. He simply toyed with them occasionally, absently thumping the bass drum or banging a cymbal. He would pretend to be a tram driver and whirl the cymbal arm, and the cymbal itself, round and round, pretending it was the lever that operated the tram.

Albert would jog along, commenting on the various people he pretended were aboard his vehicle. At one point, he would say with an impish smile, “We’re going to
Duplicate
!”

“Duplicate” was the name written on the backup tram in places like Blackpool that picked up the leftover tourists who didn’t make it onto the first tram. “We’re going to Duplicate!” became a stock phrase in our house.

Once, we were on the bill with Albert, along with a bear act. Word went round that when the bears were performing, no one was to cross behind the backdrop, because the bears always turned and attacked whomever they sensed was behind them.

One night, after making me promise to stay safely in our dressing room, my mother headed off for her usual drink at the bar. She locked the door behind her, since the bears traveled along our corridor on their way to the stage. Suddenly I heard the doorknob rattling, and moaning coming from the other side. I was rigid with fear, until I realized it was just Albert teasing me and enjoying himself hugely.

Mum often came back from these trips to the bar fairly tipsy, and consequently the second performance never went as well as the first. She would dominate with her accompaniment, thumping away at the piano and pushing me on if I tried to do a beautiful rallentando or express myself in some way. I would introduce her solo in a gracious manner,
and she would play something like “The Dream of Olwen”—a very corny piece with her famous double octaves added at the end, all of which she now fluffed dreadfully.

As I stood in the wings, waiting to return to the stage, I wished fervently that she would be more respectful of her craft and get back to being the beautiful pianist that she had once been, and could still be. She hardly practiced at all anymore. She must have been so overwhelmed and preoccupied. But I longed for her to be as disciplined as I was trying to be. I felt the act could have been so much better if only she had cared to try.

I
CONTINUED TO
work with Madame Stiles-Allen. Early in my relationship with her, she decided to stop teaching in London and remain in Yorkshire, where her home was. Once she moved north permanently, it became obvious that if my voice was to continue to improve and I was to take my lessons seriously, the only thing I could do was to go up there to study with her. Sometimes it would be for a long weekend, sometimes a full week at a time.

She lived in a rambling, half-timbered farmhouse in a village called Headingly, just outside Leeds. “The Old Farm” had a giant kitchen that doubled as a dining room, with an Aga cooker and a large fireplace. The furniture was old but comfortable, with loose floral-patterned slipcovers on the sofas and chairs. There was an authentic spinning wheel in the big, main hallway, and its spools and treadle, evoking another era, fired my imagination. The halls were lit with gas lamps, their flames sputtering above the tiny gas jets.

A vast, upstairs music room contained bookcases piled high with books and files, her big, grand piano, and an old, hand-cranked phonograph on which we would listen to 78-rpm records of Caruso, Gigli, Galli-Curci, and Adelina Patti. The room wasn’t used much, the main reason being the cost of heating in the bitterly cold, damp winters. There was a smaller teaching room right next to it, with an upright piano and an electric fire, and this was where Madame primarily worked with her students.

My mother would put me on the train, and Madame’s husband, Sidney George Jeffries-Harris, simply known as Jeff, would pick me up at
Leeds and drive me out to Headingly. A dapper, retired army man with a small military mustache, Jeff was as diminutive as Madame was large. Though he had served in India and had a sparkling but sardonic sense of humor, one got the feeling that Madame undoubtedly ruled the household. They had a teenage son, Michael, who was a few years older than I.

Madame had a live-in housekeeper, a friend for many years, called Jessie. Although slightly younger than Madame, she was equally large and very robust, with a great sense of humor and a jolly spirit.

Lunch was the main event of the day. Michael would come home from school, and we would all sit around the big square table in the old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen and eat our fill. Jessie cooked enormous meals: mutton stews with large boiled potatoes and peas and carrots.

Jeff brewed his own homemade ginger beer, which Madame adored. It was potent, gaseous stuff, and whenever a bottle was opened, the cork simply exploded out of it. Madame would drain her ginger beer from a tall glass; then, taking the large damask napkin from her lap and putting the corner of it up to her face, she would belch hugely—an enormous “trombone slide” with an actual bass tone to it. She would flutter her long eyelashes and smile sweetly.

“Ex
cuse
me!” she’d say demurely.

Sometimes I would sit in on other pupils’ lessons. Madame thought this important, and I did pick up a great deal, just watching and listening. Simply talking with Madame, I would discover that my voice had a better pitch to it. Madame’s voice was so warm and melodious—so exquisitely placed—that I would find my own lifting in imitation.

She once described the joy of singing with a full orchestra: “As if one is being carried aloft in the most wonderfully comfortable arm-chair.” I knew exactly what she meant.

During those lessons, Madame gave me a valuable piece of advice, which has stayed with me over the years.

“Julie,” she said. “Remember: the amateur works until he can get it right. The professional works until he cannot go wrong.”

In the evenings, we’d retire to her small study where there was a fire. She would sit in an armchair on one side of it and Jeff would occupy the
chair on the other side, puffing on his pipe and reading. Sometimes Jessie would come in and join us. Madame did exquisite embroidery, which she said helped her to relax. She bought me silk threads and an embroidery frame, put some handkerchief material over it, and taught me to do some basic stitches, which I truly enjoyed. As we embroidered together, we would all listen to the radio or sit and talk.

Quite often, during those evenings, she would counsel me, “When you get older, darling, buy property. You will never lose on property. You can always trade up, and it will always be something to fall back on. It’s a wonderful investment for your money.” I have tried to follow her advice.

When the embers of the fire burned low, Madame and Jeff would go to their bedroom at one end of the house and I would head to mine, going down a long, drafty, gas-lit corridor, to a freezing cold room with a chamber pot under the bed. Once between the sheets, I never dared get out—not merely because of the icy temperature, but because I was convinced that the place was haunted. I would burrow down, hiding, almost suffocating myself. I didn’t sleep much.

I WENT UP
to Leeds fairly consistently during my teens. I would return home with my voice fresher and stronger, and my mother would immediately ask me to sing for her so that she could hear if I had improved.

Occasionally Madame would still come down to London, and I’d be able to pick up a quick lesson with her. Once, she stayed with us in Walton. She and my mother indulged in long discussions about spiritualism and particularly reincarnation. Madame believed in it wholeheartedly, and in fact, she felt sure that I was the reincarnation of the famous soprano Adelina Patti. My mother, who was superstitious, liked the thrill of believing reincarnation possible. I was completely spooked by their eerie conversations, and eventually chose not to listen to them, for my nights after that became fraught with the fear that ghosts were coming out of my closet or that someone who had “passed on” might be wishing to get in touch with me.

While she was with us, Madame attended a radio broadcast that I was doing. I sang the aria from
La Traviata
with the recitative
“Ah, fors’è
lui,”
which leads to the very difficult
“Sempre Libera.”
There is an à cappella cadenza before the main aria begins. My pitch was usually flawless, but because Madame was in the audience, I tried too hard to sing correctly for her, and I began listening to my own sound. The result was that when I finished the cadenza, I landed a halftone high. As the orchestra picked up the melody, I realized that I was sharp. My mother, who was also in the audience, berated me for making the mistake. I’m sure she wanted me to shine for Madame as much as I did. I was mortified that I had goofed, especially as this had been a live radio broadcast. I was as much my own critic as anyone else.

Madame rose to my defense.

“Be gentle with her, Barbara, she sang beautifully. She was trying so hard; you have to be a little kinder. She’s only a young girl.”

Later, Madame said to me, “Your mother was inappropriate with you. I thought you sang well.”

I had never sung sharp before, but I learned to watch my pitch even more closely from then on. I was forever grateful to Madame for her kind words.