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O
N MAY
8, 1945, peace was declared in Europe. My mother, Pop, Don, and I traveled to Walton-on-Thames to join some friends and to see the festivities, and everywhere there was an incredible sense of celebration: bonfires on the village greens, people spilling out of the pubs, flags waving in all directions. This became known as VE Day—Victory in Europe.

Almost immediately afterward, the newspapers printed the most horrific images of the concentration camps in Germany. Once our troops arrived and all the camps were liberated, the press was allowed in. Our newspapers were emblazoned with headlines of the atrocities at Belsen, Auschwitz, and elsewhere, and the photographs were unbearable. The state of the surviving prisoners was appalling beyond words, some so emaciated they couldn’t move. I saw pictures of mass graves, bodies dumped one on top of the other, bones sticking out all over the place. The photos resembled the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, only worse, and England—along with most of the world—was horrified.

Even in those days, young as I was, I wondered: “How could we
not
have known about the atrocities?” I suppose the government knew, but why was the public so unaware of the inhumanity of it all?

War was still being waged in Japan, and the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, and on Nagasaki three days later.

On August 14, 1945, VJ—Victory in Japan—was declared, and World War II finally, mercifully ended.

I TRAVELED OCCASIONALLY
with my parents to one town or another while they were performing, and it was around this time that I saw their act for the very first time. I remember being awed by the glamour of the theater: the velvet curtains, the bright lights, the creaminess of my mother’s skin as she sat at the piano, and how beautiful she looked in her satin crinoline gown.

I sat in the first row of the balcony to watch their act and was simply mesmerized. Afterward, I was taken backstage and was surprised by the cavernous size—and the surprising shabbiness—of it all; how tall the flies were, how huge and wide the flats! And the
smells
—of the yellow and pink gels on all the lamps, of paint and makeup, and grease and sweat, and most of all, of warm dust from the great drapes and the painted drops and the grubby, pockmarked stage. To this day, that smell is a turn-on.

Mum and Pop’s act always started with a theme song. The audience would hear Pop’s voice singing a refrain of the ballad “I Bring a Love Song.” As he reached the final notes, the curtains would part, and there they would be—my mother sitting at the grand piano, the skirt of her dress draped prettily around her, and Pop in a dinner jacket at the microphone.

They began with classical arias, like Pagliacci’s tenor aria “Vesti la Giubba,” or Rodolfo’s first aria from
La Bohème
, “Che Gelida Manina.” Pop sang them in English. They would then perform a few ballads, after which Pop would introduce Mum and she’d play a solo. Finally Pop would come back with his guitar and together they’d finish up with the popular songs of the day. There was a certain amount of class about their act; it was well thought out, and they performed for about thirty minutes.

Mum really came into her own with her solos, and her flourish of double octaves at the end always went down well. Pop was fairly good at orchestration, having studied just enough to do the necessary arrangements for the pit orchestras that played when they toured, which generally consisted of ten to twelve people.

When I traveled with them, I would watch the show every night. Once they were bathed in the lights from the front of the house, it seemed very
glamorous. Mum and Pop were never “top of the bill,” but they were generally “second top,” which was fairly prestigious in music hall. My mother used to say that it was much better to have second billing, because top had all the responsibility of making the show a success. Second top usually closed the first act. Comedians, always the big draw, were the most important and were saved for the end of the show.

Performances were twice nightly, and I remember my mother talking about “first house” and “second house.” Before I actually saw them perform, I would say, “What’s that, Mummy? Do you go out to different people’s houses?” She laughingly explained that the audience in a theater was always called “the house” and that with two shows a night, the first audience was the first house and the next was the second.

One day Pop and I traveled up north a day ahead of Mum. I don’t exactly know why or what it was she was doing, but she was due to join us later. It was the first time I had ever been alone with my stepfather. We checked into our digs—one room with twin beds. Pop took one and I settled into the other. It was uncomfortably quiet, and suddenly Pop said, “Come into bed with me and I’ll keep you warm.”

I replied, “I’m fine…I’m a bit sleepy.”

“No, no, come on, come on,” he pressed. “Let’s have a cuddle.”

Very reluctantly I climbed into bed and lay with my back to him.

“I’ll show you how I cuddle with Mummy,” he said. “Give me your feet.” He placed them between his legs, and I was acutely aware of his heaviness on my tiny limbs. I felt trapped and claustrophobic.

Eventually, summoning my courage, I claimed that I was too hot and that I was going back to my own bed. To my relief and surprise, he let me go. Something about it didn’t feel right to me at all, and I was very grateful when my mother arrived the following day.

JUST BEFORE MY
tenth birthday, Mum said to me, “Pop’s going to invite you to sing on the stage with us tonight.” Apparently, my parents had asked permission from the front-of-house manager, and he had nervously agreed.

When the moment arrived, Pop said to the audience, “We have a little surprise for you. Our daughter is with us this week and we’d like to invite
her onstage to sing a duet with me.” A beer crate was placed beside Pop, which I stood upon in order to reach the single microphone. No orchestration, of course—just Mum accompanying us in a song called “Come to the Fair.”

It went down well. I knew no fear at that time, and I didn’t let the side down. My stepfather’s voice ringing in my ear was a little irritating, and my mother urged us along with rather heavy piano playing, but the audience seemed entertained. I was a novelty. Little by little I began to join their act more often—not every night, but when it was convenient, and gradually I became aware of what it felt like to be behind the footlights looking out into the black auditorium with the spotlights on me. I rather enjoyed it.

I BEGAN AT
Woodbrook in the fall as planned. It was a fine girls’ school run by two genteel ladies, Miss Meade and Miss Evans, who were probably partners in every sense. It was my first formal academic experience, and I liked it very much. There followed a period of stability during which I actually made some friends my own age. I was cast in the school plays and loved them. I remember playing Robin Hood in a swashbuckling way, a lot of manly (so I thought) thigh-slapping and posturing, legs akimbo, hands on hips, as I called out, “Follow me, men!”

At morning congregation, the students gathered in the main hall for roll call and to sing hymns. This was a joy, because the seniors would sing the descants, and suddenly my head was filled with their wonderful counter-melodies. I seldom had the chance to sing choral work with others.

At Woodbrook, I was treated like a regular kid. I was encouraged to play sports—at which I was hopeless—and to join the Brownies. The problem was, I had trouble finding my niche. Every week, the Brownie pack would meet after school. There would be tests: knot tying (I was reasonably good), lighting a fire with two sticks only (hopeless), and other things at which I was simply awful. I had hopes that I might cut it in the sartorial department, and I entered the competition for the best-dressed, neatest Brownie. I went off to school, well prepared, convinced that I would pass with flying colors, but the Brownie pack
leader discovered a splodge of yellow egg yolk on my tie. So much for that!

Most mortifying for me were sports. Everyone was so “jolly hockey sticks” and hearty; I was reed thin, with bandy legs. During net ball, I was always placed as guard to some huge, strong opponent, and when I attempted to block these astonishingly healthy girls, they would leap in front of me, knock me sideways, steal the ball, and leave me staring after them, agape with wonder.

One day we were playing a very important match and my family came to watch. I was tearing about, trying to do
something
right, and I suddenly noticed that the kids were pointing at my ankles and laughing hilariously.

“Look at Julie’s potatoes!”

My bare heels were showing through large holes in my socks. They kept coming up out of my shoes and, worse, I was getting blisters. The game for me became all about trying to hide my shame—and our team was trounced.

The annual sports days were a nightmare. The idea of having to compete in obstacle races and get down on my knees and crawl beneath a tarpaulin or climb over ropes and fall down and stumble in front of everybody was humiliating. I was always last. I was hopeless at the three-legged race, pulling my partner down with me. How could I be competent at dance, how could I sing so well, yet not be good at sports?

Miss Meade began to give me piano lessons at school, after classes. I enjoyed them, but they only lasted a short while. Mum had given me the basics of the piano, but I believe two things prevented her from teaching me further: she was busy raising kids, and she didn’t have the patience for it. She always said she was not a good teacher. Though she accompanied me when I sang, she wanted me to get the rudiments of music from somebody else.

Whether it was because I didn’t want to compete with my mother’s brilliance, or the fact that I was a rank beginner, or perhaps because I
had
my mother to accompany me, I didn’t have the will to continue with piano lessons. Perhaps I was simply taking on too much. Whatever the reason, my mother didn’t push me, and to this day, I regret it.

I HAD A
good bicycle and I cycled to school and back, sometimes even coming home for the lunch break. My bike had a basket on the front, and I would lay my satchel on top of it, weaving the straps through the handlebars. Using the two straps as reins, I pretended that my bike was my horse. Rides to school were great fun, as I cantered off down the road. In winter, I folded the tips of my knitted gloves over the holes in the fingers, for the frost was painful on my skin.

On Saturday mornings, our local cinema presented programs for children: cartoons, shorts, Westerns. The place was usually packed. Whenever possible, I simply loved to attend—for it was a moment of complete freedom for me when I lost myself in the magic of Hollywood. Oblivious to the chaos and noise around me, I focused on the adventures of the Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, Mowgli, and Tarzan.

By now, Donald was a toddler and Mum hired a housemaid. Whenever my mother was away performing with my stepfather, this North Country girl would look after us. I didn’t like her, and I baited her considerably. One day she got so upset that she hit me around the head—really walloped me. I told my mother, and the girl was quickly dismissed. I shouldn’t have baited her, but I didn’t like her taking care of me.

Mum then hired a rather formidable-looking lady, who had a son named Howard, with a substantial black mole on the very tip of his nose. He was a bit older than I was. After a while, we began sneaking into the cupboard under the stairs to practice kissing, which I’m sure I instigated. I would do my best to blot out the image of the mole on his nose. He was my first kiss, and I kept thinking, “I do hope I don’t have to
marry
this boy.” I didn’t think there would ever be another man in my life. Luckily, the housekeeper and Howard didn’t stay with us long, either.

ONE DAY AT
Woodbrook, Miss Meade came to find me.

“Your mother has asked if I would send you home early today,” she announced breathlessly.

I thought perhaps my mother was ill.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. Your mother wants you home because you’re going to sing in London tonight.” I thought it a bit short notice, but I was glad to get out of school early.

Mum told me to bathe and dress quickly, and we set off for London, arriving at our theater in the city as dusk was falling. My stepfather was about to park the car, when a liveried doorman came over and said, “Sorry, sir, you can’t park here. This spot is for the Queen’s car.”

Pop said, “Of course. We’ll find another place.”

As we drove away I said, “Did he say the
Queen’s
car…?”

My mother said, “No, no. I think he said the
Greens’
car. God knows who they are!” I didn’t think any more about it.

We went into the theater and were held in a waiting room with other actors, until a man, a sort of equerry, came in. “Now, when Her Majesty comes backstage, here is the protocol,” he said, and proceeded to explain. “You do not speak until spoken to. Always address her as ‘Ma’am.’ Also, remember, when you have finished your performance, you must curtsy or bow to the Queen
first
, before acknowledging the audience.”

I discovered that we were at the Stage Door Canteen, and were about to perform for Queen Elizabeth, wife of King George VI.

The Stage Door Canteen was a wonderful place where the armed forces could get a square meal, attend dances, and find some entertainment. Probably because of my parents’ connection with ENSA, they had been invited to perform that evening, and had decided to take me with them. I think they felt it would make their act more memorable, and that it would be an experience I would never forget. They were right.