Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  When shooting in Nice wrapped, we returned to London. Our search for a better house had resulted in our renting another one in Chester Square—smaller than the one we’d been living in, but clean, bright, and cheerful. Blake resumed filming at the studio, and I set about organizing the monumental move from one side of the square to the other. When all the furniture had been transferred, Blake took Haggis across to the new place, while I went through every room in the empty house for one final check.

  As I rounded the last flight of stairs, I found a surprise on the landing: a substantial pile of dog poop, sporting a toothpick with a paper flag. Upon it was written, “Have a nice trip!”

  13

  L​ITTLE AMELIA WAS finally deemed able to travel. Her visa application was filed, a Vietnamese passport granted, and it seemed she could be with us within a couple of weeks. I could barely contain my excitement. I set about shopping for baby furniture and equipment, and began to interview nannies, quickly settling on a lovely woman from South Africa by the name of Avril. She had been a professional nurse, and was warm and easygoing.

  Emma came back from her summer vacation in relatively good form, although the transition home after having spent time with her dad was always emotional for her. She liked the new house, and busied herself with helping me and Avril set up the nursery.

  I was at the hairdresser when I received word to call our lawyer immediately—it was urgent. I knew it must be about Amelia, and my heart skipped a beat.

  “She’ll be here the day after tomorrow,” he declared.

  I phoned Blake immediately, but he had already heard the news, and was as thrilled as I was.

  There was so much to do that I almost came to a standstill, until I began making lists. More shopping for baby gear, along with a fold-away bed for the nurse who would be bringing her from Saigon and staying with us for a few days. Avril moved in, with diapers and baby food in tow. Furniture was delivered and installed, baby clothes unpacked and laundered, and everything was made ready for the new arrival.

  On August 3, 1974, I wrote:

  Up at 6:30. Quick breakfast, hug and kiss to Blackie. Everyone excited. Tony and I headed to airport. Plane delayed into Paris, and Amelia and nurse had missed the connection. Orly airport supposedly in chaos. Where could they be? And on what flight?

  Went to Air France lounge. Found out that baby and nurse might be on a British Airways flight already arrived. Then “Message for Mrs. Blake Edwards!” was announced on the PA system, and suddenly there they were!

  Amelia is adorable. Big smiles for me, and I fell in love at first sight. She is so pretty. Huge eyes and a watchful gaze. Susan, the nurse, so dedicated, so tired. All the way from Saigon. A miracle.

  Blake came home early, and Amelia smiled for him too. We propped her up against pillows on our couch, and she was so tiny that she almost disappeared but for those wide, watchful eyes. Em and Geoff so interested, observing Amelia and asking questions. Avril taking charge of her domain on the top floor. Pediatrician came by and pronounced Amelia OK, though with a bad case of scabies and serious congestion in her chest and nose.

  Special moment at bedtime tonight, hugging Blake, both of us knowing our little one was finally safe and asleep upstairs. Happy day.

  Two nights later, Blake came down with acute appendicitis. Tony Adams and I took him to St. Mary’s Hospital, where we were met by an ancient Harley Street surgeon with an unsettling tremor in his hands. Surgery was scheduled immediately, whereupon the whole scene took on the black humor of a Blake Edwards movie. The anesthetist was called in and the operating room prepared—everyone seeming a little boozy from dinner. Blake was dosed up with Valium, and Tony and I followed his gurney down endless sloping hallways, while he yelled, “Gung ho, Ben Casey!”

  The cart rattled around corners, in and out of elevators, and nearly got away from the attendant altogether. It finally shot through the rubberized operating room doors and came to rest amid a pile of cardboard supply boxes.

  Apparently, the operation had been very necessary, as Blake’s appendix was on the verge of rupturing. But I couldn’t help thinking how Freudian it was for Blake to have “labored” with such intense stomach pains and endured abdominal surgery a mere two days after our new baby had arrived.

  I spent Amelia’s first days with us dashing between home and the hospital, and totally lost my voice in the process. Amelia needed X-rays and blood tests, which Avril took charge of. Tony Adams did his best to manage the press, who had heard of Amelia’s arrival and kept ringing our doorbell. Everyone coped as best they could with the myriad emotions of having a new baby in the house and Blake being in the hospital.

  My husband finally came home five days later, on the same evening that President Nixon resigned from office in the wake of the Watergate scandal. Sitting in London and watching Nixon’s bizarre resignation speech, followed by the swearing in of President Ford, was surreal. With all the drama in our lives and in the news, it seemed to me that the world had gone quite mad. I wondered what the future held in store for our newest family member.

  BLAKE AND I had another series of long discussions about the advisability of moving to Gstaad sooner rather than later; of “holing up” there, so to speak, to gather our resources—physical, emotional, and financial. Our business manager and lawyers had been advising us to establish official residency in Switzerland, as it could significantly ease our complicated visa and tax issues. Since most of our work seemed now to be based in Europe, and given that Blake and I had long fantasized about living in Gstaad, it seemed the right thing to do. Blake still had editing to complete on the Panther film, so we debated whether to move right away, or wait until Christmas to do so. Relocating before the holidays meant he would need to commute, yet it didn’t make sense to have the children start the fall term at school, only to uproot them again. So, toward the end of August, as Blake headed back to work at the studios, I began organizing a move to Gstaad for Avril, the children, and myself. I hoped it would be the haven of peace and quiet we needed, and that it would provide Amelia with a healthy beginning to her life with us. Since Switzerland was only an hour’s flight from London, Blake promised to join us most weekends.

  Living in Gstaad, however, required securing additional rooms for our entourage, including the tutor who would soon be joining us to homeschool Geoffrey, since the town lacked an English-speaking high school that could accommodate his needs. Luckily, a tiny chalet across the road from ours was available for rent. When the tutor arrived, she set up one of the rooms as their classroom, and Geoff seemed to welcome the discipline and security of working with her.

  Happily, there was a small international elementary and middle school for Emma in the neighboring village of Saanen. It was run by a Canadian family, had a fine reputation, and classes were held in English. The school day was unusually long, however—from eight in the morning until five-thirty in the afternoon—and I worried whether Emma would have the necessary endurance. She was nervous, but within a few days, she was gamely walking down the hill in the mornings to greet the school bus.

  Emma was also increasingly tender with Amelia, and I recognized the generosity of heart it must have taken for her to embrace so many big changes in our lives. I found myself surrendering to the joy and happiness of being focused almost exclusively on my children, and of living in Switzerland at long last, with no departure date in sight.

  Blake, on the other hand, was not as happy with the new arrangements. He was still experiencing physical discomfort post-surgery, and traveling back and forth between Gstaad and London wasn’t as easy as we’d hoped. There were constant business calls whenever he was home, and he was often tired and grumpy. I prayed things would settle down soon, and that he would eventually come to feel the same way I did about living there.

  Thankfully, Amelia was adjusting nicely. Her lungs and skin had cleared, and she was putting on weight. On arrival, although she was five months old, she had barely weighed ten pounds, but within a month
or two of good nutrition, hygiene, and love, she had begun to blossom. At times she giggled and chatted; at other times she was silent and serene, albeit with that ever-watchful gaze.

  I began to notice, however, that she seemed reluctant to truly bond. Whenever I held or attempted to cuddle her, she arched her back and pulled away. She also had a habit of banging her head against her mattress rhythmically to self-soothe, especially when trying to sleep. I reached out to our pediatrician, and to Susan, the nurse who had brought Amelia to us, and learned that this was fairly typical behavior for a child adopted from an orphanage.

  “You have to realize,” Susan said, “that at any given moment there were at least a hundred children in one room, half of whom were wet, hungry, and crying. The distraction is intense, and head-banging is the baby’s way of trying to carve out her own identity, to establish her sense of self in that chaotic space.”

  It helped a great deal to know this, and I began to realize that Amelia’s reluctance to bond stemmed from an understandable lack of trust. I eventually found other ways to comfort her; stroking her back, or rubbing her little feet.

  Once Blake’s editing on the Panther film was complete, he joined us in Gstaad for an extended period. During this time, he was able to reflect on all that had happened in the previous months; the crises of Wild Rovers and The Carey Treatment, the relocation to England and our crazy existence there, and now this latest move to Switzerland. He began to channel his feelings into a screenplay set in Hollywood, which was clearly cathartic for him. He called the project S.O.B.—short for “Standard Operational Bullshit.” I could hear him clacking away on the typewriter in the attic, chuckling and mumbling lines of dialogue. When he came downstairs for meals, he seemed highly pleased with himself and couldn’t wait to get back to it.

  I was, as always, astonished by his facility when writing. I doubt he would have called it that—but to me, ideas seemed to just pour out of him. When I asked him how he did it, he said, “I go down many avenues in my mind. I follow an idea and try to top it, and top it again, until I can’t go any further. Then I see if there’s an alternative idea. Eventually the best one takes over.” He always felt that he could tell a better story through comedy; he could reach the audience with a dark or meaningful theme that they didn’t initially recognize because they were laughing so hard. He also said that sometimes he felt he had a muse on his shoulder, who told him what to write. I related to that, having often had a similar feeling myself when in need of guidance.

  Ever mercurial, Blake didn’t settle into one mood for long. We learned that Jennifer had not kept the promise she’d made in France, and had moved in with Tom Bleecker in L.A. The news hit Blake hard, since it meant he would have to withdraw financial support, as he had warned her that he would. He felt as though he’d gained one daughter but lost his firstborn, and he was such an emotional basket case that he developed chest pains and went to see the local doctor. Blake knew they were probably psychosomatic—and mercifully, they were—but I was grateful that he checked.

  I accompanied him to London for a few days to see a rough cut of The Return of the Pink Panther. Even in its unfinished form, the film was hilarious, and I dared to hope that it could be very successful.

  Returning to Gstaad, I was overwhelmed by the happy feeling of coming home. Emma, however, seemed a little “off”—she was tearful and anxious. I feared that, despite her affection for Amelia, the baby had been taking a little too much of our focus, and that perhaps my being away had left her feeling a bit neglected.

  The following day, Emma came home from school looking flushed and sporting a golf-ball–sized lump on one side of her neck. It turned out she had mononucleosis. She was confined to bed with a high fever for several weeks, during which time she became horribly depressed. I read Jane Eyre aloud to her, and brought her games, coloring books, and other activities—but mostly she just wanted to sleep. Being a nurse, Avril was a huge help, giving Emma alcohol rubs to bring down her fevers.

  One evening, Emma’s new teacher from school came to visit her and have dinner with us. My heart melted as I watched Emma prepare for her guest. She sat up in bed, swollen and pale, with a clean nightgown, hair brushed, hands folded on her lap, and the most wonderful look of expectancy on her face. I was so grateful for the kindness of the teacher in paying such close personal attention to her new student.

  Geoff, however, was no longer enjoying being in Gstaad. He asked if he could return to California and attend school there, now that he was fifteen. This was quite a blow. Blake and I said we would give it some thought, and in the ensuing days, found ourselves in tense conversations. Then Blake suddenly claimed that he himself felt claustrophobic living in Gstaad, and out of touch with the rest of the world. He said he couldn’t work or paint—and yet, daily, I saw so much evidence to the contrary. I knew him well enough by now to recognize how much he thrived on change and stimulation. When I asked him what he would like to do about it, he didn’t seem to have any answers, other than “Well, you wanted to live here!”

  Each time Blake sounded off about his distress, it seemed to relieve the pressure somewhat and he would improve for a few days. I came to realize that he needed to vent regularly, to manage the emotional chaos he always carried inside him, which had been inflamed by the various challenges with our three older children, the arrival of our new baby, our many moves, and the pressures of his work. I soldiered on, trying to stay in the day and hoping against hope that he would one day come to feel the way I did about being based in Switzerland. Little did I know what a logistical and financial challenge our Swiss residency would ultimately become, especially since it required that at least one of us spend an extended amount of time there per year, and limited time elsewhere. Had I been able to see into the future, I might have tried to find a different solution. But we were committed, so I focused on being grateful for every moment in that beautiful haven.

  When Emma was well enough, she began attending school again, but she wasn’t yet herself. She was anxious, and seesawed between anger and depression, frequently complaining of headaches and queasiness, and talking about wanting to go and live with her dad in New York. Given all the recent changes, I could hardly blame her, but I tried my best to stand still about it, and I asked her to do the same. I had always suspected that there might come a day when she would wish to go live with Tony. Being the child of divorced parents myself, I understood only too well. I just prayed that she wouldn’t have to spread her wings too soon.

  THE HOLIDAYS CAME and went, and in early 1975, we turned our attention to the next television special for Sir Lew, to be called Julie: My Favourite Things. Blake was to direct, and we began coming up with ideas based on that title. The Muppets were to be my special guests.

  We shot in February, at Elstree Studios in London. Emma stayed in Gstaad for the first two weeks with Avril, Amelia, and Geoff; but unbeknownst to me, Blake had arranged for a surprise visit. I was shooting a scene in front of a giant jar of peanut butter—definitely one of my favorite things!—when suddenly, my adorable daughter emerged from behind it, riding her unicycle. She circled me once, waved, and cycled offstage. I was simply thrilled to see her, and she stayed with me until taping for the show was complete.

  We spent a delightful day filming at the estate of the great artist Sir Henry Moore. I have always adored his beautiful sculptures, and Blake had asked him whether we might borrow one as a set piece for me to sing to. Sir Henry was reluctant to send a piece out to Elstree, and suggested instead that we come and film at his estate in Hertfordshire.

  I will never forget shaking Sir Henry’s hand as I greeted him. He was a diminutive man, yet his gentle strength made me wish my hand could have rested in his, safe from the problems of the world, forever. He took us around his property, showing us the giant studios in which he worked; one for stone, one for wood, and one for clay. There was also a library that housed his lithographs. Sir Henry invited us to tea in his cottage, and I noticed that in the cen
ter of his coffee table there was a large bowl overflowing with oddly shaped objects: stones, fossils, bones.

  “People send me things from all over the world,” Sir Henry explained. “I use them as inspiration for my work.”

  The plan was for me to sing Harold Arlen’s “Out of This World,” while gazing at a massive Moore sculpture in the Sheep Meadow on his property. It took Blake forever to choose his setup, since every angle was so superb. Although the scene was unfortunately cut from the final televised special—it seems I have too many favorite things!—that day has stayed with me. Thankfully, I received a copy of the scene on tape, which I cherish.

  NOT LONG AFTER Amelia came into our lives, Blake and I had discussed the fact that it might be good for her to have a sibling from Vietnam, but we had decided to wait at least a year or two. The situation in Saigon was becoming increasingly urgent, however, as the Viet Cong had pushed further south and were now threatening to overwhelm the capital. We realized we had to act sooner rather than later. I wrote another letter to the orphanage, to convey our interest in adopting a second child. This time we received an almost immediate response that we should gather our documents as quickly as possible.

  When I mentioned it to Emma, she didn’t seem surprised. “Oh, all right,” she sighed. “As long as I don’t have to babysit.”

  We had always wanted Amelia to be an American citizen, and we had recently received word that her California adoption papers were ready; the first step in that process. Blake and I traveled with the family back to Los Angeles, dropping Emma off in New York to visit Tony for the Easter break. We took a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.