I may have been foolish and sycophantic, but it was a difficult remark to weather. Paddie could be charming, but I learned not to trust her. My diary entries for this period are filled with notes like “Can’t wait to go home.”
ALTHOUGH I WAS soon to be seventeen, I was still being billed as “Britain’s youngest singing star” and I was now performing in the penultimate spot of the show. I did several radio broadcasts at this time, and continued the weeks of vaudeville and individual concerts. Throughout the year I suffered from bouts of laryngitis—my tonsils were chronically infected—but I didn’t worry about it much, and always tried my best to sing through it.
In early September, I had a small introduction not only to the world of animated film but also to the art of dubbing, which I found fascinating. The Rose of Baghdad was a Czechoslovakian film originally made in 1949. It was now to be distributed in the UK, and it told the tale of a beautiful singing princess, somewhat in the spirit of Aladdin or Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The role of Princess Zeila had been sung by a soprano with a high voice of great beauty. The producers wanted me to dub the songs into English, but record with the original orchestrations. I had a coloratura voice, but these songs were so freakishly high that, though I managed them, there were some words that I struggled with in the upper register.
I wasn’t terribly satisfied with the result. I didn’t think I had sung my best. But I remember seeing the film and thinking that the animation was beautiful. I’m pleased now that I did the work, for since then I don’t recall ever tackling such high technical material.
TWENTY-THREE
TONY WALTON AND I continued to see each other whenever we could. He had graduated from Radley College that spring, and was due to fulfill his National Service obligations at the end of the summer. I still visited his adorable family, feeling easy and relaxed in their company.
It was late summer, I believe, when Tony asked me out on our first real date. We traveled to London and saw the movie The Greatest Show on Earth, which we both enjoyed. Though I was nearing the age of seventeen, I was still pretty gauche, my experiments with Fred notwithstanding. I was innocent, shy, my social skills lagging considerably behind my ability to fool a large crowd such as an audience. In the cinema Tony held my hand, but I was stiff and withdrawn, for I felt that he was becoming interested in a deeper relationship, which I wasn’t ready for. Fortunately, nothing impeded our friendship.
Just after my birthday, I was contracted to appear in yet another holiday pantomime. This time I played the role of Princess Bettina in the Coventry Hippodrome’s production of Jack and the Beanstalk. It was another principal girl role. I was never asked to play the principal boy, as I was, of course, too young, and, in spite of all the dancing lessons, my legs were not good enough.
Coventry is virtually in the center of England. Its famous cathedral was bombed to smithereens during the war, and its empty shell, standing adjacent to the new cathedral, is a stark reminder of that event.
The Hippodrome was relatively new at the time, run by a truly decent impresario called Sam Newsome. He was proud of his theater, and took me on a tour of it when I first arrived. The dressing rooms were upscale; the principals’ rooms had private bathrooms—mine even had a big bath in it. The backstage area was modern and clean, so different from the shabby theaters I had been working in up to this point.
I roomed with a young soubrette called Joan Mann, also a client of Charlie Tucker’s. She was to play the role of Jack, the principal boy. Joan was dark-haired, had a great figure, and she was lively and fun.
We did some early rehearsals in London with the respected choreographer Pauline Grant. Charlie Tucker had asked Pauline to be a mentor to me—to help with my deportment, to give me some West End polish. We became good friends, and she was a big influence in my life. Petite and packed tight in her skin, Pauline had slightly bulging eyes and pouting lips that were prettily bowed. She looked a little like Leslie Caron. A former dancer, she had exquisite small hands and when she walked, her feet seemed placed “at a quarter to three” (my mother’s description). She always wore very high heels, and she dressed in suits and silk blouses with bows at the neck to soften the tailored image. If she could afford it, she bought herself one haute-couture Hardy Amies outfit every year. She taught me the value of having a few elegant pieces in my wardrobe, rather than a lot of cheap ones.
She had a good sense of humor, and she and Sam Newsome hit it off. He began to ask her out to dinner, and eventually they married.
The show started to take shape. Pauline was a task master with the corps de ballet. She would demonstrate with a flourish of the hands.
“I need a ‘pyum!’ here and a ‘pyum!’ there!”
Norman Wisdom, the comedian, was the main attraction of the pantomime. He was a cheeky little chap, a brilliant humorist, much in the manner of Chaplin. He wore a black suit that appeared too small for him and the peak of his cap was pushed to the side of his head. He adopted a funny walk and played a kid very well. He was married, and during the years I knew him, his wife seemed always to be pregnant.
Norman and I had a friendship of sorts; we worked well together onstage, and on the Saturday nights that he would travel home (returning on Monday), he would sometimes give me a lift as far as Ealing, on the north side of London, where he lived. My mother or Dingle would come up from Walton and wait by a certain roundabout. Norman would drop me off, I would swap cars, and Mum or Dingle would drive me on home.
Pauline Grant stayed with us through the beginning of the run in Coventry, then came back from time to time—ostensibly to check up on us, but also to see Sam Newsome. He would pop around backstage at the oddest times, his friendly face appearing at my dressing room door, and it was always a pleasure to see him. He was consistently gracious, his manners exquisite.
One night, after we had opened, we were all invited to his house for a celebration party. Most of the company were chauffeured there in limos. He lived in a stone lodge at Warwick Castle, situated just inside the main gate to the castle grounds. It was a beautifully appointed home, and I remember being impressed by the quiet luxury of it.
Mum and Pop bought a secondhand car—a Hillman Minx, which I called “Bettina” after my character in the show. It was a grand little automobile and extremely useful. I didn’t drive it myself, although it was officially “my car.” It was really my mother’s to use and enjoy, but I was very proud of the fact that my earnings had paid for it.
My mother explained there would be tax benefits if I purchased her half of The Meuse. Pop and I would own it together. Pop was not working and was looking for a job, so by assigning a portion of the mortgage to me, they were able to keep cash flow going. I’m fairly sure that Charlie Tucker helped them work out the details of the transaction; maybe he even suggested it.
A year or two later, I also bought out Pop’s share, and the deed to The Meuse was transferred to my name. This furthered my sense of obligation to work, as it was now my total responsibility to keep up the payments. Without my contribution, we really would go under. I didn’t object, for I knew how much the place meant to my mother, and I had promised long ago that I would look after her and all the family. I justified working so hard by knowing that I was helping to maintain the roof over our heads. My passion to hold onto every home I have ever had since was influenced by the unthinkable prospect of losing The Meuse.
Dad, Win, Johnny, Auntie Gladys, Keith, Tappets, and the gang from Auntie’s dancing class came up for the last night of Jack and the Beanstalk, and they helped with the huge pack-up to go home. Bettina, the car, was brought up, and all my luggage, trunks, makeup, and such were loaded into her and one other car, until both were stuffed to overflowing.
Tony had been to see the show, his National Service having been delayed a few months due to his having contracted glandular fever. He had now just returned from a ski trip with his family in Arosa, Switzerland, where he had broken his leg. The poor fellow was in a cast and on crutch
es, and was really suffering. Nonetheless, he was scheduled to fly to Canada in a few days’ time to begin his tour of duty in the Royal Air Force. He looked terrific in his RAF uniform, but he was very distraught.
My mother said to him, “Why don’t you paint a picture that you and Julie can share as a bond between you.” Tony did a small but exquisite rendering of a little island. Mum said, “You could call it Ours.” It was the first real painting Tony ever gave me. It has a view looking through trees and bushes to an idyllic setting, rather dark and sad. He left for Canada on Christmas Eve, and though I wouldn’t see him again for two years, he wrote constantly and faithfully during the time he was away.
For me, this was a period of turmoil and some guilt. I knew that Tony was very fond of me and wanted more than I was able to give at the time. While I felt great affection toward him, I wished to experience more of life before committing myself to anyone. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much he mattered to me.
TWENTY-FOUR
A GIRL’S VOICE DOESN’T break like a boy’s in the teens, but I believe it undergoes some changes. I became aware that I was losing the top notes of my voice, and that it was beginning to mature. The white, thin quality that had defined my coloratura was becoming warmer, richer, and reaching the high notes was now more of a challenge. I may have just been fatigued, or perhaps there was an unconscious teenage rebellion at working so hard. I’m sure Madame would have advised more technique, more practice. I began to worry, since the “little girl with the high voice” image was still my gimmick.
That spring I had an important concert to do at the Winter Garden in Bournemouth. I sang with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra led by the conductor, Rudolf Schwarz. Nothing about my program particularly bothered me, with one exception—the high F above the top C in the “Polonaise” from Mignon. I struggled with it during rehearsals. Maestro Schwarz advised, “Don’t take the top F, just hold onto the C, then come down to the B flat. It’s still appropriate.” But I hated the idea. I was known for those high notes—I felt I was cheating and that the end of my song would seem flat and unexciting. To me, it smacked of failure.
I also sang “Caro Nome,” the aria from Rigoletto. There is a small, climbing passage in it that starts at the bottom of the scale. I was accustomed to my mother playing for me, and she always gave me a very strong downbeat. I said to the Maestro, “Could you give me a slightly stronger ‘plonk’ just here, please?”
“Gentlemen,” he said to the orchestra, with a slight smile, “Miss Andrews would like a stronger plonk on bar such-and-such.” I got it, but I felt foolish.
We stayed for the weekend with a friend of my mother’s named Sydney Miller. He and his partner, John, owned a health spa near Bournemouth. Sydney was a strange fellow, a healer, religious, almost born-again—and wherever he went, his mother went, too. Needless to say, I was a basket case of nerves the entire time I was in Bournemouth, and Sydney understood that I needed to relax. There were many indigenous pine trees on his property, and he suggested that I go outside and sit beneath one with a lukewarm cup of tea, breathe the pine-scented air, and focus on my concert that evening. He intimated that if I did so, my voice would improve. He said he would pray for me.
I tried for my high note that night, and wished I hadn’t. It sounded awful, and I was mortified.
A FEW WEEKS later I began work on another revue produced by Charlie Tucker, called Cap and Belles. Subtitled “The New Laugh, Song and Dance Show,” the name was a play on the “cap and bells” worn by medieval court jesters. It starred the comedian Max Wall (billed as “The Queen’s Jester”), who also wrote some of the music and lyrics. This time I was billed as “Britain’s Youngest Prima Donna.” I had two solo spots in the show, first performing a song called “My Heart Is Singing,” and later “La Dansa,” an Italian tarantella, which I sang, assisted by “Les Belles of the Ballet.” Though I enjoyed its passionate flavor, I didn’t understand a word of what I was singing. I wore a bilious green Spanish gown with a mass of red frills beneath a long train, and I carried a fan. I stamped my feet and swirled my skirt, kicking the red frills out of the way…a lot of Spanish attitude for an Italian song!
Max Wall was perhaps the most talented and cerebral of all the comedians I worked with. It wasn’t just that he was good, there was a definite aura about him; I would rank him as one of a handful of great clowns.
He had the requisite tragic face, mournful but sweet. His eyes were sad and slanted downward, but when he was being naughty, they were full of mischief. He had rather horsey teeth and a deep speaking voice which he could make sound quite sepulchral. His body was a little twisted, almost as if he had a deformity. He had a large head and very thin legs. When he performed his famous character “Professor Wallofski,” he dressed in black tights, a short jacket, and high-top leather shoes that looked too long for his feet. His backside stuck out, and with his hair pasted down either side of his face and his white pancake makeup, he looked grotesquely funny.
Offstage, he was a grave, dignified, and fairly absent man. One got the impression that he was moody and better left alone. I never saw him throw back his head with sudden laughter. I never saw him trade jokes. Onstage he was devastatingly cutting and funny, but one sensed a rage in him, which he channeled into humor.
Max was married at the time to a patient, pretty, and ever-present woman who seemed always to be knitting. My mother used to say that Max changed moods when there was a full moon, that he was slightly mad. He may have suffered from depression.
What I remember most is his extraordinary command of an audience. He needed only to appear in his odd costume with his strange chicken walk, and they would be in the palm of his hand.
A memorable part of his act was his attempt to sing “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” The orchestra would rush ahead of him and he would be stunned.
“Excuse me?” he would say. “Excuse me! Something is wrong here. Let’s do it once more.” They would start again, and at the identical spot the orchestra would race home. He’d then work himself up into a terrible tantrum.
“All right!” he’d say. “Let’s have the manager! Bring the manager on, please! I want to report this conductor is not behaving himself!” As he was throwing his weight about, he would back up into the curtain behind him, then suddenly leap forward as if someone had goosed him.
“Did you see that?” he would say to the audience, outraged. “DID YOU SEE THAT? Right in the middle of my performance!”
OUR SCHEDULE OVER the summer and autumn of 1953 was nothing less than grueling. We played a week each in more than thirty towns across the UK.
My father once said to me, “No matter how far abroad you travel, it’s important to know your own country first and foremost. Get to know it from top to bottom: the Pennines, the Lake District, the Broads, moors, rivers, history.” I was receiving just such an education.
Joan Mann was also in Cap and Belles, and by now we had become good friends. We roomed in the same digs, and we would go down to the theater together in the evenings.
These were the dying days of vaudeville. The provincial theaters were shabby beyond compare, filthy, with terrible facilities and chipped, cracked paint everywhere. The wood on the dressing tables was splintered, the floors were sticky, lightbulbs dusty.
My mother purchased several brightly colored tablecloths for me. I would lay one over the dressing table and pin another around the edge with thumbtacks to make an island of cleanliness and cheer. I would set out my makeup, mirrors, and pictures of the family.
I had an old traveling wardrobe trunk, which stood on end when opened. It had drawers and hangers and functioned like a closet. My everyday clothes were packed in cases, but the trunk held all my theatrical gear and, along with everyone else’s, it was collected by the stage management at the end of the week to be transported to the next venue.
On a Monday night in a new theater, before the first performance, I would go up to the wardrobe departmen
t and press my dresses, because there wasn’t always a wardrobe mistress, and even if there was, she always had so many other costumes to attend to.
I had an ankle-length organza dress with a mass of fake green flowers across the bosom. They would become crushed, and I would rearrange them to look fresh and iron layers and layers of tulle. There was a lot to be done, what with traveling, moving into and out of digs, vocal exercises, and doing two shows a night.
The audiences were so rowdy in some towns that the management turned on the houselights in the balconies in order to see what was going on. During the second house, on a Saturday night in Glasgow, drunks would throw bottles at each other. Onstage, I trilled louder than usual, my hands clasped in front of me, belting out my arias over the shouting and the fighting.
It never occurred to me that I might be gaining certain skills: how to cope with an audience, how to manage if they were unruly, how to survive in a theater so filled with cigarette smoke that it spiraled down the great spotlights onto the stage. (“Do not ever let me hear you complain about smoke affecting your voice!” my mother once cautioned.) It also never occurred to me that I was learning valuable techniques, albeit unconsciously, from the great vaudevillians that I watched night after night. Much, much later I was to discover that all this early work stood me in good stead and prepared me for everything that was to follow.
THE CORONATION OF Queen Elizabeth II took place on June 2, 1953, and all the theaters were closed that day. London was especially decorated for the event; flags were flying everywhere, and floral garlands hung from the lampposts. It was the first time in history that a coronation ceremony was televised, and there was a thrilling commentary by Richard Dimbleby, a well-known reporter much beloved in England, who had a rich, deep voice: “Here comes Her Majesty now, walking with immense grace, carrying the sceptre and orb…”
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