Home (15 page)

A
FTER
RED RIDING HOOD
closed, I went out on the road again. Mum and I made a memorable trip to the Isle of Wight off the South Coast of England for a Sunday evening appearance at the Shanklin Theatre.

Royal Navy ships were moored in the harbor, and the theatrical performers received an invitation to go aboard their frigate after the show. We trooped down to the pier and climbed into one of the tenders. Mum was wearing high heels, which kept slipping through the holes in the wrought iron steps of the jetty. We were ferried over to the main ship and shown into the officers’ mess, where everyone was plied with drinks.

Mum was very much the life and soul of the party that night, and she got completely “plotzed” from the size of the Navy rations and the fact that there was no curfew on board. It must have been one o’clock in the morning before we left the ship. We settled Mum into the tender, but getting her out of the little boat, which was rocking in the swell, was not easy, and I had to push her up the same iron steps.

When we got back to our digs, she said, “I’m going to the loo,” which was at the end of a long hallway. After some time had passed and she hadn’t returned, I tiptoed down, very nervous of waking the landlady and causing a fuss. I tried the bathroom door. It was locked.

“Mum?” I whispered. No reply. “
Mum!”

I heard a grunt from the other side.

“Open up. You’ve locked the door.”

She had fallen asleep on the john, and it took a while to awaken her
and to encourage her to come back to our room. I managed to get her clothes off and put her on the bed, and she lay there, not wishing to turn the lights out. With some humor despite her condition, she groaned, “Oh,
God
. Over the bed, under the bed, anywhere but
on
the bed!”

The following day, I woke her and helped her dress for our trip home on the ferry. The ocean was rough, and her hangover was monumental. She was dreadfully seasick.

ONCE OR TWICE
a year, Auntie held exams for her entire student body. She hired an examiner from the Royal Academy of Dance to come and test her ballet students, and another examiner came to judge her ballroom pupils. I was fairly good at ballroom dancing, because every chance I had, I would be in the studio joining the classes. I was excited about trying for my bronze medal, and with Tappets, who was a whiz, as my partner, I knew the exam would be a lead pipe cinch.

Mum, Pop, and I were booked for a rare appearance together in Morecambe, Lancashire, that evening, and I hoped to take the long-anticipated exam before we commenced the journey north. But Pop was anxious to get on the road.

“Julie’s got her exam this morning,” Aunt reasoned with him. “I’ll put her in first…”

Sadly, the examiner ran late. Pop kept saying, “We’ve got to go, we’ve
got
to go, we’ll never make it in time!” Right down to the wire, my mother was torn between letting me take this exam and getting me into the car. Eventually, Pop said, “We
cannot
wait any longer.” The pleasure of doing the exam was snatched from under my nose by minutes, and all the way to Morecambe I wept and sulked about it.

It wasn’t anybody’s fault, except perhaps the examiner’s, but it was a sad moment for me because passing the exam would have been so good for my ego. It was only a bronze medal, but I never had another chance to take the test.

ALL OUR ENGAGEMENTS
were booked by Charlie Tucker, who had managed both my parents’ act and mine ever since
Starlight Roof
. He had an attractive top-floor office in Regent Street. Much like a good
“dog robber,” his desk drawers were stocked with perfumes, nylon stockings, pens, and cuff links from the U.S., which he handed out as favors to his clients. When my mother came to visit, Charlie would give her a bottle of perfume or some nylons to take home with her. Once or twice he gave me a bottle of Carnet de Bal by Revillon, which is a fine perfume, warm and luxurious, and occasionally, he would slip me a big, English £5 note. He would also take us both to lunch, at elegant places like the Caprice, or the Savoy. I remember walking beside him in London, and it felt like we were standing on top of the world; no poverty, no unpleasantness. Lunch was special, with clinking china and silverware, soft lights, pink tablecloths, and attentive waiters—a glimpse of a world otherwise beyond reach.

Miss Teresa Finnesey was Charlie’s secretary. Everyone referred to her as “Finney,” and she was the classic sweet battle-axe straight out of Central Casting. She was a good Catholic woman who loved Charlie dearly, even though he drove her to distraction. She kept his office running smoothly and was always kind to me, but if she was in a bad mood or if she and Charlie were rowing…look out!

Sometimes Charlie would berate my mother if he saw that my socks had holes or weren’t especially clean.

“Barbara!” he would rant. “For God’s sake, how could you let her walk around like that!”

Charlie was responsible for sending me to a good American dentist working in London. I had a gap between my two front teeth and, alas, a crooked canine. I was fitted with a night retainer.

Because he went back to the States a couple of times a year, Charlie always kept me abreast of the latest shows on Broadway. He told me about
The King and I
, starring Gertrude Lawrence, saying what a phenomenal success she was. Then he said, “One of these days, Julie, you’ll be doing something like that, too.” I never believed him, of course.

When we saw a woman in a fur coat, he said, “You’ll have one of those before long.”

“A
fur coat
?” I replied, amazed. “I’ll never be able to afford that!”

“Julie, I promise you, by the time you’re in your late teens, you’ll
have your first fur.” There was something about his blind faith in me that made me feel that it might actually be possible.

I complained to him once about my mother, and he admonished me.

“Yes, she is a difficult woman,” he said. “But she is your mother, and you must always show respect.”

“But she’s out at night drinking, she leaves us alone…,” I protested.

“Yes, but she is your
mother,
and you must never, ever bad-mouth her,” he repeated firmly. It stopped me in my tracks.

During those early years, Charlie was very good to me. I was a young, silly girl, and he groomed me in many ways. Were it not for him, I would never have been who I am today, and I thank him with all my heart for the things he did for me.

I
N LATE OCTOBER
of that year, Pop managed to procure three seats for a preview of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
South Pacific
, starring Mary Martin and Wilbur Evans, and as yet relatively unknown actors Larry Hagman (who was Mary Martin’s son and played Yeoman Herbert Quale) and Sean Connery (a mere chorus boy at the time). It all happened quite suddenly. Pop said, “We’ve got tickets—we’re going,” and Mum, Pop, and I set off for a night on the town, which was a rare occasion in itself.

The show was wonderful. What a difference between the tackiness of vaudeville and a legitimate American musical at the famous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Mary Martin was enchanting as Ensign Nellie Forbush—washing “that man right out of her hair,” onstage, no less!

Wilbur Evans, a lovely baritone, played opposite her as Emile de Becque, and sang the glorious ballads “Some Enchanted Evening” and “This Nearly Was Mine.” The male chorus performed “There Is Nothing Like a Dame” and brought the house down. There was a big orchestra, and the musical arrangements by Robert Russell Bennett were superb.

I will never forget the feeling of sitting in the packed theater watching that preview. I was in awe of it. Envious, too. I also felt a little hopeless. I thought I had neither the talent nor the experience to join that world. When the show opened, a week later, it captivated London.

ALTHOUGH I WAS
very busy in 1951, I was somehow able to keep up a semblance of a social life. I was still seeing a great deal of Tony and the
Waltons, and occasionally, when I went home for weekends, Mum would take us out for a summer drink to some lovely spot—a club, or a pub, on the river.

We sometimes visited a place called the Gay Adventure. Its lawns swept down to the River Mole, and though it was a bit of a white elephant, students from Auntie’s dancing class as well as Auntie, Uncle Bill, Tony, his brother and sister, and I enjoyed going there.

Early one beautiful summer evening, when everyone else was drinking indoors, Tony and I walked down to the river. We lay on the grass under a tree and chatted. At one point, Tony said, “Look at the pattern of lace the leaves make against the sky.”

I looked at the canopy above us, and suddenly saw what he saw. My perspective completely shifted. I realized I didn’t have his “eyes”—though once he pointed it out, it became obvious. It made me think, “My God, I never
look
enough,” and in the years since, I’ve tried very hard to look—and look again.

WHEREVER I WAS
working, I would do everything I could to get home between gigs, even for twelve hours. I had horrible separation anxiety while I was away, always worrying and wondering. Would my mother be all right? How were the boys holding up? I would travel all the way down from the north of England to spend just one day with the family, returning the next day for another week’s work. Whenever I made it home, Mum would do whatever she could to make it special. There’d be a big Sunday lunch, and Dingle and Auntie would be there. They’d try to stoke me up with love and attention.

Around this time, Mum had a hysterectomy. It was a miserable time for her, and she was away for a few days. Pop was drinking again. Not on a binge, but certainly drinking. I felt I had to be alert, careful.

I was in my bedroom one evening, just about to climb into bed, when he came in, ostensibly to check on me because my mother was away.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

I noticed that he smelled of alcohol and was breathing heavily. He stood in the center of the room, said good night, and moved to kiss me on the cheek. Suddenly, he said, “I really must teach you how to kiss
properly,” and kissed me full on the lips. It was a deep, moist kiss—a very unpleasant experience.

Somehow I got him out of the room, pushed him maybe, saying, “Good night, Pop,” minimizing the assault. I closed the door and climbed into bed.

Ten minutes later, he came back in. I was burrowed beneath the covers, facing the wall. He leaned over me and tried to kiss me again. I rolled nearer the wall and mumbled, “I’m
really
sleepy. Good night, now!”

Whatever decency was left in that befuddled brain of his made him leave. I prayed he wouldn’t come back and, mercifully, he didn’t.

The next day, I mentioned the incident to Aunt Joan. She didn’t make a great fuss about it, but her lips pursed and she said, “I see. Well…I’ll speak to Uncle Bill about it and we’ll come up with something.”

She was obviously very concerned, because by that evening Dingle had put a bolt on my door.

Pop did try to visit again that night, but obviously couldn’t get in. He was puzzled as to why the lock had been installed. I don’t know what I said, except perhaps that I needed my privacy. I do know that the lock made me feel a little safer, though he could easily have broken it.

My mother returned, horribly beat up from her operation. Her muscles were so weak, and I helped her try to climb the stairs so that she could rest in her bedroom. Her legs just wouldn’t support her, and she was alarmingly fatigued. She sat on the stairs, overcome with depression, and simply wept. I rushed to get her a cup of tea and she sat awhile, drinking it slowly, then, still seated, she carefully eased herself backward up the remaining steps. My heart ached for her.

Aunt must have told her about the incident with Pop. Mum never discussed it with me, but all hell let loose between her and my stepfather. There was a strained feeling in the house, an icy coldness between my parents.

My relationship with Pop after that was more distant than ever. He never tried anything with me again, and I did my best never to be alone with him.

MY MOTHER SELDOM
talked to me about sex, but one day we were chatting about Tony Walton and she suddenly said, “You know he’s such a nice boy. I suspect he’ll make a great lover one day.”

“EEEEUW Mum!” I protested. “I’m not interested in that. He’s just a
friend
.”

But I was aware that my body was changing: my breasts were budding, my waist was tiny, my legs long (albeit still bandy!). I remember being suspicious and careful with men when they were near me. Dingle gave me a big hug—he often did—but it suddenly didn’t feel right anymore. Charlie Tucker gave me a fond squeeze when I was in his office, and I shrugged him away. Maybe the encounter with Pop had left its mark.

Fortunately I also became aware that I had a sense of humor, and I realized with some delight that I could make the family laugh. I don’t know how I discovered I could do it; maybe I’d been exposed so often to the humor in vaudeville. My antics and impersonations would make everyone smile and giggle. It made my brothers feel better, the whole family seemed to enjoy it, and it gave me a new sense of control over my environment.