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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 department 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…”

My family and I watched the ceremony at home and were enthralled by it, most of all by the young queen bearing the weight of the heavy seven-pound jeweled crown, and sitting for hours in her voluminous white satin embroidered gown. The music was glorious and inspiring—a full orchestra, massed voices, fanfares. It was a spectacular affair. Her Majesty’s speech to the nation was deeply moving; this lovely young woman, dedicating herself to the service of the British people. That night, all across Britain, just about every peak and hill had a bonfire burning atop it. Typically, my father went alone to the crown of Leith Hill, and privately pledged fidelity to his new queen.

WHENEVER MY MOTHER
and I were in London, we would drive down The Mall toward Buckingham Palace and look to see if the Royal
Standard was flying over the roof. (I still do. If the flag is raised, that means Her Majesty is home.)

“She’s
in,
” my mother would say.

“Gosh, I wonder if I’ll ever meet her,” I’d muse. “Do you think she’ll ever ask me to tea?”

“Well, maybe one day. If you try very hard.”

There were many glamorous events and galas during the time of the coronation, and my mother and I were invited to perform one evening at a hotel on Park Lane. We set off in Bettina, our trusty car. There was a low bridge on the way to London, where the road took a huge dip. We were decked out in our best attire, and as happens so often in England, it was simply teeming with rain. Ahead of us, under the bridge, was a vast body of water.

“Oh, just plow through it,” I advised Mum. “If we go fast enough, we’ll come out the other side.”

Mum gunned the engine, and Bettina came to a hissing stop right in the middle of the pool. Her motor had completely flooded. Dressed in our finery, we waded out of the deep water and stumbled to a garage to ask for the car to be towed to safety. We never did make the concert.

The beautiful and historic palace of Hampton Court on the river Thames was illuminated for the coronation and opened to the public. My mother, Pop, my brothers, and I went to view it. It was a balmy summer evening, with a strong scent of flowers in the air. The river nearby sparkled, reflecting the many lights. Strolling through the exquisite gardens under the stars, it was unbearably romantic. Everyone seemed to have a partner. I longed for someone I could share it with.

Tony was in Canada, and though he wrote practically every day, I think I missed him then more than I ever had before. The memory of that evening in Hampton Court is still seared on my brain today because it was so beautiful on that English summer night. I couldn’t bear that someone of Tony’s sensibility wasn’t seeing and sharing it with me.

D
URING THE TOUR
of
Cap and Belles,
I began to have serious doubts about my prospects for the future. I started to ask myself what I really had to offer, what I’d learned, what I hoped to achieve. I was now seventeen, still traveling endlessly, still singing the same songs night after night. My youthful “freak” voice seemed to be changing, and I worried what my appeal would be once I lost that gimmick.

My education had been pretty nonexistent, and I had learned no other craft. I was busy taking care of the family and bringing home the money, but I felt as if I was going around in circles. I had good instincts; I knew how to be decent and polite. But inside there was a locked-up individual, doing all the moves and trotting out the form like a hamster on a wheel.

Then, lo and behold, I was offered the title role in
Cinderella
at the London Palladium.

The theater has tremendous prestige and a great history. It was the jewel in the crown of the Moss Empires Corporation. Almost every American headliner has performed at the Palladium. It holds more than two thousand people, yet standing on the stage, one feels one can touch the entire audience. It is immaculate—nothing like the tacky vaudeville theaters I’d been playing in. It is also the best theater in London in which to see a pantomime.

Everything about that 1953/1954 production of
Cinderella
had a certain elegance. The show was glamorous and the costumes were fresh.
The staging was by Charles Henry, who had also been involved in
Starlight Roof
, and Pauline Grant was the choreographer.

Richard Hearne played Cinderella’s put-upon father; Max Bygraves, the now-famous comedian whom I had first met on
Educating Archie,
played Buttons, who was enamored of Cinderella; Adele Dixon was Prince Charming; and Joan Mann played the Prince’s Valet, Dandini.

Richard Hearne, that masterful clown, incorporated his Mr. Pastry character into his role, and he was totally endearing. The sketch he was famous for, and the audience waited for it, was “The Lancers”—an old-fashioned dance designed for a group of people, with a driving, jolly tune. Though Richard danced “The Lancers” solo, he performed it as if he were being pulled in every direction by a large and enthusiastic crowd.

Adele Dixon was married to a Cartier. The cast would show up in rehearsal clothes each day, and she would arrive wearing some exquisite suit made of wonderful fabric. Her trademark was a beautiful silk flower on her lapel—a chrysanthemum or a soft bunch of violets. She was perhaps a tad older than most people who played a principal boy, and she didn’t have the great legs that Joan Mann did—but what she didn’t have in pizzazz she made up for in style. She was an elegant, classy Prince Charming, and I was very admiring of her.

The production values on the show were terrific; there were revolving stages, and real white ponies pulling the spectacularly gilded coach. (The ponies were adorable, but had a phenomenal talent for taking a dump onstage whenever I had friends in the audience.) There was a glorious transformation scene when the Fairy Godmother worked her magic, enabling Cinderella to go to the ball. In the grand finale wedding sequence, my crinoline was so huge that I had to arrive backstage dressed in my bodice, sleeves, and petticoat, and walk into the crinoline skirt, which was braced on a stand because it was so bejeweled and cumbersome. The company, Prince Charming, and I were brought up from below stage on a hydraulic elevator, to be revealed in a sparkling white set and costumes for the final tableau.

Cinderella
was very successful, and we received great reviews. After the opening night my mother said, “Julie, this is the perfect part for you
at the perfect age. It couldn’t have come at a better time in your career.” I did two shows a day from December till March, and I loved it all.

Whoever plays the Palladium has a brass nameplate nailed to his or her dressing room door. At the end of the show’s run, the plaque is given to the actor in acknowledgment of having played the great theater. My dad took mine and set it on a wooden stand, and I have it to this day.

In spite of the success of
Cinderella
, I still didn’t feel that I would have an ongoing career. I could perform in radio, vaudeville, and pantomime—but I felt that with
Cinderella
, my career had peaked.

THERE WAS A
very successful musical play running in London called
The Boy Friend
, written and composed by Sandy Wilson. I hadn’t been able to see the show, because of my own performance schedule, but it had been playing to enormous popularity and huge success—so much so that two American producers, Cy Feuer and Ernest Martin, purchased the rights for Broadway. They were renowned for such blockbuster hits as
Guys and Dolls
and
Can-Can
. Since the London producers had no desire to release any of their talented cast members, Feuer and Martin decided to form an entirely new company for the Broadway production.

Charlie Tucker reported that a lady called Vida Hope, the director of
The Boy Friend
, was coming to see an afternoon performance of
Cinderella
. Later, I learned that Hattie Jacques—the kind comedienne who had been in
Educating Archie
—had suggested to Vida that she take a look at the young lead at the Palladium. Sandy Wilson accompanied Vida to the theater. The next thing I knew, I received a surprise offer of a two-year contract to play the role of Polly Browne in
The Boy Friend
on Broadway. I wonder if Hattie ever realized what a catalyst she was for me.

Given the fact that I was almost single-handedly holding the family together, that Pop was drunk a great deal of the time, that my mother was unhappy and my young brothers miserable, there was every reason not to go. As I have mentioned, I always had terrible separation anxiety about leaving home, and the prospect of being away from my family for two years tore at my heart.

I wrestled with the decision at length. How could I abandon everyone? It sounds a little grandiose, but I thought everything would fall
apart if I left. How would they manage? How would I manage on my own in a new, strange country? It wasn’t that I didn’t have ambition. It was just that
The Boy Friend
seemed an impossibility for me. The anxiety was paralyzing.

I decided to talk to my father. He visited The Meuse and we walked in the garden together. I became tearful as I told him that I didn’t know what to do about the offer to go to the United States—and for two whole years, for heaven’s sake!

“Chick,” he said gently, “I think you
should
go. It’ll be the best thing in your life, and look, it could last a mere two
weeks
…two months. No one can say for sure that it’s going to last two years. It’ll open up your head, and you will see America. You should not miss that opportunity.”

As always, he was the voice of reason.

Many years later, I asked him if it had been difficult to counsel me that way.

“I was dying inside,” he replied. “I knew that I would not see you for a while, and that was so hard. But I also knew that it was the best thing that could happen to you.”

I made my decision. With uncharacteristic stubbornness, I dug in my heels for the first time in my life and said to Charlie Tucker, “I
cannot
do it for two years, but I
will
do it for one.” Charlie was simply horrified and told me I couldn’t dictate to the American producers like that. But I was adamant, and with the hysterical feeling that comes from total panic, I said, “Look, I don’t care! If they don’t want me, that’s all right.”

I think I hoped that my insistence on a one-year contract instead of two would lead Messrs. Feuer and Martin to pass on their offer. To my great surprise, they agreed to my terms.