Home (20 page)

After the performance, Dilys said, “Come on, we’re going round to the stage door. We’ll wait until he comes out and then congratulate him.”

With reluctance I let her drag me round to the back entrance. Dilys thrust her way through the crowd of fans, and as David Blair appeared, she introduced herself. After all, we were British, and so was he!

He said, “Oh, you’re the girls who are in
The Boy Friend
, right? Well, come on back to our hotel. We’re going to have a drink.”

Giddy with delight, we followed him and went up to a drab room where many dancers from the company were gathered. Drinks were handed out in paper cups. Sitting on the floor, midst the crush of people, was an exquisitely pretty lady doing what it seems every ballerina does—sewing her toe shoes, reinforcing them, attaching the tapes. I sat down beside her. Her name was Svetlana Beriosova. She was utterly delightful, and we chatted together for the remainder of the evening. She had been born in Lithuania, had lost her mother at an early age, and her father was ballet master for the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. Svetlana and I became instant, lifelong friends.

OUR LEASE ON
the sublet was up, and Dilys and I moved to yet another apartment, which was a good deal nicer, with two bedrooms, on 57th Street, close to the East River. One night, along with some cast members of our company, Dilys arrived with Michael Kidd, the renowned choreographer of the film
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
, and the Broadway productions of
Finian’s Rainbow, Guys and Dolls
, and
Can-Can
. Everyone was enthralled to meet
the
Michael Kidd. He just sat in our midst, chatting amiably, seemingly unaware of his eminence. He was adorable—attractive, funny, and vital.

We didn’t meet again until I went to Hollywood. Michael and I worked together several times in the years since. He was a beloved mentor—many times I turned to him for advice—and he and his lovely wife Shelah and their family became tender and understanding friends to my present husband, Blake, and me. But that is a story for another time.

DILYS’S MOTHER CAME
to live with us. To my surprise, she was as gregarious as Dilys, and even competed with her daughter for the atten
tion of Dilys’ friends. Dilys would rail at her mother one minute, yet defend her the next, and was often reduced to tears. My heart went out to Dilys, for she was, to put it mildly, one difficult lady. I began to feel miserable. The woman was in our apartment, in my life, in my face, and making things awful for all of us. I considered moving to a place of my own, but couldn’t manage it financially.

Miraculously, Dilys and her mother eventually decided to leave, and Millie Martin moved in with me instead. Dilys and I share a bond of friendship to this day, but Millie and I were easy and compatible housemates and became great chums.

T
HE BOY FRIEND
was a tremendous learning curve for me. Working for a year on one role, I was able to test myself again and again, night after night. I learned how to cement the humorous moments in the show, and the value of being real when playing comedy.

Madame Stiles-Allen had taught me how to work on a problematic note in a song by strengthening the note before it. I was amazed and humbled to discover that this technique can be applied to many aspects of theater: drama, comedy, song, or dance. It seems to me that if a moment in one’s performance feels lost, it pays to take a look at the moment before it—to help set up and strengthen the troubling area. That year on Broadway was one of the best lessons in my life.

As my contract neared completion, I began to grow very excited about returning to London. Any problems that might be awaiting me at home were overshadowed by the thrill of seeing my family again after so long.

I received a phone call from a man called Dick Lamar. He told me that he represented the theatrical team of Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, and explained that they were working on a musical version of George Bernard Shaw’s classic play
Pygmalion
. I knew that these two gentlemen had written lovely musicals such as
Brigadoon
and
Paint Your Wagon
and, indeed, had seen both in London.

Mr. Lamar said, “I wonder if you could tell me how long a contract you have with
The Boy Friend
?”

“Oh, I’ll be heading home by October 1st,” I happily replied.

There was a slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone.
“My God!” Mr. Lamar exclaimed. “We assumed you had a two-year contract, like everyone else, and that you would not be available. I told Alan and Fritz that I’d make a phone call and find out for sure. It would only cost a dime.”

My God indeed! If I had agreed to that two-year contract originally offered me for
The Boy Friend
—if I had not remained adamant about doing it for just one year…Was it chance? Luck? Karma? So many times in my life, I seem to have been blessed with inexplicable good fortune.

It was arranged that I would meet with the author and lyricist, Alan Jay Lerner, and read for him. I do not remember where the reading took place or which scenes from the play I worked on. But I remember that Mr. Lerner was extremely charismatic and that his manners were exquisite.

I thought my reading was appalling. I was surprised when Mr. Lerner asked for a second meeting, and I believe I read some scenes from other plays with his assistant, Bud Widney. I remember becoming emotionally undone by some particularly moving passage and dissolving into tears as usual.

A few days later, I was invited to meet Frederick (Fritz) Loewe, the composer. Whereas Mr. Lerner seemed a complicated man and difficult to fathom, Mr. Loewe was the complete opposite. He was the older of the two and was all Viennese charm. He greeted me with a welcoming smile and gallantly kissed my hand.

He and Lerner sang and played for me some of the songs they had already composed for the show, including “Just You Wait” and “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.” I was captivated by what I heard.

Because I have a good ear, I was able to instantly sing one song for them then and there, which seemed to please them.

Shortly afterward, I was also asked to do an audition for the legendary Richard Rodgers, who was casting for his and Oscar Hammerstein’s new show,
Pipe Dream
. I went to a theater with Lou Wilson and handed the pianist my audition piece, “The Waltz Song” from
Tom Jones
. I had been asked to sing something other than a song from
The Boy Friend
…something more vocally challenging.

I was the sole person auditioning that day. The theater was dark, with
only the work lights for illumination; it felt cavernous and unfriendly. I stood on the stage, trying to see where Mr. Rodgers was sitting in the auditorium. I belted out the opening cadenza of my song as strongly and loudly as I could.

Mr. Rodgers came up onto the stage afterward and introduced himself. “That was absolutely…
adequate
,” he said. Then he smiled. “I’m teasing. Thank you so much for coming and singing for us.”

We chatted for a few minutes, then he said, “Have you been auditioning for anyone else?”

“Well, yes,” I replied. “As a matter of fact I’ve been speaking to two gentlemen, Mr. Lerner and Mr. Loewe, who I believe are putting together a musical based on Shaw’s
Pygmalion
.”

Mr. Rodgers looked at me for a long moment, then he said, “You know,
if
they ask you to do it, I think you should accept. If they
don’t
, I wish you would let us know because we would be happy to use you.”

I will never forget that moment. What amazingly generous advice from one of the most eminent men in the world of musical theater.

I was more nervous singing for Mr. Rodgers than I was meeting Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. It was heady stuff and it may seem, as I tell it now, that I was a little blasé about it all. I was aware how incredibly fortunate I was to be considered for these roles, but I was only just becoming familiar with the mores of Broadway and how high-powered it all was. I was young and green—an innocent abroad with blinkers on; a young girl from Walton-on-Thames who was, more often than not, preoccupied with matters of family. How could I recognize the enormity of the opportunities that were coming my way?

I could not know at that moment that I was about to undertake one of the most difficult, most glorious, most complex adventures of my life, or that I would be guided through the daunting forest of self-discovery by several of the kindest, most brilliant giants one could ever hope to meet. But I am running ahead of myself.

AMAZINGLY, THE OFFER
to appear in
My Fair Lady
came through. Despite the fact that this time I would have to accept the two-year
contract—and perhaps because Richard Rodgers had already bestowed a blessing upon the project—I agreed to it. Besides, I think Charlie Tucker and Lou Wilson would have strangled me if I quibbled in any way. But the forthcoming production seemed to tower over me, and it was probably just as well that I was blind to the enormity of what lay ahead.

The thought that I would be coming back to the United States within three months made my return home doubly precious. The pack-up was exhausting: there were trunks to fill with clothes, memorabilia, and gifts for the family. Other boxes had to be put in storage for my return, and there were good-byes to be said to the company. Strangely, I remember nothing about my last performance in the show.

Neil came down for that last weekend, but the night before my departure I was so weary that I fell asleep on him. I woke in the middle of the night to find him sulky and morose. He had been expecting a tender and loving farewell, and I had completely passed out from fatigue.

When I finally boarded the plane the next day, I had a breakdown of sorts. I suddenly felt freezing cold, then broke out in a sweat with a knife-sharp pain in my bosom. I’ve only experienced that feeling twice in my life, both times from complete and utter exhaustion.

By the time we landed in London, I was feeling a little better. My family was thrilled to see me, and it was a lovely time of telling tales and visiting with everyone. It was grand to see my siblings. Mum and Pop were indeed back together again, though I don’t recall that I saw much of him. He may have kept his distance—and I was certainly busy.

Soon after I returned to England, Neil followed. I believe he had a job offer. I knew in my heart that there was no point in discussing marriage anymore. We saw each other a few times in London, and I remember a taxi ride when we both agreed it was over.

Tony Walton had returned home from Canada in late 1954. Subsequently he had been studying at the Slade School of Art in London and was also working part-time at the Wimbledon Theatre, providing him
with a wonderful combination of idealistic training along with the basics—the nuts and bolts of practical theater.

I was invited to his twenty-first birthday party. I understood that he had a new girlfriend, and that took me by surprise. Although we had corresponded during
The Boy Friend,
it had never occurred to me there might be someone else in his life. (Pretty crass of me, given my own behavior with Neil.) But our friendship was so unique, the bond between us so unshakable; we were as much like brother and sister as anything else. I felt a part of his family, he of mine. This new girlfriend definitely seemed like an intruder to me. I went to his birthday celebration, but I don’t remember her being there.

At some point, Tony and I repaired to his room to chat, and I asked him if he still had a record album of
Daphnis and Chloe,
which had been one of our mutual favorites. He put it on the phonograph, and hokey as it sounds, that music helped make it perfectly obvious to us both that there was still a great deal of feeling between us.

Everything about Tony felt so safe, so reassuring, known and loved. After the confusion of the year in America and the seesawing relationship with Neil, it was a huge relief to be close to someone I knew—and who knew me—so well.

I WASN’T ABLE
to spend the entire three months at home. During the month of November, I flew to Los Angeles to appear with Bing Crosby in a television musical of
High Tor
, adapted by Maxwell Anderson from his drama of the same name. The music was by Arthur Schwartz, with lyrics by Anderson. It was my American television debut.

The trip to L.A. was pleasant enough, but it was a weird time in my life, almost a suspended moment. Lou Wilson planned to join me, but he could not get there until a couple of days after my arrival.

I landed at night in the vast, empty, sprawling city. My hotel was on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, with office buildings in every direction; no restaurants, no snack bars—nothing like New York or London. I began to unpack, and felt hungry. The hotel had no restaurant or
room service, so I called the hall porter, who offered to send out for a sandwich. I didn’t know where I was in relation to the city, and I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get around. I was relieved when Lou arrived.

Arthur Schwartz and his wife took me under their wing. They could not have been kinder—treating me as a young protégée about to be launched on a waiting world. They wanted to show me off and have me meet as many people as might help my career. A dinner was held for me at their house in Beverly Hills. It was a big gathering and I was asked to sing a couple of the songs from
High Tor
. Arthur played for me, and though I felt shy, everyone was friendly and appreciative.

The television show was daunting, to say the least. I knew nothing about film, and I remember the early morning makeup calls, my inexperience with cameras and close-ups.

Bing had been told that I was twenty-four years of age—four years older than I actually was, because the producers felt (probably correctly) that he would have thought me too young for the role and would never have hired me. He was a pleasant man, relaxed and easy in his own skin.

One day David Niven visited Bing on the set and we sat together for a while. I listened as these two very attractive and charming men reminisced about their early years, and I have seldom laughed as much. They were truly funny, and kept topping each other’s stories, which were witty and outrageous.

Many years later, my husband Blake made two films with David, and we often saw him at our home in Switzerland. We adored him. I don’t know anyone who didn’t.

Bing and I worked together well, though I felt my performance was very stilted. I was just readying myself to go home for Christmas, when Bing asked if I would like to go to the Rose Bowl with him and his family to see an important football game. I think he felt I might appeal to one of his older sons.

I replied, “Oh, it’s terribly nice of you, Bing, but I’ve got a huge amount of packing to do. I think perhaps I’d better stay and do that.”

He looked at me in total disbelief.

“I have tickets in the owners’ box and my sons will be there. It’s the playoffs—almost the biggest game of the year.”

I looked at him blankly.

“Well, it’s really lovely of you,” I said. “But honestly, I do have to pack.”

I was shy, and couldn’t imagine what I would say to his sons, so I went home. What a dummy. What an experience that would have been.

Bing gave me a lovely little pendant on the last day of shooting: a pearl-encrusted angel, inscribed “Julie, thanks. Bing.” Alas,
High Tor
was not a memorable piece, and received only lukewarm reviews.

CHRISTMAS WAS AT
home, as was the New Year.

Alan Jay Lerner writes in his wonderful autobiography,
The Street Where I Live
, that most of the cast of
My Fair Lady
planned to arrive in New York a week prior to the start of rehearsals on January 3, but I delayed traveling there until the last possible moment, because I’d had so little time with my family since returning from
The Boy Friend
in September. Alan couldn’t know the reasons behind my insistence on the delay, but I simply had to be home through the holidays, especially for Don and Chris.

Repacking with the knowledge that I was now going to be away for two years, my mind and emotions were in a state of chaos. The weight of responsibilities looming in every direction seemed more than I could shoulder. Though Tony had plans to join me in New York as soon as he could, I was once again deeply anxious about leaving the boys and my mother, and for such a long time. The situation at The Meuse had not changed. Who would keep them safe? Who would cheer them and help banish the bleak depression in the household?