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My stepfather actually did several things in an attempt to reach out to me. He built a tiny playhouse in the garden for me, really a shed, with a sloping roof. He added small leaded windows with colored panes. Everything inside was in miniature: little chairs, little desk, little everything.

I was grateful for the gesture, but I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gift. My mother supplied me with tiny cups and saucers to play “house” with, and I occasionally went out there, but it didn’t quite work somehow. I didn’t have any social life with children my own age, so no friends came to play. I was just out in the garden by myself, feeling a bit damp and cold.

In retrospect, everything was sad around that time. I was aware that Mum was feeling pressured and seemed more than a little out of sorts. What with a new baby, dealing with the divorce, being newly married to Pop and mediating between us, organizing a new house, and her classical talents being largely wasted—it’s no wonder she was depressed.

T
HE WAR ESCALATED
yet again. Barrage balloons, defending against low-flying aircraft, dotted the London horizon. Searchlights crisscrossed the night skies. Amazingly, in spite of the danger, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth stayed on at Buckingham Palace, to support the British public. Though they could easily have chosen to hide away in the country, they never did—and it was one of the things that made them so beloved by the English people. They visited bomb sites, they visited hospitals—they were a constant, comforting presence.

By the summer of 1944, the Germans were sending pilotless aircraft—literally flying bombs—known as “doodlebugs” to England. We would hear the pulsating drone of their approach, then there would be a sudden silence as the engine cut out, followed by an unforgettable whistling sound as the missile hurtled toward the earth. If the aircraft cut out directly overhead, one was reasonably sure of being safe, since the doodlebugs had a habit of veering at the last second. If they cut out some distance away, the danger was considerable.

I remember the nights especially. When the air raid sirens blared, we would either go into the big cupboard under the staircase or out to the shelter for safety. Mum would try to keep me in bed for as long as possible, saying, “No need to come down yet—I’ll tell you when!”

After a pause, I’d yell, “Mum! I think I hear the planes coming…”

“Yes, I’ll call when it’s time!”

Eventually we always went out to the shelter, because the raids were so relentless. Near the end of the war, no housewife could finish her
laundry, bake a cake, or make a meal without interruption, as the raids occurred day and night. The sirens would wail continuously, and the entire family would run for the shelter and stay there until the all-clear sounded. (To this day, when I hear the local fire station’s noon siren, I am reminded of that all-clear sound.)

My mother devised a time-saving idea. I was able to tell the difference between one of our own fighter aircraft and a German doodlebug. The minute the air raid siren went off, I was dispatched to sit on top of our shelter with a beach stool, an umbrella, a tiny pair of opera glasses, and a whistle. The opera glasses were absolutely useless, but I relied on my sense of sound, and the minute I heard the inevitable approach of a doodlebug, I’d blow my whistle. Mum, therefore, had a little more time to do what she had to do. She’d come running at the last possible minute and we’d all pile into the shelter. The bomb would drop, the all-clear would ring out, and we’d start all over again.

The trouble was that all the neighbors began to rely on my whistle, as well. The day came when it was simply teeming with rain and, despite the umbrella, I rebelled. A bomb dropped close by, and later there were quite a few people pounding at our door.

“Why didn’t she blow her bloody whistle?” the neighbors demanded.

From then on I
had
to do it.

One day, we were sitting in the shelter when my stepfather clattered down the steps.

“Come and look at this!” he said, and we went outside to witness a huge dogfight, taking place directly above us. It was scary to see it all going on right over our heads.

Sometimes we were in the air raid shelter all night. We would chat quietly, or listen for the airplanes, huddling down there, feeling claustrophobic and wondering if this was the day we were going to be hit. We’d hear the crunch of the bombs, and were truly blessed in that they only dropped in a circle around us.

ON JUNE
3, 1944, Dad and Win got married. For their honeymoon, they went to Brixham on the south Devon coast for a week, with Johnny in tow. They had a single room with a double bed, and Johnny
had to sleep with them. Win very nearly quit the marriage that first week for, according to her, Johnny was a “little bugger” and nothing was right. Somehow, they pulled through it. They used a small legacy that Win’s father had left her to buy a house in Chessington, Surrey.

I had met Win only once, when she was working at the Esher Filling Station. On my early visits to Chessington, I was resentful of the new woman in my dad’s life, but she tried very hard to make my time there special. She was also a marvelous cook.

While Win stayed home to prepare her meals, Dad would take us on expeditions. Johnny, then six, would ride on the back of Dad’s bike and I would ride my own. We’d go to the zoo, or we would cycle a fair distance to Surbiton Lagoon—a big, open-air swimming pool that was always perishingly cold. I wasn’t used to the outdoor life, and I often felt weak and sickly. Life with Dad and Win and Johnny could seem a bit too robust.

At Surbiton Lagoon, Dad taught me to swim. He was endlessly patient, but every time he let go of me, I’d go under the surface, gasping and taking in great gulps of chlorinated water. Johnny of course swam easily and well. At the end of each lesson Dad would leave Johnny and me in the shallow end while he went off to enjoy his own moment in the pool. He would climb to the topmost diving board in the deep end.

“There goes Dad!” we’d say, waving and feeling so proud as he executed marvelous swan dives, pikes, and jackknives. Dad would then come and fetch us, give us a rough, brisk towel-down—by now we were all goose bumps and blue—and then he’d buy each of us a hot chocolate and a doughnut at the Lagoon Café.

It was a somewhat painful experience: struggling to learn to swim, with the water so cold, being chilled to the marrow. But by the end of the morning, it felt so good to have done it and to have the treat afterward. In spite of the long ride home, it was always worth the effort—quality time with Dad.

I was promised a £5 note the day I learned to swim. In those days, a “fiver” was a large piece of white paper, thin like tissue, engraved with fine, beautiful calligraphy and with a tiny black thread of steel running through it, only visible when held up to the light. I remember the day
when my feet finally came up off the bottom of the pool and there I was, swimming alone! Dad was thrilled. I was thrilled. We went home to tell Win the good news and we had a celebration lunch. I was duly given my fiver—it felt like a lot of money—and a great fuss was made over me. From then on, swimming was great.

Bedtime in Chessington was another painful experience. Dad would tuck me into bed and read me a poem or a story, in his precise, beautifully modulated voice. I would lie there, watching as he leaned toward the bedside light, studying his profile, loving him so much, knowing that my return home was imminent and that he was giving me every ounce of himself that he possibly could. I would feel achingly sad, and try not to cry, knowing that my tears would cause him grief. I’d pretend to fall asleep while he was reading, so that I wouldn’t have to return his good-night kiss or hug, for a gentle touch would have done me in altogether.

One particular day I was about to return to Beckenham, and feeling utterly miserable, I stood in the tiny dining area attempting to collect myself. There was a thick cut-glass bowl on the sideboard and the sunlight was sending rainbow refractions off the glass. I thought that if I stared at the bowl long enough, hard enough, something about its sharp angles would stop me from crying. I stared and stared, willing the cause of my anguish to come from the crystal and not my head and heart.

Dad would be stoic. He’d say, “Chick, we’ll get together again as soon as we possibly can.” We didn’t speak on the phone much, for that was painful, too. But he kept every promise, and whatever date he said he was coming for me, he came.

AUTUMN ARRIVED, AND
lessons at the Cone-Ripman School began in earnest, which meant that I now had to go up to London every day. Aunt was still teaching dance at the school and living in her one-room apartment. Since I was only eight, it was decided that I would stay with her during the week while classes were in session, and go home to Beckenham at the weekends.

Uncle Bill was away in the Air Force, billeted somewhere, and Aunt and I were mostly alone together. I slept on a little cot; she had a single bed. Occasionally, Uncle Bill came home on leave, whereupon a screen
was put up in front of my cot. They would cuddle in the single bed, and Auntie, giggling, would call, “Julia,
turn
to the wall!”—a phrase that stuck with us over the years.

I never had the impression that Auntie was really in love with Bill, though she seemed glad whenever he came back. They made a handsome couple. He was a tall, good-looking man, with silver gray hair. He dressed immaculately, always sporting a good tie or cravat, and looking elegant in his beloved cricket sweater and whites whenever he wore them. His trousers had a perfect crease and his old shoes were polished to a shine. He was certainly dashing in his air force uniform; he was a flight engineer, plotting courses, operating the radio. He flew often, making sorties over Germany and France. If Aunt wasn’t completely in love with him, they made a good show of it. They both enjoyed ballroom dancing and shared a similar sense of humor.

Meals were pretty simple in Auntie’s flat. She was a fair cook, but money and goods were so scarce. I remember toasting bread on a fork in front of the gas fire. It smelled and tasted horrible, but it was better than plain old bread and it was warm in the winter. Because of war rations, we ate a lot of Spam—fried mostly, with a vegetable or potatoes. We had powdered eggs for breakfast sometimes, and Aunt made a good stew when she could.

I remember when I caught a cold, Aunt said, “Ah, the best cure for
that
is a boiled onion.” I
hated
onions and protested, but she said, “No, you’ll eat it. It will cure you.” She bought a huge white Spanish onion, boiled it, and drenched it in butter, salt, and pepper. Lo and behold, it tasted delicious. The butter helped, the salt helped—and to my surprise, the cold disappeared.

Cone-Ripman School kept Auntie and me on a pretty rigorous schedule. There were academic lessons in the mornings and ballet, tap, and character dancing in the afternoons. Miss Grace Cone was the principal ballet teacher and a real martinet, always banging her cane on the floor to emphasize the musical beats. Another teacher, Miss Mackie, was a tough woman and quite cruel. She taught the tap classes, and had no tolerance for anyone timid or unsure. I received the impression from her that I was simply hopeless. For some reason, she seemed to have it in for me. I could
tap fairly well—my feet did their stuff—but my arms were stiff and uncoordinated. I often elected to hide at the back of the class in hopes that she wouldn’t pick on me…but pick on me she did, and she was relentless.

I think my aunt felt the stress of teaching and of being responsible for me. She sensed I was unhappy. One day, she said, “Why don’t we just take some time off and go to the country and have a picnic? You choose when.” I chose a day when I would have had a lesson with Miss Mackie. The following morning when I returned to school, Miss Mackie questioned why I had missed the class. Aunt had told me to say that I hadn’t been feeling well, but Miss Mackie said, “I don’t believe it!” She wouldn’t let me off the hook. “Tell me the truth, tell me the truth, tell me the
truth
!” Finally I crumbled, and when I did tell the truth, I became violently ill, threw up, and was sent to the principal’s office to lie down. I was dizzy, sweating, and miserable. Miss Mackie came in. Putting her face close to mine, she hissed, “I
hate
liars.”

In the spring, just after I turned nine, Mum decided that I was old enough to try living in Beckenham full-time, and to take the train to London and back on a daily basis. Aunt met me at Victoria Station in the mornings, took me to school, and put me on the train home in the evenings. It was a half-hour journey by myself each way, and I soon became exhausted. Not only did I get up early to make it to London and then work at school all day, but after traveling back in the evening, I’d still have homework to do
and
my singing practice.

Not long after I moved back to Beckenham permanently, Auntie suddenly arrived at our door looking absolutely ashen. She was clutching a telegram in her hand, which announced that Bill had been shot down over France. He had evaded capture for twenty-eight days but had been caught and sent to a German prisoner-of-war camp, where he spent the remaining months of the war. It was not one of the more notorious camps, and mercifully, being an officer, he was not put to death. But we were all very concerned for him.

DURING THIS TIME
, Pop continued to give me singing lessons. Although he tried everything he could to make friends, I wouldn’t have any of it. I was shy, self-conscious, and overwhelmed by his physicality.
He seemed such a big man to me, and powerful. He was not tall, but everything about him was physical—he flexed his muscles, he chewed loudly and juicily, and sometimes breathed through his nose noisily. My father always seemed so gentle; Pop was strange, different, volatile at times. To a certain extent I was able to blank out the fact that I even had a stepfather. I refused to acknowledge that he and my mother were in the same bedroom; it was always just “my mother’s room.” I tried to live side by side with him, as if he were a temporary guest in the house, and I hated the singing lessons—absolutely
hated
them. He simply worked on basic vocal exercises with me, but I was also required to do a half hour’s practice every day on my own.

However, soon thereafter, I was taken to visit Pop’s voice teacher. Her name was Lilian Stiles-Allen, but she was always referred to as “Madame.” She had coached Pop when he first came to England from Canada, and she still occasionally gave him lessons. She was a short, very stout woman, with thick ankles, an ample backside, and a heavy bosom. There was a sort of “pouter pigeon” look about her. Her belt hung below her belly and was slung in a nice V, a little to the left of center. Always bejeweled, she dressed in long skirts to her ankles, and sensible lace-up shoes on tiny feet that looked too small to support the frame above. She walked with a strong cane and often donned a wonderful velvet cloak and beret. Her pretty face had several jowls, but her eyes were lovely. Though bulging slightly, their long, spiky lashes fanned her cheeks. Occasionally, she put on a fashionable hat of the times, usually with a great sweeping brim or a feather. She was imposing, yet gentle and kind, and she had the loveliest, most mellifluous speaking voice.