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 In the cinema Tony held my hand, but I was stiff and withdrawn, for I felt that he was becoming interested in a deeper relationship, which I wasn’t ready for.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 crutches, 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.