WIN HAD GIVEN birth to a baby girl in September of 1945—my half sister, named Celia. I have no recollection of the day she was born, though I knew Win was expecting a baby. At first I was not happy that there was another little girl in my dad’s life. As she grew older, Celia may have felt the same way about me. We’ve subsequently become very close indeed, but with roughly ten years’ age difference between us, initially it was difficult.

MUM, POP, AND I went to entertain the American troops at one of their army bases. Although the war was over, there were still many American personnel stationed in England. The evening was fascinating. We gave our little concert and received a mild response. I suspect a drawing-room musical performance was not the most stimulating act the young men could have seen, and they seemed vaguely restless—perhaps puzzled by the young girl singing her coloratura aria. Not your average, everyday troop entertainment. Afterward, we were given a bang-up dinner in a vast cafeteria: a huge T-bone steak for each of us, French fries, veggies, salads, and pie à la mode. I’d never had such a meal.

DAD TOOK JOHNNY and me for a picnic on the river one day. Our boat was moored to a willow, and we were lazing around having crisps and sandwiches. Four or five noisy teenage lads came down to the water’s edge, much to Johnny’s and my annoyance, since they were interrupting our idyllic time with Dad.

The boys decided they would swim out to a barge anchored in the middle of the stream—all except for one lad who declined. The others teased him so unmercifully that he felt compelled to join them. My father became suddenly alert. The boy—who obviously could barely swim—began to flounder, and he went under, surfaced, then went under again. My dad said, “Oh my God. You two stay on the boat. Do not move.” He dived overboard fully clothed and rescued the lad, bringing him back to the riverbank and tending to him. Then he really laced into the others and advised them to get the boy home immediately.

During this last process, Dad was without his pants; he had kicked them off in the river since they were weighing him down, so he had to travel home on the bus with a towel around his middle, which was as embarrassing for him as it was for us. But still we thought him a god, because he’d saved the boy’s life.

Another day, Dad took us all—Johnny, me, and Celia—down to Eastbourne. We arrived at the beach, and Dad disappeared to change behind a rock. He then waded into the sea, Johnny and little Celia close behind. Not wanting to hurt or disappoint him, I bravely waded in too. It was blowing and bitterly cold, but when I came out of the water, teeth chattering, I smiled and said, “Oh, Dad, this is the stuff of life!” I don’t know why I said it—maybe because I knew it would please him, maybe because it was a healthy dose of reality or there was triumph in having overcome the freezing, piercing quality of the wind. But Dad never forgot it. He quoted me often and took it to mean that I really loved those kinds of activities—and I guess I did. But I was always a bit of a softie.

ON MAY 12, 1946, my mother gave birth to my youngest brother, Christopher Stuart Andrews. Once again, Mum went to Rodney House, the maternity hospital in Walton.

This time I stayed with family friends in the village, Madge and Arthur Waters. Arthur was our local bank manager. His wife, Madge, a strong, stout woman, was a member of the local Red Cross. They had two daughters, Virginia (Ginny) and Patricia (Trisha), the girl I danced with in Auntie’s production of “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” and who remains my good friend to this day.

The happy news was that I was now old enough to visit Mum in the maternity hospital. The first time I did so, Chris was placed in my lap and promptly peed in it…a bonding of sorts.

When Mum and baby finally came home, it became obvious that the Beckenham house was no longer big enough.

Mum and Pop started making regular visits back to Walton-on-Thames to scout for a new home. Mum’s love for Walton had never gone away—it represented safety, roots, everything she yearned for. Besides, their vaudeville act was doing well, and they were presumably ready to take a chance and step up in the world.

On these trips, they would always stop to have lunch or tea with friends, then go off to look at houses in the area. I was left to play with Trisha Waters at her house, or at the home of Gladys and William Barker.

Gladys was my mum’s closest friend. Smart and genuine, she had married William, who came from a long line of farmers and who had a wonderful market gardening establishment called Rivernook Farm. They were people of the land and as real and good as they come. Uncle Bill was bombastic, larger than life but generous to a fault, and relied on his wife completely.

They had a daughter a year younger than me named Susan, and a son, John. The Barkers loved kids, and they had a dress-up box—a huge trunk full of old clothes and trinkets, fake jewelry, paper hats, and Christmas crowns—and best of all, they had a summerhouse in their garden, a tiny place with a very small verandah jutting out under the roof. It made a perfect little theater.

Thus began a period of creativity for us girls—Trisha, Susan, and me. We put on plays for our families, and all their relatives, plus whoever happened to be around, including the farmhands.

Being totally bossy, I always wrote, directed, and starred in the plays, which featured lots of swashbuckling, gypsies, and princesses. I would write furiously for the first hour or so of my visit, then time would run out on us, at which point Sue, Trish, and I would make up the rest of the play as we went along. Our audience was asked to sit on garden chairs on the lawn. We’d put on makeup and costumes from the trunk and act our heads off, hamming it up for all we were worth. Our efforts were rewarded by generous, hearty applause. We’d charge a penny a ticket, thinking we’d donate the proceeds to a nearby camp for German prisoners of war, so that they could buy socks—but we never made enough money to buy even one pair.

The Barkers’ farm was situated between the river and one of the main roads to London, and whenever we passed by, it was a joy to see the orderly fields of fat cabbages, or row upon row of pale green lettuce. One section was always planted with flowers—sometimes nothing but tulips—and they blazed across the fields. Another time it would be a great swath of daffodils, or narcissi.

William had big green vans with “Wm. Barker & Son” printed in gold on the side. They would be carefully packed with boxes of vegetables and flowers, then driven up to London in the middle of the night in order to sell the goods at Covent Garden by five or six A.M. Poor Bill didn’t get much sleep in those days, but the idea of getting up in the middle of the night, loading up, and going in a convoy to London seemed like fun to me.

One day, Mum said with great excitement, “We’ve purchased a new house, and you are going to love it. It has two acres of ground and there’s even an owl in the garden.” The thought of an owl hooting in the middle of the night was a scary one, but Mum’s excitement about the place was palpable. The house was to become what I now think of as the real home of my childhood.