WE PLAYED TWO performances every night but Sunday, with no matinees, for a total of twelve shows a week. It quickly became obvious that I could not attend school regularly, so a tutor was hired for me. The London County Council, which protected children in the theater up to the age of fifteen, insisted that I have a chaperone to and from the theater, as well as a private dressing room. I was also not allowed to take a final curtain call with the company, since the law stated I could not appear on stage after 10 P.M. Historically, children in the theater had been treated appallingly—so the government had strict rules under the Child Labor Law.

My first tutor was a young, pretty, ineffectual woman, whose name I don’t recall. I walked all over her, claiming that I was far too busy to do homework. Within two months she was gone, and a new tutor, much older, by the name of Miss Gladys Knight was hired—and she brooked no excuses. She was a disciplinarian, a darling, and a good teacher. We worked together for four hours every day, and I finally began to get the education I should have had all along.

It became increasingly difficult for Mum to travel up to London with me every evening, so sometimes Uncle Bill came with me, sometimes Aunt Joan, and then eventually, as the year continued, a lady called Mickey Smith was engaged to become my chaperone.

“Auntie Mickey,” as I called her, was a genteel spinster. Her sister was nanny to Lord and Lady Rupert Nevill’s children, which Mickey flaunted, albeit discreetly. She was a plain woman, who had a large gap between her teeth, and blinked a lot behind her thick spectacles—but she knew a great deal about being appropriate.

She said, “Julie, your nails are appalling. I shall give you a manicure, but I want you to scrub them completely clean before I start to file them.” I returned to the sink several times before she was satisfied.

It seems I was belting out my aria twice nightly with dirt under my fingernails, holes in my socks, and looking scruffy beyond words. So between shows, after my homework was completed, she would push back my cuticles and polish my nails or give me a pedicure. My hair was brushed and braided, my outfit pressed and kept clean, and in general I looked a lot better. I was grateful for the attention.

Auntie Mickey lived in Surbiton, three stops before Walton on the railway line. At the end of each evening, we’d get on the train together in London and she would get off first at her station and I would go on alone to mine. My family would pick me up from there, or I would walk home.

I began to rate myself in terms of how well I sang each night. I kept a little book, writing “X” for excellent or “Fairly Good” or “TERRIBLE.” Because I had to manage that F above top C twice a night, I developed an excruciating habit of testing and re-testing the high note to make sure it was always there. I must have driven everyone crazy, because eventually a complaint was made to the stage manager. But I needed to ensure that my voice was lodged and secure, particularly if I wasn’t feeling very strong.

There were nights when my voice did not hold up, of course. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally I swallowed or gargled my top note from either sheer fatigue or stress. Truthfully, I think that performing an aria twice a night for a year was more than any twelve-year-old should have been doing. I had the facility, but there were nights in the smoke-filled theater (and everybody smoked in those days) when my vocal cords dried up and the famous top F didn’t come out as well as it should have. On other nights, it was as easy as could be.

I had at least two hours between my appearances, since I was in the first half of the show and then had to wait through the second half plus the interval between the shows. After I’d done my homework, my chaperone and I would sometimes go out into Leicester Square for a meal—usually to a chain restaurant such as Quality Inn or Forte’s. Leicester Square was gaudy, pungent with smells and bright with neon, but it was always a treat for me.

Uncle Bill—“Dingle”—was my favorite chaperone, because he would often take me to a movie between shows. There was a cinema in nearby Charing Cross Road that just showed cartoons, and I had the best time watching an hour of Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, and all the great animated funnies from America. After this happy distraction, we’d go back to the theater, I’d sing my song again, and be taken home.

When my parents escorted me up to London, they would go to the Backstage Club between shows, a theatrical hangout where they could drink and socialize. Because I was underage, I wasn’t allowed in the club, so I would have to stay in the hall—where I could smell and see the bar and hear the clink of glasses.

The Backstage Club had one of those wonderful cage elevators, which was operated by a lever. One had to anticipate exactly when the elevator would align with the floor of one’s choice. The porter, an old man in a shabby uniform, befriended me and would let me try operating the lift, and I became pretty good at conveying customers up and down.

Driving home with my parents at night, I would notice elegant women standing in doorways or walking the streets of Mayfair. On foggy nights when London was blanketed by a pea souper, these mystery ladies would lurk on corners or stand near the curb.

“Those are prostitutes,” Mum would explain.

When I grasped what they were all about, I asked, “But where do they go? Where do they live?”

“They probably have little apartments somewhere, or they get taken into the hotels,” Mum replied. The area was pretty notorious—Shepherd’s Market and Park Lane especially. The ladies struck me as being sad, somewhat mysterious, and no end intriguing.

DURING THE YEAR I was in the show, I developed the most intense crush on our headliner, Vic Oliver. In truth, he was probably older than he looked—with a balding patch in his hair—but he seemed totally suave, wore an immaculate white evening jacket, and to me, seemed the epitome of class and style. He was married to Winston Churchill’s daughter, Sarah, and appeared to travel in upper-class circles—always going to supper after the show accompanied by a group of friends. I found myself fantasizing about him and became a terrible groupie, hanging around the stage door for the chance to say good night to him. I didn’t know Pat Kirkwood very well, but I did get to know her understudy, Jeannie Carson. Jeannie was a member of the chorus, and was pretty and petite. She took over from Pat several times and was much loved by the company. I later worked with her again, and eventually she made quite a name for herself in English musical theater.

And there was Michael Bentine. Michael was attractive and brilliant, a young comedian with a shock of black hair and an enormous toothy smile. He had two appearances in the show, both times playing a frenetic, dedicated salesman. In the first segment, he attempted to convince the audience to purchase a toilet plunger by showing its many possible uses: a peg leg, a hat, or the electrical conduit from a tram to its wire. Later in the show he came back on with the upper half of a chair, extolling the many functions of its lattice woodwork.

While performing in Starlight Roof, Michael met and wooed a beautiful young ballerina in the chorus, Clementina, who was Marilyn Hightower’s understudy. Later, Michael and Clementina married, and I became godmother to one of their sons, Richard. Michael went on to have a wonderful career uniting with Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe, and Peter Sellers as founding members of The Goons, brilliant performers who were the precursors of the Monty Python gang. Michael was eccentric, energetic, and enthusiastic. One could not help loving him, and he became a lifelong friend.

DURING THE EARLY part of our run, a recording company expressed some interest in me, and I made several 78 acetate discs. I did the “Polonaise,” of course; the love song from Romeo and Juliet; another song called “The Wren”; and with Pop, I recorded “Come to the Fair.” One song, based on the Theme and Variations by Mozart with the title “Ah! Vous Dirai-je Maman,” had the most incredibly difficult coloratura passages and long cadenzas.

I was also invited to do a screen test for Joe Pasternak, a big film producer from the U.S. who had made all the films starring Deanna Durbin. Deanna was a popular young soprano in Hollywood, and I was often compared to her.

The screen test took place at MGM Studios in Elstree. A lot of still photographs were taken, but it soon became apparent that they needed to gussy me up a bit because I was so exceedingly plain. The hair department curled my hair into ringlets and I ended up looking like a ghastly version of Shirley Temple. We pressed on.

For the screen test itself I sang a song, then I talked to Mr. Pasternak on camera, and finally I performed a little scene. The storyline was that I was being tucked into bed by my mother, and we discussed the fact that my father had disappeared and not been home for years and years. (This made me tear up, which was embarrassing.) As I was lying in the bed, almost asleep, the door opened, a man entered, and I sat up with arms outstretched and cried, “Daddy!”

Suffice it to say that the end result was so bad that had it ever emerged, I might never have worked again. The final determination was “She’s not photogenic enough for film,” and that was the end of that.

SUBSEQUENT TO THE screen test fiasco, my mother decided I had better get some acting lessons, and for a while the local drama teacher came over to The Meuse to tutor me. I remember working on the death scene from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

“Nurse? What should she do here?” I’d emote. “My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial!”

I was absolutely awful—nothing was thought out, there was nothing behind my eyes. I could actually see this poor lady gritting her teeth at the amateur theatricality of it all. Not that she was much help; she gave me no technique to work it through, simply, “Move here, do this, now say it for real.” It seemed another hopeless enterprise.

Mum also signed me up for piano lessons again, this time with an ex-pupil of hers who lived in the village.

Although the lady was adept at teaching the scales—the sharps, the flats, the fingering—the ironic problem was that I had such a good ear. I would pick up every piano piece too quickly and then not follow through on the actual reading of the music. I raced ahead of myself, learning everything by heart. I’m ashamed to say that to this day I do not read music well.

I must have played well enough, since I was entered for an early grade exam. I was certain I would fail because of my inability to read music, but I performed my Clementi pieces with great flourish, and the examiner seemed fairly impressed. To my total surprise, I won the top grade for that exam in the whole of Surrey. I was astounded—somehow I got a “highly commended,” and I received a book based on the life of Schubert as a prize from the county.

Of course my mother was pleased, but I remember ruefully thinking, “I still can’t read music.”