AFTER RED RIDING HOOD closed, I went out on the road again. Mum and I made a memorable trip to the Isle of Wight off the South Coast of England for a Sunday evening appearance at the Shanklin Theatre.

Royal Navy ships were moored in the harbor, and the theatrical performers received an invitation to go aboard their frigate after the show. We trooped down to the pier and climbed into one of the tenders. Mum was wearing high heels, which kept slipping through the holes in the wrought iron steps of the jetty. We were ferried over to the main ship and shown into the officers’ mess, where everyone was plied with drinks.

Mum was very much the life and soul of the party that night, and she got completely “plotzed” from the size of the Navy rations and the fact that there was no curfew on board. It must have been one o’clock in the morning before we left the ship. We settled Mum into the tender, but getting her out of the little boat, which was rocking in the swell, was not easy, and I had to push her up the same iron steps.

When we got back to our digs, she said, “I’m going to the loo,” which was at the end of a long hallway. After some time had passed and she hadn’t returned, I tiptoed down, very nervous of waking the landlady and causing a fuss. I tried the bathroom door. It was locked.

“Mum?” I whispered. No reply. “Mum!”

I heard a grunt from the other side.

“Open up. You’ve locked the door.”

She had fallen asleep on the john, and it took a while to awaken her and to encourage her to come back to our room. I managed to get her clothes off and put her on the bed, and she lay there, not wishing to turn the lights out. With some humor despite her condition, she groaned, “Oh, God. Over the bed, under the bed, anywhere but on the bed!”

The following day, I woke her and helped her dress for our trip home on the ferry. The ocean was rough, and her hangover was monumental. She was dreadfully seasick.

ONCE OR TWICE a year, Auntie held exams for her entire student body. She hired an examiner from the Royal Academy of Dance to come and test her ballet students, and another examiner came to judge her ballroom pupils. I was fairly good at ballroom dancing, because every chance I had, I would be in the studio joining the classes. I was excited about trying for my bronze medal, and with Tappets, who was a whiz, as my partner, I knew the exam would be a lead pipe cinch.

Mum, Pop, and I were booked for a rare appearance together in Morecambe, Lancashire, that evening, and I hoped to take the long-anticipated exam before we commenced the journey north. But Pop was anxious to get on the road.

“Julie’s got her exam this morning,” Aunt reasoned with him. “I’ll put her in first…”

Sadly, the examiner ran late. Pop kept saying, “We’ve got to go, we’ve got to go, we’ll never make it in time!” Right down to the wire, my mother was torn between letting me take this exam and getting me into the car. Eventually, Pop said, “We cannot wait any longer.” The pleasure of doing the exam was snatched from under my nose by minutes, and all the way to Morecambe I wept and sulked about it.

It wasn’t anybody’s fault, except perhaps the examiner’s, but it was a sad moment for me because passing the exam would have been so good for my ego. It was only a bronze medal, but I never had another chance to take the test.

ALL OUR ENGAGEMENTS were booked by Charlie Tucker, who had managed both my parents’ act and mine ever since Starlight Roof. He had an attractive top-floor office in Regent Street. Much like a good “dog robber,” his desk drawers were stocked with perfumes, nylon stockings, pens, and cuff links from the U.S., which he handed out as favors to his clients. When my mother came to visit, Charlie would give her a bottle of perfume or some nylons to take home with her. Once or twice he gave me a bottle of Carnet de Bal by Revillon, which is a fine perfume, warm and luxurious, and occasionally, he would slip me a big, English £5 note. He would also take us both to lunch, at elegant places like the Caprice, or the Savoy. I remember walking beside him in London, and it felt like we were standing on top of the world; no poverty, no unpleasantness. Lunch was special, with clinking china and silverware, soft lights, pink tablecloths, and attentive waiters—a glimpse of a world otherwise beyond reach.

Miss Teresa Finnesey was Charlie’s secretary. Everyone referred to her as “Finney,” and she was the classic sweet battle-axe straight out of Central Casting. She was a good Catholic woman who loved Charlie dearly, even though he drove her to distraction. She kept his office running smoothly and was always kind to me, but if she was in a bad mood or if she and Charlie were rowing…look out!

Sometimes Charlie would berate my mother if he saw that my socks had holes or weren’t especially clean.

“Barbara!” he would rant. “For God’s sake, how could you let her walk around like that!”

Charlie was responsible for sending me to a good American dentist working in London. I had a gap between my two front teeth and, alas, a crooked canine. I was fitted with a night retainer.

Because he went back to the States a couple of times a year, Charlie always kept me abreast of the latest shows on Broadway. He told me about The King and I, starring Gertrude Lawrence, saying what a phenomenal success she was. Then he said, “One of these days, Julie, you’ll be doing something like that, too.” I never believed him, of course.

When we saw a woman in a fur coat, he said, “You’ll have one of those before long.”

“A fur coat?” I replied, amazed. “I’ll never be able to afford that!”

“Julie, I promise you, by the time you’re in your late teens, you’ll have your first fur.” There was something about his blind faith in me that made me feel that it might actually be possible.

I complained to him once about my mother, and he admonished me.

“Yes, she is a difficult woman,” he said. “But she is your mother, and you must always show respect.”

“But she’s out at night drinking, she leaves us alone…,” I protested.

“Yes, but she is your mother, and you must never, ever bad-mouth her,” he repeated firmly. It stopped me in my tracks.

During those early years, Charlie was very good to me. I was a young, silly girl, and he groomed me in many ways. Were it not for him, I would never have been who I am today, and I thank him with all my heart for the things he did for me.