IN LATE OCTOBER of that year, Pop managed to procure three seats for a preview of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s South Pacific, starring Mary Martin and Wilbur Evans, and as yet relatively unknown actors Larry Hagman (who was Mary Martin’s son and played Yeoman Herbert Quale) and Sean Connery (a mere chorus boy at the time). It all happened quite suddenly. Pop said, “We’ve got tickets—we’re going,” and Mum, Pop, and I set off for a night on the town, which was a rare occasion in itself.

The show was wonderful. What a difference between the tackiness of vaudeville and a legitimate American musical at the famous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Mary Martin was enchanting as Ensign Nellie Forbush—washing “that man right out of her hair,” onstage, no less!

Wilbur Evans, a lovely baritone, played opposite her as Emile de Becque, and sang the glorious ballads “Some Enchanted Evening” and “This Nearly Was Mine.” The male chorus performed “There Is Nothing Like a Dame” and brought the house down. There was a big orchestra, and the musical arrangements by Robert Russell Bennett were superb.

I will never forget the feeling of sitting in the packed theater watching that preview. I was in awe of it. Envious, too. I also felt a little hopeless. I thought I had neither the talent nor the experience to join that world. When the show opened, a week later, it captivated London.

ALTHOUGH I WAS very busy in 1951, I was somehow able to keep up a semblance of a social life. I was still seeing a great deal of Tony and the Waltons, and occasionally, when I went home for weekends, Mum would take us out for a summer drink to some lovely spot—a club, or a pub, on the river.

We sometimes visited a place called the Gay Adventure. Its lawns swept down to the River Mole, and though it was a bit of a white elephant, students from Auntie’s dancing class as well as Auntie, Uncle Bill, Tony, his brother and sister, and I enjoyed going there.

Early one beautiful summer evening, when everyone else was drinking indoors, Tony and I walked down to the river. We lay on the grass under a tree and chatted. At one point, Tony said, “Look at the pattern of lace the leaves make against the sky.”

I looked at the canopy above us, and suddenly saw what he saw. My perspective completely shifted. I realized I didn’t have his “eyes”—though once he pointed it out, it became obvious. It made me think, “My God, I never look enough,” and in the years since, I’ve tried very hard to look—and look again.

WHEREVER I WAS working, I would do everything I could to get home between gigs, even for twelve hours. I had horrible separation anxiety while I was away, always worrying and wondering. Would my mother be all right? How were the boys holding up? I would travel all the way down from the north of England to spend just one day with the family, returning the next day for another week’s work. Whenever I made it home, Mum would do whatever she could to make it special. There’d be a big Sunday lunch, and Dingle and Auntie would be there. They’d try to stoke me up with love and attention.

Around this time, Mum had a hysterectomy. It was a miserable time for her, and she was away for a few days. Pop was drinking again. Not on a binge, but certainly drinking. I felt I had to be alert, careful.

I was in my bedroom one evening, just about to climb into bed, when he came in, ostensibly to check on me because my mother was away.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

I noticed that he smelled of alcohol and was breathing heavily. He stood in the center of the room, said good night, and moved to kiss me on the cheek. Suddenly, he said, “I really must teach you how to kiss properly,” and kissed me full on the lips. It was a deep, moist kiss—a very unpleasant experience.

Somehow I got him out of the room, pushed him maybe, saying, “Good night, Pop,” minimizing the assault. I closed the door and climbed into bed.

Ten minutes later, he came back in. I was burrowed beneath the covers, facing the wall. He leaned over me and tried to kiss me again. I rolled nearer the wall and mumbled, “I’m really sleepy. Good night, now!”

Whatever decency was left in that befuddled brain of his made him leave. I prayed he wouldn’t come back and, mercifully, he didn’t.

The next day, I mentioned the incident to Aunt Joan. She didn’t make a great fuss about it, but her lips pursed and she said, “I see. Well…I’ll speak to Uncle Bill about it and we’ll come up with something.”

She was obviously very concerned, because by that evening Dingle had put a bolt on my door.

Pop did try to visit again that night, but obviously couldn’t get in. He was puzzled as to why the lock had been installed. I don’t know what I said, except perhaps that I needed my privacy. I do know that the lock made me feel a little safer, though he could easily have broken it.

My mother returned, horribly beat up from her operation. Her muscles were so weak, and I helped her try to climb the stairs so that she could rest in her bedroom. Her legs just wouldn’t support her, and she was alarmingly fatigued. She sat on the stairs, overcome with depression, and simply wept. I rushed to get her a cup of tea and she sat awhile, drinking it slowly, then, still seated, she carefully eased herself backward up the remaining steps. My heart ached for her.

Aunt must have told her about the incident with Pop. Mum never discussed it with me, but all hell let loose between her and my stepfather. There was a strained feeling in the house, an icy coldness between my parents.

My relationship with Pop after that was more distant than ever. He never tried anything with me again, and I did my best never to be alone with him.

MY MOTHER SELDOM talked to me about sex, but one day we were chatting about Tony Walton and she suddenly said, “You know he’s such a nice boy. I suspect he’ll make a great lover one day.”

“EEEEUW Mum!” I protested. “I’m not interested in that. He’s just a friend.”

But I was aware that my body was changing: my breasts were budding, my waist was tiny, my legs long (albeit still bandy!). I remember being suspicious and careful with men when they were near me. Dingle gave me a big hug—he often did—but it suddenly didn’t feel right anymore. Charlie Tucker gave me a fond squeeze when I was in his office, and I shrugged him away. Maybe the encounter with Pop had left its mark.

Fortunately I also became aware that I had a sense of humor, and I realized with some delight that I could make the family laugh. I don’t know how I discovered I could do it; maybe I’d been exposed so often to the humor in vaudeville. My antics and impersonations would make everyone smile and giggle. It made my brothers feel better, the whole family seemed to enjoy it, and it gave me a new sense of control over my environment.