Home: A Memoir of My Early Years
"A frank, intriguing memoir."
--People "Painfully shrewd, and written with real delicacy and pathos."
--The New York Times Book Review "Home reflects the very qualities that first made the working-class English singer a star 45 years ago: intelligence, gentle humor, and a clear, sweet, surprisingly powerful voice . . . In warmly nostalgic later chapters, the book begins to glow."
--Entertainment Weekly "A delightful remembrance of her own childhood, and an engrossing prelude to her cinematic career . . . Andrews is an accomplished writer who holds back nothing while adding a patina of poetry to the antics and anecdotes throughout this memoir of bittersweet backstage encounters and theatrical triumphs."
--Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Frank and fascinating . . . Andrews comes across as plainspoken, guilelessly charming and resoundingly tough."
--Time In Home: A Memoir of My Early Years, Julie Andrews takes her readers on a warm, moving, and often humorous journey from a difficult upbringing in war-torn Britain to the brink of international stardom in America.
the stage, and when one walked onto the set, and was blasted by an additional barrage of light from the front, the result was a visual blackout. We simply couldn’t see a thing; there was such a blur of brightness that we literally had to look at our feet to get our bearings, and had to be careful where we were going. We got used to it over time. I occasionally went to sit in the front of the theater during the odd moments I wasn’t needed. The combination of Oliver’s sets and Adrian’s costumes,
alerted to the possibility of trouble by a toothache, which always seemed to presage Moss’s attacks. He collapsed in his driveway while heading for the hospital, and died instantly. It was simply devastating. He was only fifty-seven years old. Before I departed for California, Moss had visited the theater several times, and one night he came to my dressing room and presented me with his own copy of Lady in the Dark. He asked if I would be interested in doing a new production of it onstage, and
boiler. Certainly it was hot, even stifling. Two barred windows revealed a wall mere inches behind them. The place was freshened up with a coat of whitewash, and cots were brought in for this “someone” and me. After the first twenty-four hours, we kept the lights on all night, as rats would emerge and creep along the pipes. My mum and Ted continued to go away at times, performing various gigs. They were probably just overnight trips—but life seemed empty and I felt very alone. I missed my
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
rotation; glasses first, plates next, then cutlery and, last of all, the saucepan that had been soaking all along. Becky’s tuition was helpful, since housekeeping was something I didn’t have time for. Becky’s main task was to clean for the English lord who lived in the apartment above us—Viscount Margesson. He was tall, dignified, and had a wonderful plummy voice. Becky idolized him. I asked her if she knew a good laundry. She replied that I needed a personal laundress, and that she had a