in front of the gas fire. It smelled and tasted horrible, but it was better than plain old bread and it was warm in the winter. Because of war rations, we ate a lot of Spam—fried mostly, with a vegetable or potatoes. We had powdered eggs for breakfast sometimes, and Aunt made a good stew when she could.
I remember when I caught a cold, Aunt said, “Ah, the best cure for that is a boiled onion.” I hated onions and protested, but she said, “No, you’ll eat it. It will cure you.” She bought a huge white Spanish onion, boiled it, and drenched it in butter, salt, and pepper. Lo and behold, it tasted delicious. The butter helped, the salt helped—and to my surprise, the cold disappeared.
Cone-Ripman School kept Auntie and me on a pretty rigorous schedule. There were academic lessons in the mornings and ballet, tap, and character dancing in the afternoons. Miss Grace Cone was the principal ballet teacher and a real martinet, always banging her cane on the floor to emphasize the musical beats. Another teacher, Miss Mackie, was a tough woman and quite cruel. She taught the tap classes, and had no tolerance for anyone timid or unsure. I received the impression from her that I was simply hopeless. For some reason, she seemed to have it in for me. I couldtap fairly well—my feet did their stuff—but my arms were stiff and uncoordinated. I often elected to hide at the back of the class in hopes that she wouldn’t pick on me…but pick on me she did, and she was relentless.
I think my aunt felt the stress of teaching and of being responsible for me. She sensed I was unhappy. One day, she said, “Why don’t we just take some time off and go to the country and have a picnic? You choose when.” I chose a day when I would have had a lesson with Miss Mackie. The following morning when I returned to school, Miss Mackie questioned why I had missed the class. Aunt had told me to say that I hadn’t been feeling well, but Miss Mackie said, “I don’t believe it!” She wouldn’t let me off the hook. “Tell me the truth, tell me the truth, tell me the truth !” Finally I crumbled, and when I did tell the truth, I became violently ill, threw up, and was sent to the principal’s office to lie down. I was dizzy, sweating, and miserable. Miss Mackie came in. Putting her face close to mine, she hissed, “I hate liars.”
In the spring, just after I turned nine, Mum decided that I was old enough to try living in Beckenham full-time, and to take the train to London and back on a daily basis. Aunt met me at Victoria Station in the mornings, took me to school, and put me on the train home in the evenings. It was a half-hour journey by myself each way, and I soon became exhausted. Not only did I get up early to make it to London and then work at school all day, but after traveling back in the evening, I’d still have homework to do and my singing practice.
Not long after I moved back to Beckenham permanently, Auntie suddenly arrived at our door looking absolutely ashen. She was clutching a telegram in her hand, which announced that Bill had been shot down over France. He had evaded capture for twenty-eight days but had been caught and sent to a German prisoner-of-war camp, where he spent the remaining months of the war. It was not one of the more notorious camps, and mercifully, being an officer, he was not put to death. But we were all very concerned for him.
DURING THIS TIME , Pop continued to give me singing lessons. Although he tried everything he could to make friends, I wouldn’t have any of it. I was shy, self-conscious, and overwhelmed by his physicality.He seemed such a big man to me, and powerful. He was not tall, but everything about him was physical—he flexed his muscles, he chewed loudly and juicily, and sometimes breathed through his nose noisily. My father always seemed so gentle; Pop was strange, different, volatile at times. To a certain extent I was able to blank out the fact that I even had a
I remember when I caught a cold, Aunt said, “Ah, the best cure for that is a boiled onion.” I hated onions and protested, but she said, “No, you’ll eat it. It will cure you.” She bought a huge white Spanish onion, boiled it, and drenched it in butter, salt, and pepper. Lo and behold, it tasted delicious. The butter helped, the salt helped—and to my surprise, the cold disappeared.
Cone-Ripman School kept Auntie and me on a pretty rigorous schedule. There were academic lessons in the mornings and ballet, tap, and character dancing in the afternoons. Miss Grace Cone was the principal ballet teacher and a real martinet, always banging her cane on the floor to emphasize the musical beats. Another teacher, Miss Mackie, was a tough woman and quite cruel. She taught the tap classes, and had no tolerance for anyone timid or unsure. I received the impression from her that I was simply hopeless. For some reason, she seemed to have it in for me. I couldtap fairly well—my feet did their stuff—but my arms were stiff and uncoordinated. I often elected to hide at the back of the class in hopes that she wouldn’t pick on me…but pick on me she did, and she was relentless.
I think my aunt felt the stress of teaching and of being responsible for me. She sensed I was unhappy. One day, she said, “Why don’t we just take some time off and go to the country and have a picnic? You choose when.” I chose a day when I would have had a lesson with Miss Mackie. The following morning when I returned to school, Miss Mackie questioned why I had missed the class. Aunt had told me to say that I hadn’t been feeling well, but Miss Mackie said, “I don’t believe it!” She wouldn’t let me off the hook. “Tell me the truth, tell me the truth, tell me the truth !” Finally I crumbled, and when I did tell the truth, I became violently ill, threw up, and was sent to the principal’s office to lie down. I was dizzy, sweating, and miserable. Miss Mackie came in. Putting her face close to mine, she hissed, “I hate liars.”
In the spring, just after I turned nine, Mum decided that I was old enough to try living in Beckenham full-time, and to take the train to London and back on a daily basis. Aunt met me at Victoria Station in the mornings, took me to school, and put me on the train home in the evenings. It was a half-hour journey by myself each way, and I soon became exhausted. Not only did I get up early to make it to London and then work at school all day, but after traveling back in the evening, I’d still have homework to do and my singing practice.
Not long after I moved back to Beckenham permanently, Auntie suddenly arrived at our door looking absolutely ashen. She was clutching a telegram in her hand, which announced that Bill had been shot down over France. He had evaded capture for twenty-eight days but had been caught and sent to a German prisoner-of-war camp, where he spent the remaining months of the war. It was not one of the more notorious camps, and mercifully, being an officer, he was not put to death. But we were all very concerned for him.
DURING THIS TIME , Pop continued to give me singing lessons. Although he tried everything he could to make friends, I wouldn’t have any of it. I was shy, self-conscious, and overwhelmed by his physicality.He seemed such a big man to me, and powerful. He was not tall, but everything about him was physical—he flexed his muscles, he chewed loudly and juicily, and sometimes breathed through his nose noisily. My father always seemed so gentle; Pop was strange, different, volatile at times. To a certain extent I was able to blank out the fact that I even had a
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