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stepfather. I refused to acknowledge that he and my mother were in the same bedroom; it was always just “my mother’s room.” I tried to live side by side with him, as if he were a temporary guest in the house, and I hated the singing lessons—absolutely hated them. He simply worked on basic vocal exercises with me, but I was also required to do a half hour’s practice every day on my own.
    However, soon thereafter, I was taken to visit Pop’s voice teacher. Her name was Lilian Stiles-Allen, but she was always referred to as “Madame.” She had coached Pop when he first came to England from Canada, and she still occasionally gave him lessons. She was a short, very stout woman, with thick ankles, an ample backside, and a heavy bosom. There was a sort of “pouter pigeon” look about her. Her belt hung below her belly and was slung in a nice V, a little to the left of center. Always bejeweled, she dressed in long skirts to her ankles, and sensible lace-up shoes on tiny feet that looked too small to support the frame above. She walked with a strong cane and often donned a wonderful velvet cloak and beret. Her pretty face had several jowls, but her eyes were lovely. Though bulging slightly, their long, spiky lashes fanned her cheeks. Occasionally, she put on a fashionable hat of the times, usually with a great sweeping brim or a feather. She was imposing, yet gentle and kind, and she had the loveliest, most mellifluous speaking voice.
    I don’t recall what I first sang for Madame, but I remember my stepfather being in the room and my mother playing for me. After I finished, Madame gave a low chuckle, then said gravely, “That was just lovely.” She counseled my parents, saying that I was so young and that it might be better to allow me to be a child a little longer and bring me back when I was, say, twelve or fourteen years old; plenty of time then to study in earnest with her if I wanted to, and my voice would have matured and would be ready for training.
    But my voice developed so rapidly that by the time I was nine and a half, it was pretty obvious that I was going to sing, and sing quite well. Pop went back to Madame and pleaded with her to take me on, and she finally agreed. From then on my lessons were entirely with her and not with Pop, which was a relief to me. Thus my proper singing training began.

SEVEN
     
    I TOOK LESSONS WITH Madame once a week at first. She was living in Leeds, but traveled regularly down to London to teach at Weeke’s Studios in Hanover Square.
    The place was fascinating. Walking the corridors to Madame’s classroom, I heard a cacophony of voices and instruments coming from the different rooms. My own singing with Madame just added to the chorus, and didn’t feel like any big deal. Once our studio door was closed, I felt pretty much sealed off from the rest—yet part of a special community at the same time.
    Madame played the piano badly, and she had long, pretty fingernails that clacked away on the ivory keys. She always wore good rings on her hands to give her something else to look at during the many hours of teaching. Her accompaniment was mostly only “suggested,” so one filled in the blanks in one’s head as one was singing, but it didn’t matter because she was a superb teacher.
    She was a dramatic soprano, having been fairly well known for playing the role of Old Nokomis in Samuel Coleridge-Taylor’s Hiawatha at the Royal Albert Hall. She performed many oratorios, concerts, and radio programs, and had an amazing singing voice, which produced a kind of flute-like sound, especially in her higher range. Rather than coming out of her throat, it seemed to pass down her nose. It was a particular technique that she had perfected, and later, I realized that her voice resembled that of Kirsten Flagstad, the Norwegian soprano, whom she admired.
    Madame would sit at the piano and I would sit or occasionally standbeside her, and we’d work for a long time on technique. She