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When I opened the card it simply said, “
With love from the opening night gallery queue.”
They had apparently made a collection among themselves and purchased the violets from a Covent Garden vendor. That gesture meant more to me than I can possibly say.

T
HE OPENING NIGHT
of
My Fair Lady
in London was more restrained than the one on Broadway. The gallery crowd being an exception, the audience seemed a little staid by comparison. Noël Coward was there, along with many other celebrities, most of whom had seen the show in New York. Of course my family was there, too, except for Donald and Chris. Perhaps there were not enough available tickets.

It felt as though everyone in the audience was holding his or her breath, hoping that the show was as good as the advance word. We gave a solid performance, and received a grand ovation, but for me, the evening lacked a certain charge.

I returned to the Savoy with my family, phoned my brothers, and sat on the floor in my suite with my shoes off, tired and relieved that it was over and done with.

Win had been looking for a decent coat to complete her opening night ensemble, and she found just what she wanted in the Ockley Jumble Sale for sixpence. It suited her, and her budget, admirably. She had spent most of the previous night altering the sleeves and taking up the hem. Upon arrival at the theater, she deposited the coat in the cloakroom, and it cost her ninepence: more to hang it up than to buy it. We laughed a lot that night.

The reviews for the show were excellent, with just a few minor carps here and there. It may not be true, but I heard that the critic from the
Daily Express
panned us in the first edition of the newspaper, and that
Lord Beaverbrook, who owned the
Express
and had loved the show, insisted the review be a rave. Indeed, by the second printing, it was.

Two nights later, there was a small private reception at the Savoy, and my mother informed me that my biological father would be present. He was going to see
My Fair Lady
and wanted to say hello to me. At the party, I received the slight impression that he hoped to “come aboard,” so to speak; to claim some sort of relationship. I didn’t like his attitude, and certainly didn’t like him horning in on something that should have been my dad’s province. So, though polite and, I hope, decent, I was a little distant with him. It was the last time I ever saw him.

Many years later, he wrote me a good letter, short and to the point, saying that he was aware that I knew of our connection and that if I cared to discuss it, he would genuinely welcome the opportunity. I thought about it for a long time, and finally replied—asking him to understand that since this could possibly hurt the man I considered to be my father, not to mention my siblings, it might be better to leave the situation as it was. He must have understood, for after that I simply received an annual Christmas card with his signature. I appreciated the gesture. I subsequently heard that he’d passed away.

ON MAY
5, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and her husband Prince Philip attended a performance of
My Fair Lady,
which, in my opinion, was much more glamorous than the opening night. The theater was festive, the royal box bedecked with flowers. Our performance shone. Afterward, the Royals spent time with Alan, Moss, and Binkie Beaumont, then came backstage and greeted the company. Her Majesty said that she had loved the show, and Prince Philip lingered and chatted, particularly to Rex. They must have passed on their enthusiasm to other members of the Royal Family, for on May 22, HRH Princess Margaret came to see us.

Probably the most meaningful performance we ever gave was when Sir Winston Churchill came to see the show. We all knew he was in the audience, and we understood that he would not come backstage to visit because he was elderly and in frail health. He had requested that a copy of our script be sent to him, and he read it in advance. Our entire company
played that performance of
My Fair Lady
for him and him alone—this extraordinary man whom we loved, admired, and respected so much.

THREE MONTHS AFTER
we opened, the stress of eight performances a week began once again to take its toll on my voice. But this time I knew what to do. Every Wednesday and Saturday I visited a fine ear, nose, and throat specialist, Dr. John Musgrove, whose offices were on Harley Street. He was dashing, British to a fault, always attired in a morning suit, and he was exceedingly good to me.

I continued to have throat infections from time to time, and Dr. Musgrove decided that my wisdom teeth should be removed as soon as possible since they were impacted. It took some arranging, but I went briefly into the London Clinic, had all four of the offending teeth extracted, and was back in the show three days later.

It was also essential that I have my tonsils removed, but that operation would have to wait until the work in
My Fair Lady
was over.

Dr. Musgrove kept my voice maintained, as Dr. Rexford had in New York City, and I could not have survived without his help.

ONE SUNDAY NIGHT
, Tony and I were visiting his family in Walton-on-Thames. We were having a quiet supper by the fire. Life was very good indeed, and Tony and I were sitting side by side on a low footstool, balancing our dinner plates on our knees. We looked at each other and smiled, and I honestly don’t know how it came about, but one of us whispered to the other, “We should get married soon.” And then, “Should we mention it now?”

So we suddenly said, “We were just talking about getting married.”

I thought the Waltons would explode with joy. They opened a bottle of champagne and toasted us. It was as if we had truly announced our engagement, whereas we were simply floating it out there as a thought. But from then on everyone assumed that we were formally engaged, so that was that.

Not long afterward, Tony and I received an invitation to attend a Royal Garden Party on July 17 at Buckingham Palace. What a thrill—but what should I wear?

There was a designer called Rachelle who had made some of my dresses when I was touring in the early years. She was impoverished and totally hopeless at keeping her books. More often than not she asked for a loan, but she was a good designer and fitter, and she had good seamstresses working for her. I found some black-and-white printed silk material, and she designed and made me a lovely afternoon dress, which I wore with a wide-brimmed, black straw hat.

As we were driving to the palace, I thought of the days when I would say to my mother, “Do you think I’ll ever get to have tea with the Queen?”

The atmosphere in the garden at Buckingham Palace was cheerful but formal. There was a huge marquee beneath which strawberries and cream and tea and scones were being served. White tables and chairs dotted the lawn, and people were milling about waiting for Her Majesty to arrive.

Suddenly, Tony and I were approached by Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandra, the Queen’s cousin. She was approximately my age, and she stopped and chatted with us for a while.

“I’m so pleased about your recent engagement,” she said. “I wish you both every happiness.”

I was startled that she knew, since we had only just announced it publicly.

I RECEIVED A
phone call from the secretary to Sir Victor Sassoon, hotel magnate and businessman. Would Tony and I care to join him for lunch at Claridge’s? We were intrigued.

At the luncheon, Sir Victor—suave, elegant, and silver-haired—asked me if I would object to the use of my name for one of his racing fillies. He had originally wanted to use the name “My Fair Lady,” but that had been already taken. I had no objection, and we had a pleasant time together. The filly was sired by Pinza, the famous Derby winner. When Sir Victor found out that Tony and I had recently announced our engagement, he gave the horse to me as a wedding present. I was stunned.

She was stabled in Ireland, and I never, ever saw her. Her papers were passed on to me, however. Sir Victor explained that she didn’t have the
speed required for the track, but that she would make a fine brood mare because of her good genes. So he had the filly “covered”—impregnated—and when he handed her papers to me, she was supposedly already in foal. I thought this was all extremely generous.

There were complications with the birth—or she never conceived—I cannot remember which, so she was “covered” again, and then I received word from the stables that something else had not gone as planned. Months later, after having paid considerable expense for a horse I had never seen—and with no sure knowledge that any offspring had survived, or even been born—we began to feel that something odd might be going on. None of us had any knowledge whatsoever of horse breeding, and we had left the filly’s care in the breeder’s hands. Charlie Tucker was overseeing it all for me, and he finally suggested that we sell the little mare, as she was costing me so much. I wanted to fly over to Ireland to see her at least, but there seemed no convenient time. Sadly, my namesake was passed on to someone else. For all I know, there may be several fine breeding lines out there, all foaled by my little filly.

FROM JULY
22 through July 25, I made a recording of Rudolf Friml and Herbert Stothart’s famed operetta
Rose Marie
, with the glorious baritone Giorgio Tozzi. We were accompanied by the New Symphony of London under the direction of the esteemed Broadway conductor Lehman Engel. He had conducted
Fanny
and
Wonderful Town
on Broadway, as well as several Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. He was meticulous, consummate at what he did, and he helped me rise to the challenge of pure operetta. I enjoyed the whole experience. What astounds me is how I fitted it into my busy schedule. No wonder I occasionally had vocal problems.

UP TO THIS
point in my life, I had muddled through with things like answering my correspondence and noting down appointments, chores, laundry, dry-cleaning pickups, etc. Charlie Tucker paid all the main bills for me. I had a modest checking account, and submitted receipts and check stubs to him on a monthly basis. But life was becoming so full, and I really needed someone to help me sort it out.

Charlie interviewed a lady called Alexa Weir. She was single, middle-aged, dressed rather severely, and had a stiff carriage, but she had a quiet sense of humor and was obviously very competent. She took over my life—lock, stock, and barrel. I had an inkling that she had been requested to report my every move to Charlie, but I was grateful to her, for she took a big load off my shoulders.

She was at the theater most performances, and kept note of my house seats and who was requesting them. She became my “personal dragon”—the buffer between me and nearly everyone else. She dealt with my fan mail, kept the flowers in my dressing room fresh, and shopped for whatever I needed.

It was obvious that I couldn’t stay at the Savoy Hotel forever. Alexa’s entrance into my life coincided with Charlie finding me a lovely little apartment at number 70 Eaton Square, in Belgravia. It had a small kitchen, two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a living room, and tall windows throughout that furnished good light and a view the length of the square.

Tony and I moved in together (much to Charlie’s annoyance), and it was a perfect abode for the two of us.

We went to Harrods and bought some furniture, including a small Steinway piano, which Charlie grudgingly allowed. I didn’t have a dishwasher or anything practical, but I did have a grand piano, and it had a glorious tone.

The building had a superintendent named Bob Chatwin. He was a dour but decent man who lived in the basement apartment and managed the boilers, the general cleaning, and made sure all the brass on the doors was polished. We saw him once in a while, but we saw a great deal more of his wife, Becky.

She was tiny, almost dwarflike, rotund, and bespectacled. She was, in fact, technically blind and entitled to a white stick, which she disdained to use. She was also the cleanest, most forthright lady, a small dynamo. Number 70 Eaton Square was her world.

I would hear my letterbox flapping, and when I opened the door, Becky would be on her knees trying to peer in to see if anybody was home. She knew the details of every tenant in our building; she was nosy, she was a gossip, and I loved her.

“I can tell when something is dirty,” she would say. “I
feel
dust.”

She would run her soft little hand in a slow, sure movement across surfaces, and could sense with her fingertips if something wasn’t clean.

“I can teach you how to clean your house in five easy moves,” she said to me. “You’ll need a stiff, short-handled brush, a very
soft
short-handled brush, a vacuum cleaner, and a duster.”

Getting on her hands and knees, she showed me how to work around the base of the wainscoting with the stiff brush. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she would lift all the dust and lint from the edges of the carpet about a foot into the room. She used the soft brush to wipe every top surface: picture frames, doorways, shelves, window casings, and so on. She vacuumed up whatever was on the floor, and at the very end she would go over all the important surfaces with her soft duster.

She taught me how to wash a pile of dishes efficiently in a very small sink. I’d fill one of the dirty saucepans with hot water and suds, creating in essence a second sink, and throw in all the cutlery, then I would run the hot water in the main sink, dip a long-handled scrubbing brush into the soapy pan, wash a plate, rinse it under the tap, and set it out to dry. I learned to do everything 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.