The Dancing Debutante

By Elfrida Eden Fallowfield

Elfrida Eden was born into a distinguished family – her uncle was Sir Anthony Eden, British Prime Minister in the mid-1950s. As one of the last of the true ‘debs’, Elfrida mingled with the stars in the 1950s and 60s and has counted many household names from the world of entertainment as lifelong friends, including David Jacobs, Derek Nimmo and Peter Bowles. She auditioned as a singer for Judy Garland at the star’s home and turned Norman Wisdom down when he offered her a part in a film (her family considered it unsuitable for one so young). She also turned Sean Connery down when he made a pass at her at a party, the day he was cast as James Bond. Highly talented but too tall for the ballet stage herself, ‘Elfie’ went on to run one of London’s leading ballet schools. Despite some moments of great sadness along the way, Elfrida has led a privileged, fascinating and exceptionally happy life, and to celebrate it she has written her story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mereo Books
• Release date: Jan 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781861513335

Book preview

The Dancing Debutante

Adventures On And Off The Stage

Elfrida Eden Fallowfield

Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©2014 by Elfrida Eden Fallowfield

Published by Mereo

Mereo is an imprint of Memoirs Publishing

25 Market Place, Cirencester, Gloucestershire GL7 2NX, England

Tel: [phone], Email: [e-mail]

www.memoirspublishing.com or www.mereobooks.com

Read all about us at www.memoirspublishing.com.

See more about book writing on our blog www.bookwriting.co.

Follow us on twitter.com/memoirs books

Or twitter.com/MereoBooks

Join us on facebook.com/MemoirsPublishing%20

Or facebook.com/MereoBooks

Elfrida Eden Fallowfield has asserted her right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover, other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The address for Memoirs Publishing Group Limited can be found at www.memoirspublishing.com

The Memoirs Publishing Group Ltd Reg. No. 7834348

Cover design - Ray Lipscombe

ISBN: 978-1-86151-333-5

FOR RICHARD

Without whom there would have been no

Timothy, Nicholas or Laura

Or Juliet, Paula or Jamie

Or Caia, India, Hamish, Sebastian or Thomas

With love and gratitude

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 War baby

Chapter 2 Retreat to the country

Chapter 3 Family matters

Chapter 4 Holidays at home and abroad

Chapter 5 Lady Eden’s School

Chapter 6 My teachers

Chapter 7 Scrapes and japes

Chapter 8 When Liberace came to tea

Chapter 9 Paris

Chapter 10 Coming out

Chapter 11 Flirting with the stage

Chapter 12 The name’s Bond…

Chapter 13 First bite of the Big Apple

Chapter 14 Love and loss

Chapter 15 New York and London

Chapter 16 The other side of the world: 1972-1977

Chapter 17 The Vacani School of Dancing

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank all my family for their support, especially my husband Richard, my daughter Laura Eynon, my daughter-in-law Juliet Fallowfield and her daughter India.

Also Liz Rigby, who gave me the courage to continue, and Nicola Willmot for her initial editing and sound advice.

My thanks to Chris Newton of Memoirs Books for all his hard work, unfailing patience and great sense of humour, and to Memoirs’ designer, Ray Lipscombe, for his design work on my book.

Also to Vicky Edwards of Elly Donovan PR for all her interest and help and Barry Swaebe for allowing me to use his photographs.

My thanks to friends who have encouraged me, especially Jean Bird, Alexandra Colquhoun and Alison Wheatcroft.

Finally to Mary Stassinopoulos and Lee Williams, who gave me the idea in the first place, and all the pupils and staff who have been associated with the Vacani School of Dancing from 1982 to the present day.

CHAPTER ONE

War baby

I was born on the day France fell, and I went to France that very day. And do you know? All the houses were lying completely flat on the ground!

This was what I related to my friends over and over again, as I firmly believed it to be true. It’s true that I was born on the day France fell – 17th June 1940. Somehow I got it into my head that my mother and I had taken a train through France, and as I peered out of the window, with my little fingers poking through the holes of my shawl, I had seen serried ranks of houses, all neatly lying on the ground as flat as pancakes!

In reality my poor mother had a horrible time. I can well understand the reluctance of the population to come to terms with the fact that we were in the midst of another world war. This one will not last long, everyone agreed. Nothing could be as bad as the last war, the war to end all wars!

Tragically they were all proved wrong, and so began the great exodus of children from the cities to safer parts of the country – though in our case, it was to a safer part of the world.

It was decided that my mother and her sisters, with the help of our old nanny, should take the children of certain friends to Canada for the year or so the war was expected to last. The risky business was of course getting there, although they felt confident that the Germans would not attack civilian convoys containing mainly women and children.

My mother, Patricia, Lady Eden, had found a suitable house for rent in Vernon, BC. The timing was not brilliant and as she was about to give birth to me, she opted to stay in London while my Aunts Meme and Phil, with Old Nanny, escorted 12 children to the safety of Canada.

While she was lying in her hospital bed recovering from her third caesarean section operation (quite dangerous in those days), the news came through that the convoy had been attacked by U boats, and that a ship carrying women and children had been sunk. The news was terrible and frightening, and it was not until several days afterwards that my mother heard that it was not ‘her’ ship that had gone down.

At the age of three weeks I accompanied my mother and the rest of our family on the treacherous voyage to Canada. In all we were sixteen children. Mummy was very weak, and understandably nervous. It must have been dreadful for my father, who had to say goodbye to my sisters, Ann, Rose and Amelia and my brother John, as well as his wife and newborn baby.

According to Mummy, as our ship sailed into the safety of the St Lawrence River, there were huge cheers from the crowds lining the embankments. There too was the rest of our party waiting for us to arrive, before the train journey across Canada could be continued. I am told the journey was long and boring, and when we arrived at our destination, the house that had been rented was in a dreadful condition and almost uninhabitable.

With her sisters in tow, my mother descended on a local hotelier. Please can you help us? she pleaded. We are mothers and children (plus a newly-born baby) who are fleeing the terrors of war torn Europe to the safety of Canada. Unfortunately the house we had hoped to rent is totally unfit for our purposes.

The hotelier was a kind man. He took us all in while the house was cleaned up, and he helped to publicise our plight.

Some months later a man called Colin Breaky contacted my mother and offered us the use of his house in Breakyville (named after him), outside Quebec. Back we all went on the long train journey, although this time at every station there was a welcoming party of people who showered us with presents and food, and even on occasions a band would be playing!

Mummy told me they had to resort to throwing goodies out of the windows as the train slowed before the next station, in order to appear suitably bereft. We never forgot the kindness and generosity of the Canadian people, and I benefited from living in Canada for the first few years of my life.

Chaudière House was a magical place. The exterior was wooden, painted in black and white with beautiful balconies and verandas. There was a huge garden, and thanks to the immense generosity of the owner, Colin Breaky (now Uncle Colin to us all) we had slides, see-saws and swings of all sizes to keep us amused.

During our second year there, Uncle Colin had a little playhouse made for me. It had two floors, and furniture of pale blue wood with rounded legs. I had my own little kitchen, well fitted out, where I pretended to cook wonderful meals. I would then stand at my front door and imperiously ring the small silver bell with an amethyst in its handle that Uncle Colin had given me, and demand that my elder siblings and cousins should come and eat my imaginary food.

I was not very popular with the other children. I could even go so far as to say they really didn’t like me at all. If they wouldn’t play I would bawl, and then they would get into trouble. They tried to get their revenge by being beastly to me – only to be usually spotted by one of the adults.

Mummy inevitably spoilt me. She enjoyed being able to look after me all by herself. Uncle Colin was the only father figure I knew. I have no recollection of a surprise visit from Daddy, but he wrote me a charming poem at the time, part of which is as follows:

Ah sweetest child, where will thy lunges and thy gallant

tottering lead thee before thy journeying is done, and thou art

wearied of the sun?

Dear One Year Old, your smile tears at my heart. You play in

this bad world an angel’s part.

Go to thy mother, and there upon her breast,

Take, while thou may, thy refuge and thy rest.

Breakyville had been built on the shores of the St Lawrence River. I remember being old enough to accompany all the children to watch the enormous tree trunks colliding and cascading down the river as the loggers, with incredible nimbleness and balance, leapt from one tree to another to free them from entanglement before sending them hurtling on their way.

During the snowy months of winter, when I was warmly dressed in my little white fur coat and hat with a long, red woollen sash tied round my tummy Canadian-style, Uncle Colin would take us out on horse-drawn sleighs to see the maple syrup being extracted from the trees. Then – best of all – we were given little paddle sticks with which to scoop up the syrup from tables, before dropping some of it on the snow to harden so we could suck this deliciousness slowly to our hearts’ content. No one cared about tooth decay or cholesterol in those happy days!

The one year became two, and then stretched to three. Still the war continued. Families were becoming restless and wanting to see their children again. The older children all went to schools in Canada, while my mother taught the younger ones at Chaudière House. She did quite well, and the children learned the basic school subjects as well as dancing. Mummy even produced a charming production of Peter And The Wolf.

My mother also had a clinic for babies and toddlers. It all began when she saw a puny baby when she was taking me for a walk in my pram and persuaded the baby’s mother to let her have her daughter for a few days. In no time at all, under her guidance, the baby thrived. From then on the word spread, and mothers would line up outside the gates demanding help for their children. In the end Mummy was looking after about 30 babies, with the help of Meme and Old Old Nanny.

Unfortunately she did go a bit too far, as she encouraged the women to use some sort of birth control. The local Roman Catholic priest descended on her in fury, and my mother had to promise never to do such a dreadful thing again.

It must have been with a heavy heart that my mother bowed to pressure from the parents of the children she was caring for to return to Europe. We were safe and happy and well fed where we were, and no one knew what to expect once we were home again.

In 1943 we sailed in a neutral Portuguese ship from New York to Lisbon. While I have no memories of the voyage, my stay in Lisbon is firmly imprinted on my mind because Mummy always insisted I had an afternoon rest. I was put to bed in a darkened room in the hotel where we were staying, and Mummy even took the bulb out of the bedside lamp to ensure I would stay in total darkness. After she had left the room and my eyes were accustomed to the gloom, I curiously wondered how on earth light could come out of a lamp. Naturally I stuck my fingers inside the socket, and turned on the switch.

I think my screams could have been heard in Canada. A duck has bitten me! I cried. Meanwhile my mother could not get in, as the door was self-locking. She too was screaming, but at last the door was opened and I was being comforted in her arms.

I was aware of an underlying sensation of nerves and tension as we waited in our hotel for a flight to take us home to England - We’re going today – no we’re not – maybe tomorrow – quick, hurry, we’re going now! I was bundled up in a blanket and there we were amongst a group of people, hurriedly climbing on board an aeroplane which was lower at the back than the front. It was dark, and although my mother and I were at the back, I knew the plane was as full as it could be.

Hurry everyone – sit down – we’re leaving we heard, and the plane slowly started to move. But the door was still open! Suddenly someone was running alongside the plane and my mother let me go and leapt up to help. Here she said, Take my hand. I was screaming, as I thought she was going to fall out of the aeroplane. Others came to her aid, and between them they hauled the man inside and closed the door, seemingly seconds before we were airborne.

It was crazy, really, to leave the blissful haven of Canada for the dangers of London. I can’t imagine what ‘they’ were thinking of!

We returned to the beautiful flat we owned in Albert Hall Mansions, right beside the Albert Hall. I had a lovely new Nanny, Nellie Packard, who would take me for walks in Kensington Gardens in a big old-fashioned pram (a pram, even though I was three years old), and I would amuse her by asking to go by the Albert ME-morial to look at all the animals carved round its perimeter. I was also fascinated by the many ‘garage’ balloons I saw suspended in the air. How strange, I thought, for people to put their cars in balloons and then float them up in the air! I was unaware that these barrage balloons were there to act as a deterrent against low-flying enemy aircraft.

One day my mother took me for a walk in the park while Nanny was out. She was tired and sat on a bench, but kept her eye on me as I became engaged in a deep conversation with a poor-looking man who had with him three scruffy children. Eventually this man came over to my mother and politely told her that I had been upset at the state of his children’s clothes and had told him that I had masses of clothes at home I never wore and that he should come and help himself.

My mother found herself in a difficult position. I did not, apparently, have masses of clothes, although I was certainly well dressed. Anyway, the father and children came home and my mother duly handed over nearly all my clothes for both day and night. Nanny came back the next day and was furious. Clothes were strictly rationed and we had no more coupons to buy anything new, and I didn’t even own a spare vest or a pair of panties. Nanny rang round all her friends and managed to beg and borrow some coupons, so at least I had something to wear.

One evening that October, when I was four, I had apparently been naughty about going to bed. Again Nanny was not there, and my mother at last got me to sleep in my little bedroom overlooking the park. Deeply asleep, I was dimly aware of being lifted up by my mother and taken down the huge staircase, where with my sisters, cousins and Aunt Meme I sat on a chair placed under the banisters. Outside we could hear the wail of the sirens, and the air was filled with anticipation and what I later realised was fear.

The telephone rang on the other side of the hall and my mother went to answer it. After talking briefly she said, Hello? Hello? Oh we’ve been cut off. Then she came over to us, and as she did she said, That was Daddy (he was working in the War Office) and he said we should get into the shelter immediately as the raid is in our area.

No sooner had my mother said that than we heard the sound of what I assumed to be an aircraft over our heads. We sat as still as statues. Then there was an ominous silence almost immediately, followed by a huge cacophony of noise. There was dust and debris everywhere, but we were still sitting under the banisters facing the enormous double front doors of the flat. As we sat in total shock, these doors, as if in slow motion, detached themselves from their hinges and fell in unison towards us. They landed on the banisters, with all of us safely beneath them.

Suddenly we heard another drone and realised this was a second flying bomb, or ‘doodlebug’ as they came to be called.

Once again the engine cut out seemingly right over our heads. We were sitting under the huge doors as we waited for the inevitable explosion, only this time it did not come. Nothing happened.

We decided to find our way to the shelter, picking our way over piles of debris in the main hall and seeing our fellow residents, some bleeding from cuts made by shards of glass, coming down the staircase from the flats above. An elderly lady bleeding from a head wound was carrying her canary in a cage.

In the shelter there was a maid, complete in uniform of black dress and white pinafore and cap, sweeping the detritus from the floor as if it was the most normal thing in the world. The shelter was in reality a coal bunker, and I was placed on a large shelf. As I sat there my teeth chattered uncontrollably, and I remember saying to my mother, My teeth are wobbling and they won’t stop! Someone found me a glass of milk and I calmed down.

The whole of my bedroom window had landed on my bed, slicing it in half. My mother was endlessly grateful that she had decided to wake me up after all.

The second bomb never did explode. It was defused. If it had, it would have wiped us all out. My mother kept a bit of ‘our’ bomb as a souvenir, which I now show my grandchildren as I regale them with my ‘bombed out’ story.

CHAPTER TWO

Retreat to the country

We were the lucky ones; we had another house we could go to. This was in the New Forest, in a village called Fritham. The house itself, a large glorified villa, is still standing, but nowadays it is a nursing home. I grew up in it, and loved it, but I can see today that it was rather an ugly house. It had nine bedrooms, most of which were very large, and three attic rooms. There were four bathrooms. The house had a large annexe and three cottages, a farm and large kitchen garden. In all we had just over twenty acres, which was small fry in comparison to Windlestone Hall, which had been the Eden family home.

From the upstairs windows of the main house one could look across the trees to Southampton Docks, where the funnels of the great ocean liners would be illuminated at night. Unfortunately during this time, we also had a good view of Southampton burning, as this city was also a main target of the German bombers.

During the raids on Southampton, we would either all sleep in the passages between the bedrooms, or if the raid seemed really near, we would go to the shelter which had been dug into our field. I hated going to the shelter. It was dark, dank and smelly. There was a constant rustle of animals, probably rats, and there was nothing to do but sit with our feet curled under our bodies, clutching our gas masks and waiting for the planes to disappear.

During the war there were many airfields in the New Forest. Being on the south coast we were conveniently close to France and the Channel Islands. One of these airfields was at Fritham, and this was occupied by the Americans. My elder sisters and cousins were in their element! These gorgeous Americans with their wonderful accents were more than friendly, and happily handed out bars of Hershey’s chocolate, which were like nectar for us in our strictly sweet-rationed world.

Once in a while the aerodrome was opened up for visitors. I remember going with Nanny and climbing up into a plane while an American told us about the war. I was bored at this, but it was worth it, as we were then allowed to slide down a rope from the cockpit.

Looking into