The Baroness, who really was a novice "but more like a wild boy than a young lady", and who really did win the heart of the stern Baron and his seven lonely children, now lives in the USA. Her beloved band died of lung cancer when she was still only 41, but she faced tragedy with the same stoicism that carried her through the loss of country when the Nazis took One senses instinctively that she is a woman after Petula's own heart "I have a feeling," says Pet, "that she was stronger the Baron in the marriage. She's a real character. . .I think she has a kind of steel rod going through her. It doesn't matter what happens, she will always make it--underneath is a basic courage. I think possibly I'm like that too.
Yet after all that she said, "In the last three years I have hardly worked at all. It's really only in the last year that I have put a small band together and started working again. In this business it's impossible to compromise. It's very fierce: ferocious in fact. I have just been fooling around until now."
Astonishingly, she seemed brighter and fresher after that final concert at Wimbledon than at any time in the previous four days. Maybe the `flu had gone. Or maybe it was simply because she was enjoying herself, doing what she says she loves and knows best - singing.
"But she's also a bit of a tyrant. . .over the years, she's become that. She has had a tough life, on the road in the States with the Trapp family singers. But when God closes the door, someone opens the window, That's a line from the musical and I think she really does believe that."
Curiously, that famous line echoes Pet's own outlook on life. "I've never planned anything . . . it's more exciting that way. And I've never had any ambitions, ever. I just want to get through each day, and to do it properly as well," she says.
She finds a real sense of satisfaction, she says, in pitching in with her musical entourage to organise lights, sound and even pianos when they're touring in primitive areas. And it's typical that when her team was delayed at Damascus Airport, she started dancing and singing to while the time away. Just the sort of thing, in fact, you'd imagine Maria would have done!
There's a delightful, warm, fun side to Petula. But there's also the same invisible rod of iron she sensed in the Baroness Maria. Journalists broach the subject of age-and she is, after all, playing a young novice- at their peril, "I don't think about age. Not at all," she says, withering you with a ferocious look. Anything Petula did 20 years ago, she passionately believes she can do even better now, innocent novices included.
She has grown in confidence and strength over the years, personally and professionally. And she is disarmingly frank about the personal side of her life. Rumours of a rift between herself and Claude, once her record publicity man and now her manager, have undoubtedly caused her pain. But she is philosophical.
"The rumours came about because we were seen apart a lot . . . and we used to be completely together.
"There's no question of a rift but we have been married 20 years. It's not a honeymoon any more. I'm able to cope with a lot of things on my own now and my children aren't at home, so I have more time. Sometimes my husband can't be with me. But I don't need him . . . it's very good I can cope on my own.
If that sounds harsh, Pet does not intend it that way. She may have come into her own professionally now, with the benefit of maturity and years of hard slog behind her. But she also values her family life- so much so that in 1976 she gave up work for three years.
At that time, she had been living in Switzerland for six years with Claude, her two daughters Barbara, 19, and Katherine, 17, and son Patrick, who's now eight.
"I was living there," she says ruefully, "but in fact I was mostly working in Las Vegas-that's where my biggest audience is. I just got fed up with `the Las Vegas scene, all spangles and razmataz, and I wanted very much to spend more time with my children, particularly the little one. So I stopped . . . and everybody thought I was crazy. You see it was financially incredible working there-I could make more in a week than in a year elsewhere."
It was also the first time she had ever stopped the entertainment merry- go-round to get off. Even during pregnancy, she'd worked up until the eighth month and was back at work again within three weeks of giving birth.
"Stopping work was marvellous at first," she says. "I was taking Patrick to school every day, then bringing him home. We were going out as a family, doing things together. Instead of snatching time at our chalet in France, we'd take long weekends, picking blackberries and raspberries in the mountains. It was like a lovely long holiday.
"But part of me was still running there was a motor inside me saying: `Something's missing, where is it?' Funnily, it was the children who said to me one day: `Why aren't you working any more? You should be out and doing things.' They'd been used to seeing me always preparing for some show; they were used to a sort of buzz in me."
This "sort of buzz" was deeply ingrained in her-it had to be, after her upbringing. She had started singing at concerts when she was six, broadcast for the BBC at eight and, by the age of 11, was a film star with a contract of her own. She was brought up in that topsy-turvy showbiz world which expects you to work and behave grown-up when you're 10, then makes you bind your chest and wear ankle-socks at 17.
She emerged intact from all that, though not without a sad sense of loss for the childhood she had never really had. Perhaps that three-year sabbatical was just what she needed to experience some of those cherished moments ordinary children automatically store in their memory banks. But three years was enough after that everything suddenly came together.