Master of the revels

Beverley Nichols

Cowardy Custard Edited by John Hadfield (Heinemann £.75)

When this latest tribute to the Master. was announced, my heart sank. Surely the laurels had already been piled thickly enough, and would soon be smothering him? Memoirs, semi-memoirs, albums, critical essays, television pot-pourris — it was too much. Somebody must call a halt.

Cowardy Custard is based on the show at the Mermaid, which I deliberately refrained from attending, for the very good reason that I had vivid and happy memories of nearly every item at its original performance, and I did not wish those memories to be blurred. When you have heard Gertrude Lawrence, as an unknown ingenue, sing 'Parisian Pierrot ' at a private party, before it was ever given to the public, you do not want to hear anybody else sing it — nor do you want to read it in print. Gertie gave it a special magic, which was enhanced by the fact that she was always exquisitely off the note. • When you have heard Jessie Matthews sing 'A Room with a View' on the first night of This Year of Grace you do not want to watch anybody else leaning out of that celebrated window, and when, after The Vortex, you have sat with the Master himself after the last"of the ecstatic debutantes have filed out of the dressing room of the tiny Everyman Theatre at Hamnstead. you do not want to see anybody else play The Vortex, On that occasion, I remember, Noel shed an interesting light on his approach to the art of acting. "1 gave a shocking performance tonight, Beverley. Don't contradict. It was shocking. My eyes were totally dry. Not a single tear." He walked to the glass and screwed up his face. Then he turned, with a Chinese smile. "Never mind. If you care to come along tomorrow I shall be wailing like a banshee." He was never a ' great ' actor, at any time or in any place. But by sheer concentration, and an exceptional mastery of stage technique, he managed to give great performances. There is a difference.

With memories such as these, is it any wonder that I should have approached Cowardy Custard with some apprehension? But when the curtain fell — and this is a book which can be discussed only in theatrical terms — the old magic was working again. This happy chance is due to the expertise of the editor, John Hadfield, to whom Noel pays a very well deserved tribute, in a letter dictated from Jamaica shortly before his death, and signed — sadly — with fingers that are already beginning to tremble.

Hadfield has had the imaginative insight to relate even the most contemporary examples of Noel's immense output to the contemporary background which inspired them, so that an essentially theatrical number like 'Dance Little Lady' is given an importance which might offer material to the future social historian. Songs like London Pride' — which are musically flimsy and lyrically second-rate — assume a new dignity by being printed opposite a dramatic drawing, dated 1941, of an ARP warden, by Feliks Topolski. Even 'I like America ' is made to seem worth ;;hile.

I do not like 'I like America,' as I once informed the Master to his face, with explosive — but fortunately short-lived — consequences. Listen to this

I like America

Every scrap of it, All the sentimental crap of it And come what may I shall return one day

To the good old USA.

This is really terrible, and always was, even when it was sung with haunting charm by a young actor called Graham Payn. But Mr Hadfield rescues it from oblivion, and makes it significant, by printing it opposite a colour reproduction of John Mann's masterly little painting of a New York Street Crossing. (circa 1928, now hanging in a Washington Gallery.) This is inspired editorship.

But then, Noel was an inspiring person. He inspired everybody who came in touch with him. It was not only the inspiration of his success — and his was the success story to end-all success stories. It was not only the inspiration of his genius — and at long last the accolade of ' genius' has been granted to him, as opposed to the word 'talent,' which was, for many years, the most that the critics would cpncede.

It was really, when all is said and done, a question of sheer guts. He saw a star, he set his sights by it, and he followed it, through hell and high water. Nothing deterred him. Once in New York, in the early days, there was a very grand party on Long Island to which we had both been invited, and I suggested to Noel that we might go together and share the expenses of the car.

"I'm not going."

'But why not? Everybody will be there."

"Quite. And for precisely that reason, I shall not be in evidence." Pause, to allow this perfectly articulated observation to sink in. Chinese smile. Flick of the cigarette lighter.

You see, my dear Beverley, I have reached .a stage in my career when I have been obliged to decide that never, but never, will I attend a party of which I am not the star."

That was a great many years ago, and a great many parties were stretching before him, on stage and off stage. And always he was the star of them. I am grateful to John Hadfield, who compiled this volume, for capturing in its pages the mystical quality of 'star quality,' which cannot be explained or analysed — a quality which always invested him, and will continue to illustrate his memory.