This article was taken from our archives. It first appeared in the November 1982 issue of The Bermudian. It appears here exactly as it did originally.
Quotes contained in this article have been drawn from The Noel Coward Diaries edited by Graham Pawn and Sheridan Morley.
When the sun finally set on the British Empire at the end of World War Two, Noel Coward’s famous observation concerning the mid-day activities of mad-dogs and Englishmen suddenly became equally redundant and anachronistic. The decline and fall of Britain as an imperial power had necessarily entailed that there were very few overseas possessions left which adventurous Englishmen could survey under the glare of assorted mid-day suns.
The outward urge that had so distinctively categorised the Empire builders of earlier epochs had finally been exhausted by centuries of exploration and colonisation – or so it seemed in 1945. But just over a decade later the Master himself would revive this fine old British tradition – as well as his equally fine old maxim – when he set up shop for his prodigious literary and theatrical output under the basking rays of Bermuda’s midday sun.
Unwittingly Coward had assumed the mantle of a latter day Moses, leading what developed into a seemingly endless stream of entertainers, writers, sportsmen and financiers on an exodus into the wilderness of Britain’s few remaining colonies as tax-exiles seeking escape from the iniquitous persecution of London’s Inland Revenue.
By 1956 Coward’s position near the pinnacle of the international theatrical hierarchy had undergone a disastrous decline and fall of its own. Coward had effortlessly secured for himself the title of Clown Prince of Mirth in the 1920s with his series of elegant, intelligent comedies, most of which served as stage vehicles for his own charmingly distinctive acting style. However by the 1950s Coward’s star was definitely on the wane. Audiences had tired of the pleasure of Coward’s company as well as that of his plays. Instead of scoring a hat-trick with his trio of productions “Pacific 1860”, “Ace of Clubs” and “After the Ball”, Coward instead found himself on the receiving end of a cavalcade of critical and public brick-bats which soon closed all three shows and left him nearly 20,000 pounds overdrawn at the bank.
At 56 Coward was too old to maintain his life style in the manner to which he was accustomed, solely on the basis of income from his royalties. He had no capital whatsoever, aside from the fees he had received for a series of wildly successful Las Vegas nightclub appearances and some American TV productions. As his lawyer Sir Dingwall Bateson ominously put it: “You are your own factory. You carry your factory in your head What would happen if the factory failed to function and you became incapable of working any more?”
After months of careful consideration Coward finally decided to follow up on Bateson’s advice – namely to be domiciled in Bermuda so that his income would remain safely beyond the grasping reaches of the Inland Revenues tax officers. With that touch of theatrical grandioseness that marked his every move Coward referred to his plan to move to Bermuda as his ‘Great Decision’ both publicly and in his private journals. “Dingo is right,” he commented once on Sir Dingwall’s plan. “I really must start to think about my old age, which begins next Tuesday.”
In a more serious vein, Coward recorded in his diary the events that had preceded his taking the ‘Great Decision’: “I have decided after some weeks of thought, that it is fairly ridiculous for me to spend eight weeks in England out of one year and to pay, for that privilege, roughly 20,000 pounds in income tax! It is here, on this island (Jamaica, where Coward had long maintained a residence), that I accomplish my creative work and it is in America that I earn the money to make my living here possible, therefore I’m going to give up my English domicile… establish residence in Bermuda, where there is no income tax at all, and contrive to extract from these next few Years enough capital to ensure my old age. This has nothing to do with a lack of patriotism, it is merely a perfectly legal method of defeating the monstrously unjust tax situation in England …It is almost inconceivable what this decision will save me. As things are, I am likely to pay the Inland Revenue anything from 25,000 to 50,000 pounds a year. As things will be, all the money will be sitting tax-free in my bank in Bermuda… I might even be able to live in England again if I tire of sunshine and equable weather and choose to lay my old bones, creaking with rheumatism, in my own dear land, which for years has robbed me of most of my earnings, withheld all official honours from me, sneered at me and abused me whenever possible and, frequently, made me very unhappy.”
He added later, not without a distinct note of bitterness: ‘I love England with my roots and I would never become an alien citizen and renounce my allegiance to it, but I’ll be god-damned if I’m going to allow myself to be rooked anymore. Bermuda is a British crown colony and I am and shall remain a Britisher, and hope, a bloody sight richer one.”
Coward’s private life had been a subject of public interest for 30 years, and when the Master announced his “Great Decision” with a markedly lesser amount of the theatrical gusto that he normally reserved for such duties, the reason why was perfectly clear. Almost immediately the British press let loose with a slew of outraged slings and arrows that took the form of bold type, banner headline front page stories and incredulous, venomous editorials decrying Coward’s plan to take up residence in Bermuda.
The vehemence that the critics had reserved for Coward’s work in recent years was immediately transferred to his private life. Even so lofty a figure as Sir Winston Churchill was drawn into the fierce public debate that the decision had sparked. In his usual precise manner the former Prime Minister summed up the acrimonious case in a single sentence: “An Englishman has an inalienable right to live wherever he chooses,” Churchill stated.
However, despite all of the unwanted public fanfare that had accompanied his plan Coward was still not sure whether or not he really did want to exercise the inalienable right that Churchill spoke of and live in Bermuda. “I’m not really mad about the place,” Coward recorded soberly in his diary in December, 1955, just prior to taking up residence in Bermuda. “But the air is wonderful and I can write in peace,” he concluded.
Thus it was in January, 1956, a thoroughly disconsolate Noel Coward arrived at the Bermudiana Hotel in Hamilton in search of a permanent Bermuda home.
He had had to sell two of the three other houses that he normally maintained year round – one, a small at-fair in Gerald Road, London, and the other the splendid, sprawling mansion Goldenhurst, in Kent, which had acted as a type of Mecca for all of the gay young men and women who had populated the London and New York theatrical worlds for three decades.
He kept onto his Jamaican retreat, Blue Harbour, and would later return to it.
The weather in Bermuda that blustery, stormy January accurately mirrored Coward’s own temperament. “The wind is blowing, the rain is crashing down, it is very cold and I have no heater in my bedroom,” he miserably noted at the beginning of his diary entry for January 22, 1956. “The flat shapes of Bermuda are vaguely discernible through the wild weather and the outlook is disconsolate. I have had two letters… sadly attempting to dissuade me from my project… The letters have depressed me and I am tired anyhow… In the meantime I intend to start house hunting here with Graham tomorrow.” The Graham referred to was actor Graham Payn who performed in many of Coward’s shows and who remained a life-long friend and companion of the Master.
Cole Lesley, Coward’s secretary and manager, wrote in his 1976 biography of the Master, The Life of Noel Coward: “Sir Dingo arrived within a few days and set up business meetings with bankers and lawyers, the latter to establish his residence in Bermuda and to form a Noel Coward Company there. All of which, although everybody was charming and exceedingly helpful, bored him to death.”
Despite the public condemnation from the press as well as the last minute private appeals from friends, Coward had made the final decision: “The die is cast all right and from now on no repining,” he glumly wrote in his diary on January 29. “We have traipsed back and forth over the island roads with a pleasant house agent in a tiny Morris. He has bad teeth but is quite efficient. Prices in Bermuda are astronomical and none of the houses we have seen, except one, is the faintest good. The one, however, is charming and is called Spithead Lodge. The price at the moment is 23,000 pounds furnished, but it may be possible to get it for 17,000 pounds or 18,000 pounds unfurnished, half on mortgage. This is a terrific price, of course, but considering what I shall eventually gain by having it, it will surely be worth it.”
Coward’s initial misgivings about his Bermuda journey appeared, at least temporarily, to dissipate: “My heart is lighter than it was. There’s no sense in shilly-shallying about. I must save something for my declining years and this is the only possible way to do it, so to hell with nostalgia du temps perdu and away with regrets. Life is so full of a number of things,” he noted in a decidedly uncharacteristic, upbeat reference to his move.
It was in 1956 that Coward’s star began to rise again in the West — specifically, the West Coast of the United States where the CBS television network discovered Coward, mined through his golden treasure trove of works and decided that they represented a mother lode of material for the new prestigous dramatic anthologies that the network then broadcast.
CBS not only bought the TV rights to several Coward plays but they also recruited the man with the golden pen himself. Noel Coward agreed to apply his alchemist’s touch to several CBS adaptations of his works by actually appearing in them on TV. In 1956 Coward appeared in “Together With Music,” which co-starred Mary Martin;” “Blithe Spirit,” with Claudette Colbert and Lauren Bacall; and “This Happy Breed,” with Edna Best.
Despite some disagreement with the Ford Motor Company, which sponsored Coward’s shows, his appearnces met with near unanimous critical and public acclaim, and helped to dramatically reverse Coward’s earlier financial plight: “I shall have to be philisophical and reflect on the lovely television dollars clinking into the Bank of Bermuda and the lovely pounds, shillings and pence not clinking into the Inland Revenue,” he wrote with a sublime sense of satisfaction. In fact by June 1956 Coward could report with some pride: “I now have in the Bank of Bermuda and owing to me 111,000 pounds, tax-free! Better really than being 19,000 pounds overdrawn. Thank you.”
In April Coward had made a flying visit to “Spithead Lodge”, literally. Along with Graham Payn and Cole Lesley he spent just 24 hours at the house taking down the measurements of every single room and window so as to begin plans for refurnishing the Lodge.
While at “Spithead” Coward had a brief and what proved to be emotionally traumatic encounter with Jack Wilson, who in the pre-war years had been the Master’s closest friend.
After the Second World War Wilson, a theatrical manager, had moved permanently to the United States and. he and Coward had seen less and less of one another. Thus his appearance at “Spithead Lodge” and, more precisely, his debilitated physical condition, came as somewhat of a shock to Coward: “In Bermuda the sun shone fitfully but it was none too warm. We spent the whole afternoon at Spithead Lodge taking measurements and were just about to leave when Jack arrived. He looked absolutely aghast and quite gaga and could hardly stand. I took him over the house and he mumbled appropriate praise.
“On the way back to the hotel the horror of it overwhelmed me. I sat in the front seat of the car weeping silently and remembering the past and how handsome he used to be, I don’t see how he can live much longer. He has arteriosclerosis from excessive drinking and the only hope, if any, is to force him into a sanatorium. The next morning I delivered what I pray will be my last lecture to Jack. He was looking a bit better, not yet having had a nip, and I gave him the works in the despairing hope that I might convince him that he must do a cure. I was not harsh but I told him some horrid truths. It seems that I did some good but I have no belief that the effect will last.”
Coward was right. The effect of his lecture did not last with Wilson, and within five years he had drunk himself to death.
However, later in April Coward was buoyed by the good news that his new West End production had won resounding critical and public acclaim. “South Sea Bubble” was a slightly revised version of an earlier Coward vehicle, “Island Fling,” which had been produced in America five years earlier. Now retitled, and recast with Vivien Leigh in the lead role, Coward had his first London hit in several seasons. It was not really very surprising then that when Coward arrived to take up permanent residence at Spithead in June, 1956 that he was rather a blithe spirit himself.
The house was still being redecorated when Coward reached Bermuda, but this appeared only a minor irritation to him. “Well, chaos is the word: acres of packing cases, armies of overpaid workers, carpenters, painters, electricians, masons, etc., all hammering, whistling, roaring jokes at each other, all very carefree, as indeed they should be considering that they each get about six bob an hour. The house is going to be lovely and my own little cottage is charming,” noted Coward on June 27.
The cottage he referred to was “Watergate,” which stood fifty yards away from the main house. “This he bagged for himself because, as always, he wanted to be on his own, away from the telephone, house-guests, and away from Graham and me if he chose,” wrote Cole Lesley.
“He could enjoy complete independence in Watergate now that he had learnt to cook his own breakfasts, of which he was very proud. He performed some terrible experiments in his kitchenette, sprinking his breakfast coffee with grated chocolate and then adding a large pinch of cinnamon, the idea of which, first thing in the morning, made us faintly sick, but which he strongly recommended.” Coward and his little retinue swiftly became quite enamoured of their new neighbours at “Spithead,” Philadelphians Joe and Mary Huber. Coward described them as being “friendly and hospitable to excess” and related that: “They pour drinks, very strong drinks, down our throats every evening when our day’s toil is o’er, and we drive back, pissed and exhausted.”
By no means a speed demon while driving along the highways of Europe and America, Coward was nevertheless perturbed by the driving conditions he encountered in Bermuda: “My first endeavour on arrival was to pass a driving test and buy a Hillman. The speed limit is twenty miles an hour and very right too, because the roads, designed for more sedate vehicles, are narrow, twisty, and generally enclosed with stone walls which makes it impossible to see anything coming. The most noisy and prevalent means of transport on the island is a contraption called a Mobylette. This is a bicycle with a motor attached and is lethally dangerous, and everyone is warned never to ride them at night or when it is raining. Many people ignore this wise counsel, with the result that it is difficult to walk more than a few yards in the town without meeting someone in a plaster cast. Coley and Graham have, so far escaped, and as we now have a car they are turning their hired Mobylettes in, thank God. I shall miss seeing them scooting along: Graham, nonchalant and devil-may-care, and Coley, rigid, with set lips and an expression of grim determination.”
Coward had, by this time resigned himself to at least a temporary sojourn in Bermuda, and his attitude towards the island had brightened considerably: “The island itself is much, much nicer than I thought it would be. In the past, when I made brief visits, I never cared for it much, but now, in the lovely warmth of summer, I am becoming enchanted. I love the pastel-coloured houses and the little creeks and harbours and islands. It is sad about all the cedar trees having caught a fell disease and died, but their deadness and grayness is offset by the masses and masses of oleanders and the vast flamboyants.
“The sea, in strong sunlight, is a bright, almost hysterical turquoise, and from where we are, looking out across the harbour towards Hamilton in the far right distance, the water traffic is very gay. Little boats, big boats, yachts, naval craft, ferry boats and Chris-Crafts go scurrying by, and every Monday morning the Queen of Bermuda arrives. She is very large and grey and hoots reassuringly, so unlike our own dear Queen. On Wednesday afternoons she steams away again, her rails lined with tourists with peeling skins and curious straw hats and cameras.”
Before ever coming to Bermuda Coward knew that the island’s chief industry was tourism. However, it wasn’t until he had become well and truly entrenched at “Spithead” that he discovered that he himself had become something of a tourist attraction, no less than some of the more permanent sites that figured on visitors’ itineraries like Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse or Fort St. Catherine.
“Every morning at about noon a crowded ferry boat passes and the gentleman in charge announces places of interest through a loudspeaker,” Coward wrote in his diary. “His voice echoes across the still water, and whenever the boat passes Spithead Lodge I hear him explaining that whereas the house was originally the home of Eugene O’Neill, the celebrated American playwright, it is now the new home of none other than Noel Coward. The first time I heard this I was swimming along doing a stately Margate breast-stroke with my head high out of the water. I looked up in dismay, saw about twenty nuns peering at me through binoculars, and sank like a stone.
“I don’t really mind this daily publicity, but unfortunately it does encourage the boat’s passengers to spring into taxis the moment they land and to come belting out to stare at me over the wall and take photographs. The other morning I was caught, practically naked, covered in dust and sweat and carrying a frying-pan in one hand and a slop-pail in the other. I paused graciously while they took their bloody snapshots, and pressed on with my tasks and occupations. Noel Coward is so sophisticated.”
As a precaution against unwanted intruders, Coward had the rocks below “Watergate” walled off at either end “to protect me from tourists during his daily swim.
Moving into “Spithead Lodge,” unpacking and furnishing the house took a longer time than Coward had expected — and this was due not in the least part by Graham Payn’s decision to perfect his water-skiing technique.
Cole Lesley wrote that Coward took a somewhat jaundiced view of Payn’ attitude: “Graham chose… his water-skiing, while there were still 52 tea-chests of books to be unpacked, and he and I staggered about under the weight, covered with dust and dripping with sweat. Graham quickly changed this rite to six in the evening, when the day’s toil was o’er…
“By July, however, Coward was established at “Spithead Lodge”.
On July 4, American Independence Day, he made this wry note in his diary: “Here it is the fourth of July and all over the sun-scorched island Americans are giving jolly little parties to celebrate their spirited escape from British tyranny. Feeling fairly sympathetic to this point of view, I may join some of them.”
