My luck changed. One day Sydney told me that Mr Karno wanted to see me. It appears he was dissatisfied with one of the comedians playing opposite Mr Harry Weldon in The Football Match, one of Karno’s most successful sketches. Weldon was a very popular comedian who remained popular up to the time of his death in the thirties.
Mr Karno was a thick-set, bronzed little man, with keen sparkling eyes that were always appraising. He had started as an acrobat on the horizontal bars, then got together three knockabout comedians. This quartette was the nucleus of his comedy pantomime sketches. He himself was an excellent comedian and originated many comedy roles. He continued playing even when he had five other companies on the road.
One of the original members tells the story of his retirement. One night in Manchester, after a performance, the troupe complained that Karno’s timing was off and that he had ruined the laughs. Karno, who had then accumulated £50,000 from his five shows, said: ‘Well, boys, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll quit!’ then, taking off his wig, he dropped it on the dressing-table and grinned. ‘You can accept that as my resignation.’
Mr Karno’s home was in Coldharbour Lane, Camberwell; annexed to it was a warehouse in which he stored the scenery for his twenty productions. He also maintained his offices there. When I arrived he received me kindly. ‘Sydney’s been telling me how good you are,’ he said. ‘Do you think you could play opposite Harry Weldon in The Football Match?’
Harry Weldon was specially engaged at a high salary, getting thirty-four pounds a week.
‘All I need is the opportunity,’ I said confidently.
He smiled. ‘Seventeen’s very young, and you look even younger.’
I shrugged off-handedly. ‘That’s a question of make-up.’
Karno laughed. That shrug, he told Sydney later, got me the job.
‘Well, well, we’ll see what you can do,’ he said.
It was to be a trial engagement of two weeks at three pounds ten a week, and if I proved satisfactory I would get a year’s contract.
*
I had a week to study the part before opening at the London Coliseum. Karno told me to go to Shepherd’s Bush Empire, where The Football Match was playing, and to watch the man whose part I was to play. I must confess he was dull and self-conscious and, without false modesty, I knew that I had him beat. The part needed more burlesque. I made up my mind to play him just that way.
I was given only two rehearsals, as Mr Weldon was not available for more; in fact, he was rather annoyed at having to show up at all because it broke into his game of golf.
At rehearsals I was not impressive. Being a slow reader, I felt that Weldon had reservations about my competence. Sydney, having played the same part, might have helped me had he been in London, but he was playing in the provinces in another sketch.
Although The Football Match was a burlesque slapstick affair, there was not a laugh in it until Weldon appeared. Everything led up to his entrance, and of course Weldon, excellent comedian that he was, kept the audience in continuous laughter from the moment he came on.
On the opening night at the Coliseum my nerves were wound tight like a clock. That night meant re-establishing my confidence and wiping out the disgrace of that nightmare at the Foresters’. At the back of the enormous stage I walked up and down, with anxiety superimposed on fear, praying to myself.
There was the music! The curtain rose! On the stage was a chorus of men exercising. Eventually they exited, leaving the stage empty. That was my cue. In an emotional chaos I went on. One either rises to an occasion or succumbs to it. The moment I walked on to the stage I was relieved, everything was clear. I entered with my back to the audience – an idea of my own. From the back I looked immaculate, dressed in a frock-coat, top-hat, cane and spats – a typical Edwardian villain. Then I turned, showing my red nose. There was a laugh. That ingratiated me with the audience. I shrugged melodramatically, then snapped my fingers and veered across the stage, tripping over a dumb-bell. Then my cane became entangled with an upright punching bag, which rebounded and slapped me in the face. I swaggered and swung, hitting myself with my cane on the side of the head. The audience roared.
Now I was relaxed and full of invention. I could have held the stage for five minutes and kept them laughing without uttering a word. In the midst of my villainous strutting my trousers began to fall down. I had lost a button. I began looking for it. I picked up an imaginary something, then indignantly threw it aside: ‘Those confounded rabbits!’ Another laugh.
Harry Weldon’s head came round the wings like a full moon. There had never been a laugh before he came on.
When he made his entrance I dramatically grabbed his wrist and whispered: ‘Quick! I’m undone! A pin!’ All this was ad lib and unrehearsed. I had conditioned the audience well for Harry, he was a tremendous success that evening and together we added many extra laughs. When the curtain came down, I knew I had made good. Several members of the troupe shook hands and congratulated me. On the way to the dressing-room, Weldon looked over his shoulder and said dryly: ‘That was all right – fine!’
That night I walked home to get unwound. I paused and leaned over Westminster Bridge and watched the dark, silky waters drifting under it. I wanted to weep for joy, but I couldn’t. I kept straining and grimacing, but no tears would come, I was empty. From Westminster Bridge I walked to the Elephant and Castle and stopped at a coffee-stall for a cup of tea. I wanted to talk to someone, but Sydney was in the provinces. If
