A scene outside Bradley’s Spanish Bar by Dick French (right) [Dafydd Jones]

DICK French was an award-winning painter whose work was held in galleries across the country.

Over a long career he chronicled the bohemian life in Soho while writing a column for the monthly magazine Jackdaw.

He was discovered in his home in Camden last month, two weeks after he is believed to have died, and after many calls for help to social services by his concerned neighbours.

Val Stevenson, who was named on Mr French’s medical notes as a guardian, told me: “I’d get a text saying he was due at the doctors, so I’d walk round, tell him he had an appointment and to get ready. It worked – until it reached a point when it didn’t.

“I’d show up at his door and he wouldn’t answer. I’d bang and wait and then he would eventually appear.

“His home showed clear signs that he was unwell and declining. He had put a saucepan by the sofa to vomit into. I had to really hassle him to get to the doctors and tell him ‘come on, get your coat, we are going now’. I’d have to really force him out.”

“He did not have a landline – he said it had stopped working and he had no mobile phone,” she said.

“He often tried to ignore the door. Sometimes I’d be knocking for 15 minutes. He’d appear and say, ‘oh, I thought I may have heard something.’ He was hard to get a response from.”

Ms Stevenson, the editor of The Pavement homeless persons’ publication, contacted his GP, who also sent emails and letters to social workers, demanding Mr French get support.

It is ultimately an anecdotal assessment. But it feels like there are so many stories about the vulnerable, particularly the elderly, being left to fend for themselves – or relying on concerned neighbours to fight their corner.

Born in County Durham in 1946, Mr French had studied at the Sheffield College of Art between 1962 and 1967, and then enrolled at the Royal College of Art in London where he was taught by Peter Blake.

“He was very witty. I would describe him as Hogarthian,” Ms Stevenson recalled. “He had a wonderful way with language.

“He had nicknames for everything. When he and his son talked they would use their own slang. I’d struggle to understand what they were saying. Everything was coded. It was rather hilarious.

“And he was a nifty dresser. He loved crepe jackets and brothel creepers and had his hair in a quiff. He was a chic Ted.”