Why didn’t most theatregoers think of Paul Scofield in the way they thought of Olivier, Gielgud and Richardson? He had pretty well all the qualities, from Olivier’s danger through Gielgud’s grace to Richardson’s soul, that we admired in the 20th century’s most renowned triumvirate. Richard Eyre, who directed him as Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkman in what was to be his last theatrical performance, once said he was “not just the best there is but the best there has ever been”.

There were two main reasons for his relative neglect, the first of which is a terrible comment on our honours system. He refused a knighthood, later telling me: “If you want a title what’s wrong with Mr?” Sadly, this meant that when people talked of our great actors, he tended to get forgotten or relegated below Derek Jacobi and Ben Kingsley. The other reason is that he didn’t want to be a household name, let alone a celeb. He seldom gave interviews and never appeared on chat shows, but lived modestly in Sussex, taking the local train to London when work demanded. It was the art, not the fame, that mattered to him. He was an extraordinary actor content to be an ordinary man.

I never met him face to face, but spoke to him several times over the phone, calling a home number that, typically, was openly listed. Would he become patron of the theatre that was being built at my younger son’s Sussex school? Yes, of course. But when I begged him to return to the stage after he’d won awards as Borkman at the National in 1996, he said he simply didn’t feel the instinctive need — not even to have another go at King Lear.

Scofield had been the most remarkable of Lears in 1962, redefining the king as a vain, angry, dangerous yet vulnerable despot. But there were so many examples of his skills: from his canny, kindly More in A Man for All Seasons to his melancholic Uncle Vanya, from his brooding Salieri in Amadeus to his loving Othello.

That versatility was astonishing, given his looks and voice. To call that notched, creased, fissured face “lived-in” was as inadequate as calling Gaudi’s cathedral in Barcelona a church. Whatever the role, you knew you were watching and hearing a great actor.

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