Hugh Leonard was a shy man who was often the life and soul of the party. Fellow playwright Bernard Farrellrecalls a dear friend

THERE IS NO doubt that with his boundless energy, his caustic wit and his flawless observation skills, Hugh Leonard would have a field day in today’s recessionary Ireland. Just as, in the 1970s, when he lived among the nouveau riche on Killiney Hill - the folk who live on the Pill as he called them - and described how they used to get dressed up to put out their dustbins, he could now devastatingly turn his eagle eye and wicked pen to the bankers, the bonuses and the bountiful.

But he is gone. In the past week when I visited him in the Blackrock Clinic, he was still reading Somerset Maugham, still talking of a restaurant in Cannes where he would love to dine, still making plans. But he was getting tired and when he passed away very early yesterday morning, he had been at peace for many days, in gentle surroundings and surrounded by gentleness.

It was all a far cry from the days of his high energy and worldwide triumphs - and I now recall that clip of film from 1978, of him leaping from his seat in that Los Angeles theatre to receive his Tony Award for Da. I often asked him to describe that moment because I wanted to put some context into that glow of joy, surprise and satisfaction that seemed to radiate his face, coupled with his almost shy, insecure wave to the cheering crowds.

In all the years I knew him, he would often speak of that shyness. And he was a shy man - yet he could so easily become the life and soul of the party.

I remember particularly our New Year's Eve celebrations, always in Roly's Restaurant, always at the same tables, usually his same guests and, at the end of the night, there would always be his rousing rendition of his favourite song, from La Cage aux Folles: "The best of times is now, is now, is now!

And, indeed, that was his philosophy. He created, literally, his own “best of times”, those magical moments of his life, and he not only celebrated them, but invited everyone to join in. In writing his plays, his priority was firstly to give his audience “a good night out”, and after that came whatever he hungered to say through the work.

His knowledge of theatre was extensive and he was most generous in sharing it. There are many stories of his time as literary editor at the Abbey and how he guided and encouraged aspiring playwrights. And long after he had left, playscripts used to come to his home letter-box with requests for an early reply, at his convenience! He never objected to this and only complained (harshly!) if people didn’t say “thanks”.

He was, in many ways, a gentleman. He appreciated and expected good manners and, in company, he displayed almost Victorian courtesies to the ladies. Or maybe that was just flirting – and he was good at that too.

But the times I enjoyed most with him were our regular lunches. We had three restaurants that we frequented and he enjoyed each of them for different reasons and, surprisingly, not always for the food. In one, it amused him greatly that although we would consistently – and boringly – order identical dishes on each visit, the bill was never the same. Always a few pence higher, and rising!

In another, and because the tables were close together, he would watch for any table showing a silent interest in our conversation. He would then launch into a loud, false and slanderous story and, on a good day, would silence the open-mouthed restaurant.

In that way, he loved fun, familiarity and consistency. And yet he could be argued or debated out of a long-held view. Yesterday, strangely, I was asked about his avowed atheism and if he had ever “softened”. I wondered about the word “softened”, but like a character in his plays, he almost did a volte-face before his final curtain. I used to tease him about this trend and once suggested that he was now almost going back to belief, as in his altar-boy days, and he immediately flashed back: “Never, thank God!”

These rapid-fire retorts were his forte and his force. He could demolish an argument with them or rock the room with laughter or just bring the night to a close. His most recent, to me, was on my admission I was a hypochondriac. I had hardly said the words when he snapped back: “Ah, you only imagine you are!” After that, there was nowhere to go.

And from now, there will be many times when it will seem like having nowhere to go – to restaurants, to his house or just to accompany him on his witty or nostalgic or grumpy flights of fancy. I will leave it to others to assess his work and his literary contribution to the world. For me, in knowing him, it was so often, as he used to say in his favourite song, the best of times.