Golden Oldies John Stoker

Alan Rawsthorne c 1942, when his First Piano Concerto enjoyed critical success

continues to be quietly ignored. Isabel finally appears in plain sight, thanks to a meticulously researched, superblywritten and beautifully produced new biography by Carol Jacobi, Out of the Cage: The Art of Isabel Rawsthorne.

Isabel’s disappearance from 20th-century art history, Jacobi suggests, has little to do with her artistic achievement; more to do with the fact that, as a woman, she has generally been remembered for her husbands, lovers and male associates.

And what a list it is: artists Jacob Epstein, André Derain, Alberto Giacometti and Francis Bacon; musicians René Leibowitz and Constant Lambert (Isabel had an inborn love and understanding of music). Not to mention her first husband, the legendary foreign correspondent Sefton Delmer, mastermind of Britain’s wartime black propaganda.

The war changed both their lives: Isabel, hidden from view, working as an illustrator for Delmer’s top-secret Political Warfare Executive; Alan nearly blown to bits when the Bristol house he was sharing was bombed in November 1940. He survived but he lost his manuscripts, his music books and an early draft of his first fiddle concerto – one of the great 20th-century English violin concertos, which he recomposed, to telling effect, for the 1948 Cheltenham Festival.

Walton thought the war left a heavy mark, causing him to join Lambert, Bacon, Dylan Thomas and others in an all-too-ready resort to alcohol. Isabel was different. A seasoned drinker in the French style, she had a knowledge of French wines, matched by her knowledge of French gastronomy. André Simon meets Julia Child – not a bad combination in an otherwise entirely undomesticated woman.

Rawsthorne was a pacifist who set his pacifism aside for what he believed was a necessary war. Which is how, in 1944, this serving soldier was invited to cheer up the troops with a merry overture. Street Corner was the result; an evocation of what it would be like, once the blackouts and lockdowns were over, to be out on the razzle on a busy Saturday night.

Just the ticket, you might have thought, as the curtain-raiser for this year’s Last Night of the Proms.

GOLDEN OLDIES JOHN STOKER HUGHIE WAS GREEN WITH ENVY

In 1978, I was a fairly regular traveller on the line between Norwich and London, as I had to attend meetings in the capital with my colleague Harry.

One afternoon, we arrived late at Norwich station; luckily, our train hadn’t left and we set about looking for a compartment. Eventually we stumbled into one already occupied by two men. They turned to look at us and one of them said, ‘Hello, Harry. Haven’t seen you in a long time. The train’s late as usual – but what do you expect?’

The mid-Atlantic twang was as familiar as the face – which belonged to Hughie Green (1920-97).

He’d been in Norwich for the press launch of a film he’d been appearing in. ‘It’s the kind of film that Britain does best,’ he enthused. ‘It’s a comedy and, boy, does this country need a good laugh. We should be supporting our film industry and that’s the reason I’m in this movie.’

The film was called What’s Up Superdoc!, starring Harry H Corbett and Bill Pertwee. Hughie didn’t mention the plot. Neither did Derek Ford, its writer and director, who was sitting next to him. But as Hughie played a character called Bob Scratchit, you can surmise that it didn’t spark a British comedy revival.

Harry had known Hughie for many years and sympathised with him over the loss of his talent show, Opportunity Knocks, which had been axed by Thames Television.

This sparked a rant against the company’s head of light entertainment. ‘He killed a programme that millions of people loved. I got an investigator to collect the dirt on him, but the guy couldn’t find any. That programme supported British talent – but television doesn’t want new talent. It’s afraid of it.’

Hughie then gave us his views on the state of Britain and how socialism was killing the country. Harold Wilson had been in league with the Russians and he’d been glad to see him go. But the Labour Party was still sapping the British spirit and Russia was the enemy.

Hughie leaned forward. ‘You know who’s going to save us?’ Harry and I drew closer to him. ‘It’s the young men of the RAF. They saved us in the last war and they’ve got pride in being British. How many people believe in Britain today?’

We nodded in agreement. It seemed the sensible thing to do.

Perhaps Hughie saw us as kindred spirits: he invited us back to his Baker Street flat for a drink. It was immaculate and beautifully maintained by his housekeeper.

Harry happened to mention that I was interested in model trains and Hughie beckoned me into another room, which housed one of the largest model railways I had ever seen.

‘I come here to relax,’ he told me, and indeed he seemed to be a lot calmer and far less bitter as he watched the engines ploughing their way through the miniature landscape. ‘I don’t usually bring people in here. You know why? They ask me to crash the locomotives. That’s the kind of sick world we’re living in.’

As we left the flat, I couldn’t help thinking that, as his influence had decreased with the demise of his television show, he was happier in this model world where he could control everything and, at long last, the trains ran on time.

Rachel Johnson is away

Hughie Green, star of Opportunity Knocks and father of Paula Yates