Last December I was at the opening of Fred Cuming's latest exhibition. "Let's drink to Titch," I said. "Yes, let's," said Fred.

We were drinking to the memory of John Titchell, described by Kenneth Clark as "the Seurat of Kent". Fred had known him far longer than I, as a much-loved and gifted teacher, a fellow painter and lifelong friend, but like Fred, like so many who knew him, Titch enriched my life.

Titch loved his world – his house, the garden his wife Audrey had created, his friends and, of course, his work. Though he did not receive the recognition that he deserved, he never gave up. His later ill health did not prevent him from rising early every morning, painting through the day. His subjects were limited – an oak tree, a boat at Deal, each chosen to examine the effect of differing light. Even in Venice he chose one solitary statue.

The Titch I knew was a talker, toothless, funny and acerbic. He could also be difficult and uncompromising. Our many evenings with him were studded with an assortment of his stories, which, like the objects of his paintings, he revisited time and again and which could alter wildly in the telling. There was a point to this repetition and embellishment. He returned to them in the same way one returns to a favourite poem or piece of music. They were his attempts at interpreting and illuminating life. He wanted to share them with us so that they might illuminate our understanding too.

The last time I saw Titch I had just finished my third novel, Island Madness, and was telling him about the next. Titch grasped the idea immediately. One thing he understood above all was form – whether it be in art or film or books. I had decided to dedicate Island Madness to him but wanted to keep it as a surprise. He died suddenly before the book was published and sadly never knew. So here it is again.

"This is for Titch, an example to us all, with love and admiration."