In January 1977 The Times Literary Supplement published a list, chosen by eminent literary figures, of the most under-rated writers of the century. Barbara was the only living writer to be named by two people, Philip Larkin and Lord David Cecil, another long-time admirer of her novels. Partly because of the publicity, partly because the literary climate had gradually changed and partly because there had always been a strong band of faithful readers, her books were, virtually overnight, in demand again.
Macmillan published Quartet in Autumn, Cape reprinted the earlier novels, she was asked to write features and short stories, to broadcast in the series Finding a Voice, even achieving the final accolade of being a guest on the BBC’s Desert Island Discs. In November 1977 Quartet was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the BBC made a television programme about her life and work.
The Sweet Dove Died was published by Macmillan in 1978 and was warmly received by the critics. She was also delighted by the success of her novels in America, where they were published by Dutton, and where she was building up a considerable reputation. ‘I am being taught,’ she recorded with surprise and gratification, ‘in an American university!’
She took this sudden fame and recognition as outwardly calmly as she had taken the years of hurt and failure. She knew that she had not many more years of life. A secondary cancer had manifested itself and, although it initially responded to treatment, it became apparent to her that she could not be cured.
She was very anxious to revise and ‘ improve’ her final novel A Few Green Leaves. She managed to complete a final draft just before she had to take to her bed, too weak to continue active life.
She was concerned not to be a burden to Hilary, who had nursed her with such devotion, and arranged to go into Michael Sobell House, a hospice attached to the Churchill Hospital in Oxford. She was taken round it in a wheelchair and was, in a way, almost looking forward to going there (‘so much rick material’). Early in January 1980 her condition worsened and she was admitted to the hospice, taking with her her final notebook. Henry Harvey, visiting her on January 8th, found her wit and her courage undiminished. It seemed, somehow, fitting that almost the last visitor Belinda had should be the Archdeacon. Within a week, on January 11th, she died.
Throughout her illness she had maintained a cheerful stoicism, very down-to-earth and practical, never self-pitying. She was sustained, certainly, by her strong faith and still able, as she had been throughout her life, to draw comfort from small pleasures and ironies, and this is, perhaps, the greatest gift she has bequeathed to all who read her. H.H.