Letters to a Sister (2 page)

As Rose and Jean grew up their paths diverged entirely. Rose, thanks to the generosity of her well-to-do Macaulay godfather, Uncle Regi, went up to Oxford, where she blossomed at Somerville, and for the first time made friends outside the family. Soon afterwards she published her first novel, and thenceforward her activities centred more and more on London.

Jean too had longed for a University education, but this would have been beyond the family's means, and at twenty-three she left home to become a nurse. For the next thirty-four years, until just before the second world war, her work more or less cut her off from the family. She did, however, share with Rose in one or two holidays abroad, and there were occasional family reunions. These took place first at Great Shelford outside Cambridge, where their father held a University Lectureship in English for some years before his death in 1915; then, for the ten years their mother survived him, at Beaconsfield; and finally with their sister Margaret in Hampshire. Jean's vocation as a nurse bound her to a life of service, both in England and abroad, which demanded every scrap of her time and energy. (The main work of her
career was in District Nursing—she was one of the pioneers—though she also served with the French Army during the 1914-18 war.) But however exhausted, she made a point of writing regularly to her ‘Darling Twin'. Not only affection prompted her; through Rose she could keep in touch with the interests of which she was starved in her non-stop professional life.

Rose's world was indeed a contrast to Jean's. In 1926, the year when the first of the letters in this book was written, and her fifteenth novel,
Crewe Train,
was published, she was already well established as a literary celebrity. Almost every year she was writing a new novel, portraying with detached amusement the vagaries of contemporary society. Meanwhile her controversial articles in the daily press and her witty broadcasts helped to keep her well in the public eye. London was her home, and each summer she travelled abroad, usually gravitating towards the Mediterranean, though she made one trip to America with her sister Margaret. Surrounded by friends she was not tied to any one set, and she revelled in a kaleidoscopic life which she believed in enjoying to the full, as testified in her
Personal Pleasures.
By now she was no longer
pratiquante,
but church topics never ceased to fascinate her, and ‘sitting under' a good preacher gave her as much pleasure as ever; ‘Anglo-agnostic' was how she later described the ambivalent state of her religious feelings at this time. She worked extremely hard at her writing, and her relaxations were strenuous too: swimming, long country walks, bicycle rides—she thought nothing of pedalling twenty miles. But she had a tendency to faint, and in the '20s her doctor advised her to have her heart checked. Rose, with much amusement, reported the depressing findings to Jean, and then continued to live her usual active life. By nature she was exceptionally strong, with a spirit that dominated her body.

Rose and Jean shared many of the same tastes, notably a great love of books. For fun they would compile rival lists
of their first hundred favourites, then embark on interminable debates as to the pros and cons. ‘Listening in' was an intriguing new hobby for both of them, which later became an established habit; they took enormous pleasure in listening to the same programmes and discussing them by letter afterwards. Both always followed the front-page news of the day: murders, scandals, everything. Political events, too, provided endless food for discussion, and Rose was often able to pass on titbits of news and opinion, from her vantage point among those in the know. Thus Jean, alias Nurse Macaulay, bicycling hurriedly from patient to patient, could ponder on what Sir William Beveridge had told Rose about the crisis in the Coal Industry, or smile to herself at the secret knowledge of what the
New Statesman
was going to say next week. Pacifism, the League of Nations, Abyssinia, the psychology of Hitler, the Cliveden set, the leakage of Budget secrets—Rose had plenty to say about all of them. And personalities like Chesterton, Shaw, and Wells, who would otherwise have been mere names to Jean, became real people in the light of Rose's outspoken comments. Perhaps, however, the most satisfying of all the pleasures which Jean and Rose loved sharing together were their arguments over the rights and wrongs of ethical problems. Generations of Conybeares before them had doted on just such battles of wits. Their to-and-fro had all the warmth and seriousness of a fray at a debating society, often with one of them spontaneously playing the part of devil's advocate. If a popular daily posed the question ‘Should one tell a lie to shield a murderer?' Rose and Jean were as happy as terriers after a rabbit. What matter which came off victorious? The whole point was in the chase itself.

There were other enthusiasms, too, to Jean all-important, though less so to Rose, who nevertheless took a sisterly interest in them. One was a strong loyalty to missionary work, a loyalty which in three cases actually shaped the lives of Rose's sisters. Margaret had become a Deaconess in 1913, devoting herself to parish work in the East End of London;
Eleanor became a missionary in India with the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel; to Jean the greatest fulfilment of her life was the few years' work she did in South Africa as a missionary nurse just before the second world war. Rose herself, after the shock of her brother Aulay's death, had also volunteered as a missionary. But this rash offer was declined and she never repeated it.

Charitable giving was another activity that was very close to Jean's heart—a good deal closer than to Rose's. Both sisters made regular donations to Charities as a matter of course, but their attitudes towards money were different. In childhood they had both been accustomed to a standard of living that was frugal by necessity; their father's income could barely meet the expenses of educating a large family. Rose had been rescued from this financial struggle first by her rich godfather and then also by her own earnings. And although there was always a certain Spartan independence about her she valued comfort, especially warmth, and liked being surrounded by a mass of belongings. Jean, on the contrary, had plunged into a life of real austerity in her chosen work among the poor, and gave herself enthusiastically to the practice of self-denial. With a minimum of possessions (books were almost her only indulgence) she habitually gave away much of her inadequate income. In the 1930's she also began to organize a campaign for ‘planned giving' to Charities, which she named the League of Stewards. With Rose's help this project was brought to the attention of Canon ‘Dick' Sheppard in 1936 and he was keen to help in launching it. But before there was time for this Jean was given the opportunity of working in South Africa; when she returned Sheppard was dead. Then the war came and the project was dropped. Jean's inspiration was twenty years too soon: the Christian Stewardship campaigns which are now the fashion are based on exactly the same idea.

It was in 1939 that Jean returned from South Africa. She had
worked herself to a standstill at the Jane Furse Memorial Hospital in the Transvaal, and eventually had to come home on doctor's orders. She then took an appointment as a District Nurse at Romford, on the Essex side of London (in company with her lifelong friend, Nancy Willetts, a fellow-nurse from Birmingham). This meant that Rose and Jean were now only fifteen miles apart, and Rose was soon going every week to see Jean on her day off. Both set great store by these meetings though at the time they were often a strain for Jean. She had always taken Rose's lapse from the Church deeply to heart. It was never mentioned, but against this background of silence Jean's feelings were painfully vulnerable to the shafts of ridicule which Rose often aimed at the ideals of Christianity. Jean believes that Rose was quite unaware of the pain she caused, but it was none the less acute, and sometimes after Rose had left to return to London she would give way to tears. She was far too busy to brood, however, and when the time came for Rose's next visit she was as eager as ever for their usual talk.

And there was much to talk about, much to share, as week by week the daily life of both became enmeshed in the machinery of war. Long before war actually began, Rose had made up her mind that in the event of the evacuation of women and children from London, she herself was not going to be banished from home. According to Jean it was largely this that led ‘Emily Macaulay' to volunteer as a part-time driver with the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service. ‘Emilie' was the first of Rose's two baptismal names, and she made use of ‘Emily' when she did not want to be recognized, though of course everyone at the Ambulance Station soon knew who she was. Anyway, it was delightful that driving about in her faithful Morris was now important war work. War was utterly abhorrent to Rose, but when it came—especially when the bombing came—she met its impact with her usual capacity to find enjoyment in almost everything. And in spite of it all she was still getting a little writing
done; seeing dear friends—Gilbert Murray, Harold Nicolson, Victor Gollancz; relishing the game of trying to find out, despite propaganda and censorship, what was really happening in the war. Every week she sent on to Jean the King-Hall news-letter, as well as any cuttings that had interested her—usually with a few tart comments.

All in all, the surge of events during the first eighteen months of the war brought more stimulation than distress to Rose. But enjoyment fled away after the Spring of 1941, when she was gradually overwhelmed by a rising tide of personal sorrows and disasters. Illness and death came to one after another of those she loved; first of all her sister Margaret died of cancer. There had always been a close affinity between Rose and Margaret, and her death, though not unexpected, was a severe shock. Then when Rose was away in Hampshire making arrangements for the sale of Margaret's house and furniture, her flat in Marylebone was bombed. Before this she had never realized how much she cared for her belongings. When she found them gone she was more grief-stricken than she could ever have imagined. Yet in her sorrow she discovered anew the kindness of her friends, who hastened to her support with every kind of gift, including books to replace some of those she had lost; the destruction of her library had caused her an agony of grief.

She found a new flat in Hinde Street, off Manchester Square (her home for the rest of her life) but after settling there she collapsed into illness, and early in 1942 had to give up her ambulance work. It was then that she first began to depend on Jean, who, with her friend Nancy Willetts, nursed her through several illnesses.

Before the war ended, and during the years just after it, the sunshine of Portugal and Spain restored her natural eagerness for life and work, though spiritually she was still wandering lost among ruins, like Barbary in
The World my Wilderness.
Then in 1950, the year when that novel was published, she received from America the letter which was to initiate her
return to faith. It was an appreciation of her historical novel
They Were Defeated
from her one-time confessor Hamilton Johnson of the Cowley Fathers.

When Rose first started corresponding with Father Johnson she did not say anything about it to Jean. Not until she was well established as a regular worshipper at Grosvenor Chapel did she mention the fact, quite casually, and Jean tactfully accepted it without much comment. Thenceforward the barriers of reserve fell gradually away, and their mutual love became ever more understanding and strong.

As they reached their seventies, the death of their sister Eleanor in India meant that they were the only survivors of the last generation of Macaulays. When July and August came round each year, bringing the birthdays which they observed as faithfully as when they were children, they were recurrently reminded that there was no younger generation to carry on this branch of the family; that they and their brothers and sisters, in failing to marry and produce offspring, seemed to have failed in a joint responsibility. But it was comforting to Rose, and also to Jean, to be able to discuss old age, as it advanced, with a sister who was not only loving but had courage and a sense of humour. Jean's many infirmities, including failing sight and hearing, forced her more and more to accept the role of an old woman. Rose, fully active till the end, never thought of herself as aged, and in spirit she never was.

The last thing in the world that either of them would have sought after was public recognition, but when Jean, after her retirement in 1956, was awarded the M.B.E. for her exceptional service as a District Nurse, Rose was naturally delighted, and accompanied her to Buckingham Palace for the investiture. Jean believes that this may have helped Rose to make up her mind to accept the D.B.E. when it was offered to her two years later. She recalls that in the past Rose had declined a C.B.E., because she felt she would thereby be under an
obligation to conform to conventional standards in her work. In 1958 no such scruples held her back, and she became Dame Rose Macaulay, slightly to her own embarrassment and to the joy of her numerous friends.

During Rose's last years many treasured friendships developed for her, especially among fellow Anglicans, and in her letters to Jean she wrote with affection of John Betjeman, Trevor Huddleston, Gerard Irvine, and Susan Lister, as well as the clergy at St Paul's, Knightsbridge, and at Grosvenor Chapel, the two churches she attended regularly. Often too, during those years, she liked to discuss with Jean her latest thinking on religious matters. Paradoxically—since high-church ritual appealed to her so strongly—she became a champion of Intercommunion, and made a point of taking part in the worship of various Nonconformist churches. Towards the end of her life, as these letters show, she was also becoming rather more tolerant towards Roman Catholicism. She even went so far as to write to Jean, on a gay holiday postcard, that if she were an atheist she would feel strongly tempted to join the Roman Church, ‘but not in England; it would have to be in Italy, and preferably Venice'. Rose's holidays still drew her irresistibly to ‘dear abroad'—to Cyprus and the Middle East, to Turkey, to Venice, to the Aegean Islands and the Black Sea. But she now also enjoyed staying quietly with friends in the country, often with Raymond Mortimer in Dorset, or visiting the Isle of Wight with Jean and Nancy Willetts.