Travelling to Infinity

by Jane Hawking

  Later that month, as I waved the two eldest children goodbye on consecutive days – Robert to Glasgow for a postgraduate-degree course in Information Technology and Lucy to Oxford – it seemed that my entire existence and the structure on which it rested were crumbling away. My personal identity, which I had desperately tried to construct over the years from all the disparate fragments – the jigsaw pieces of everyday life – had been shattered. I was alone and without shelter in the midst of a private war. Wherever I looked, I saw the rubble and ruins of the brave, bold but fragile edifice that Stephen and I had built. A dark chasm had opened up in the ground, swallowing up that edifice and with it more than twenty-five years of my life – all the years of my youth and young adulthood, all the hopes and all the optimism. In their place there was left little more than an insubstantial, vacant shroud, ghostly and withdrawn, the object of daily mental torture. The only certainty for the future was that my youngest and most vulnerable child, Tim, had to be protected and, however crushed and broken I might be, I had to muster the strength and the courage to fight for him.

  Jonathan and I had never contemplated the possibility of a future together without Stephen. We had no fantasies, no dreams. The thought of change was alien to our thinking: I had closed my mind to it and did not seek it. In the past I thought that we had achieved a balance whereby everyone could flourish, even if that demanded considerable contortion, restraint and self-discipline at a personal level. This had evidently proved to be nothing more than complacent wishful thinking, for I was now forcibly given to understand that Stephen had been dissatisfied with our way of life for some time. I found this revelation quite surprising. If Stephen had been seething with resentment for so long, why had he not told me about it? How had he managed to be so successful, creative and dynamic if he was really unhappy? Apparently he had not liked being treated as but one member of the family when he considered his rightful place to be on a pedestal at the centre. Someone had come along who was prepared to worship at his feet and make him the focal point of her life. That someone was promising him that he would never have to employ nurses again, since she alone would care for him twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and would travel everywhere that he wanted to go. Patently I could not match such single-minded devotion and, as a result, change of the cruellest kind was being forced upon me. I was threatened with being thrown out of the family home, and my role in Stephen’s life was being systematically denied, as if all reference to me, all memory of me, had to be erased from all the records.

  Once the term had started and Tim and I were entrenched in the Cambridge routine, there was no going back to France, yet I badly needed a bolt hole. Jonathan’s house was out of the question, since a move there would signify that I was ending the marriage, which was not and never had been my intention. Any bolt hole had to be neutral territory, where Tim and I could escape the tensions, the battles, the venom and the recriminations which were creating bitter chaos at 5 West Road. There was just one option open. Although the College had been in possession of our house in Little St Mary’s Lane for years – in part-exchange for the College flat – the property still technically belonged to us. As I knew that the house was unoccupied, I wrote to the Master pleading with him to allow Tim and me to use it temporarily until the battles had died away and the crisis had resolved itself for better or for worse. The Master was new to the College – I scarcely knew him nor he me. His reply was unequivocal: much as he regretted it, there existed a formal agreement between Stephen and the College for the exchange of the two properties, and until Stephen revoked that agreement, I could have no access to the house.

  By day asthma stifled my breathing and befuddled my mind, while my hands tingled to the tips of my fingers with fright each time Stephen announced that he wanted to speak to me. Every night the terrible nightmares returned, waking me in a terrified panic: my heart pounded as buildings collapsed on top of me, burying me in a dark underground tomb. Tim too had nightmares in which he dreamt that he was being chased by baddies along corridors and down streets. By day he became excessively introverted and anxious. The doctor prescribed beta blockers for me and sent me to see a counsellor. The only remedy for Tim was to distance him from the troubles, but since Little St Mary’s Lane was denied us, that was not easily done. I asked his headteacher to warn his staff of the intolerable strain that Tim was under at home. Too late I discovered that he had omitted to pass my anxieties on to his staff, and poor Tim often came home from his primary school in tears.

  The battles continued to rage furiously for the rest of the term with only a short truce during the visit to Spain for the presentation of a prestigious award by the heir to the Spanish throne, the Prince of Asturias, in Oviedo. Being in Spain lifted my spirits and made that visit bearable. Although the truce brought its own minor superficial tensions in the form of repeated public appearances, press conferences and interviews, at least these gave me the opportunity to prove myself professionally again and reassert my own qualifications as a linguist and as Stephen’s companion. The underlying tension which resulted from his lately announced resolve of buying a flat for his favourite nurse was much more severe. The mind which had mastered the mathematical secrets of the universe was no match for the emotional upheaval which now overwhelmed it. Like his Wagnerian hero, Siegfried, Stephen had wrapped himself in a protective cloak, the stiff cloak of determination – inspired by unrelenting reason, steeling him against sentimental frailty in the belief that he was invincible. But like Siegfried he was vulnerable, and helpless when his vulnerability was exposed to attack. Stephen’s physical weak spot had been his throat, but he also had a second, psychological weak spot, which was an utter lack of resistance to manipulative, emotional pressure. He had never been subjected to it before and had no armour against it. This was the sort of pressure being exerted on Stephen: it built up a head of steam, hissing with relentless energy until it erupted in a series of emotional surges of volcanic force, which engulfed all obstacles with a red-hot flow of anger and passion. Then, quite miraculously, each new eruption would subside as quickly as it had exploded, and peace would descend once again on our home life. He would become gentler, more docile and regretful, genuinely concerned to put the turmoil behind him and resume the family life on which he had thrived in the past. Then he would admit that he was being tossed by conflicting emotions and needed support, understanding and the possibility of a reconciliation. This I was all too willing to give, for I shared the tragedy of his situation and wanted to help him get through it – but the lull would last only until the awful moment when another missive, another ultimatum, another summons, would seek out its target. I learnt to dread the outcome as Stephen dashed off, abandoning meals and social engagements to appease and become even further enthralled. And so it went on until Christmas. My parents’ plans for celebrating their Golden Wedding were a catastrophe on the ebb and flow of that tidal force. With a randomness which had become perversely predictable, Stephen spent Christmas Day in the bosom of his family, but then late at night his van drew up outside and he vanished into the darkness, leaving home with Elaine to go and stay in a hotel before setting off for a conference in Israel the next day.

  We did not see him or hear from him again until early January, when the children, Jonathan and I arrived home from a blissfully untroubled break in France to find him waiting for us as if he were expecting to resume business as usual. No explanations were proffered, and I knew better than to ask for any. That evening we gathered round the candlelit table, feasting on roast duck and orange sauce in celebration of Stephen’s birthday. The cheerful letter I wrote to Stephen’s mother the following morning, genuinely expressing my joy that the disruptions appeared to be over and that we could resume our attempts to lead a creative family life, received an entirely negative response. From that letter it became clear that Isobel discounted, even doubted, the effort that I had so long put into caring for Stephen and, on the contrary, saw me as the hedonistic beneficiary of his
fame and success, intent now on denying him his chance of happiness with someone she really approved of and liked.

  The stability was short-lived: all too soon the situation began to deteriorate again. After several more weeks in which the threats, the recriminations and the abuse once again gathered force, the children and I left to join Arthur and his parents for a few days’ skiing in Austria at half-term. On our return to Cambridge, there was no sign of Stephen. He had gone. He had finally moved out, aided apparently by Elaine’s husband, on the day we had left for Austria, 17th February 1990. The end had come. I felt neither sadness nor relief. I was numb.

  It was not the end however. The very next day, Stephen telephoned from Elstree Studios, where the film version of A Brief History of Time was being shot, and asked me to join him there to participate in a family portrait, a biographical background for the film. It was an astonishing request. It was incredible that, having just left his family, he could expect us to go on performing like puppets for the cameras, still conveying the outdated happy and united façade. There was no longer any timid hesitancy in my voice. In taking his decision to leave us, Stephen had unwittingly relinquished his power over me, leaving me free to make up my own mind, no more in dread of his imperious reactions. I refused to go to Elstree. I had gained control of my life.

  Thereafter, the high tragedy descended into farce. The phone rang incessantly as one after another the American producers and directors tried to cajole, flatter, persuade me to participate in their film. When they moved to Cambridge to set up an exact replica of Stephen’s office in a disused church, they beat a path to the door, bringing with them their pathetic arguments. Millions of dollars were at stake, they lamented, wringing their hands; my absence would upset all their plans; without a substantial biographical element, the film would be unbalanced. I shrugged my shoulders and quoted back their original assurances, enshrined in the contract, about the nature of the film – a purely scientific documentary with only the briefest of biographical references. The more they revealed their lack of integrity by denying all such promises, the easier I found it to hold my ground – and the easier I found it to hold my ground, the stronger I became.

  16

  Null and Void

  Whatever small comfort I may have derived from my new-found independence of spirit, the cataclysm had in truth left me a shattered wreck. In the darkness of defeat, I felt myself discredited and disowned, fumbling to find an identity, as if the preceding twenty-five years had been erased without trace. Indeed that impression was not simply subjective: it was given substance by the two charities for whom I had worked so hard. They could not risk their public credibility, they said, by continuing to have the two partners to a separation or divorce associated with their efforts, so they both dispensed with my services. Naturally Stephen’s name was more useful than mine. This was a bitter blow. As I had suspected, outside the marriage and apart from Stephen, I was nothing.

  It was nonetheless from this blind maze of disorientation that I began to sense the stirrings of an unprecedented, almost palpable strength in the air around me, a spiritual force, unrelated to my sapped physical state. It revealed itself in the spontaneous expressions of concern and love, reaching out telepathically to me from our many friends worldwide. These were the true friends, people who had known us for many years, friends who had witnessed the struggles and had often helped in times of crisis, friends who had generously delighted in the successes without being blinded to the harsh underlying reality. These were friends, too, from whom my attempts to come to terms with the situation had been no secret, friends who had known and admired Jonathan for his dedication to the family as much as for his musical talent. Many said that they wept when they heard the news. They brought me a sense of peace which enabled me to look to my own resources. Rather than wallow in resentment, I would put the energy which I had previously devoted to Stephen’s well-being into a new project, a project of my own: it would be a book, but not the book of memoirs for which various publishers were already clamouring, since that was far too painful a subject and still lacked a clear perspective. My book would describe our experiences in setting up home in France, and would consist of amusing anecdotes and practical information, aimed at the considerable market of British buyers of homes in France. As not many of those Francophiles seemed to have any great command of the French language, I would compile a phonetic lexicon of useful terms relating to all areas of house purchase and residence in France: legalities, insurance, renovation, the utilities, the telephone system, local government and healthcare.

  Most of the time which used to be spent running the home, attending to Stephen’s needs, accommodating his nurses, organizing rotas, answering the phone to disaffected carers and putting on parties, I gave to that book. In writing it and compiling the lexicon, I learnt – like Stephen in the period after his critical illness – to use a computer. How I wished that one had been available in those years when I was working on my thesis! The computer and printer were a magnanimous parting gift from Stephen. Quite why he bought them I never discovered, but I suspected that the gesture was typical of the state of confusion in which he found himself, and which as ever he was too proud and self-contained to admit. I was, however, duly appreciative, since I could not have compiled the dictionary of useful terms without it. Although the French aspect of the project was endlessly entertaining and stimulating in the research and the writing, the publication was fraught with difficulty because, in my naivety, I fell into the wrong hands. A seemingly sympathetic literary agent took the book on board, but in fact, like so many others, he was interested only in the memoir.

  Devious literary agents notwithstanding, the news of the separation fortunately remained concealed from the press for several months. Because it had not hit the tabloid headlines, we were allowed a beneficial period of respite. This limbo enabled Stephen and me to try to put our relationship on a new footing without the rub of media attention. We could meet as old friends without the stress of the day-to-day friction which had soured our relationship: he could come to West Road to see Tim at mealtimes, and we could discuss matters of family concern calmly and sensibly. The only difference was that he lived elsewhere with someone else.

  The press finally learnt of our separation, literally as the result of an accident. One night, as Stephen was on his way back to his flat, he and the nurse in attendance (not Elaine) were knocked down by a speeding taxi. The wheelchair was overturned and he was left lying in the road in the dark. It was a miracle that he suffered nothing worse than a broken shoulder and spent only a couple of days in hospital. Inevitably the press got to hear of the accident, and naturally they wanted to know why his home was no longer at West Road. Reporters and cameramen, especially from the tabloids, came clustering round the gate like a pack of baying hounds, scenting scandal and terrifying Tim and me. We were being hunted. It was thanks to the good sense of the head porter at Harvey Court that they were put off the scent, and Jonathan, of whose existence they were unaware, managed to escape out of the back door.

  Once the separation had entered the public domain, the College lost no time in sending the Bursar across to enquire when we were going to move. He was quite explicit: the College felt itself under no obligation to house the family if Stephen, with whom the College had signed the agreement, was no longer living there. He was in effect giving me notice to quit. I had neither the presence of mind to protest nor the will to fight. The previous day would have been – technically was – our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. On that Monday morning in July it was made quite clear to me that everything that had occurred in those twenty-five years was of no importance to anyone else. The records had been wiped out. Those years might as well never have happened. Stephen was the only person who mattered. I was of no consequence, nor were the children. I had been given my marching orders and we were effectively being thrown out into the street. It was time to wake up to a new reality.

  The only concession was that we were
given one year’s grace in which to readjust. This was particularly important, as Tim had been entered for King’s College School, directly across the road, and it would have been the height of irony if we had been forced to move just as he was changing to a school less than five minutes from our front door. A further advantage of King’s for Tim was that his friend Arthur was coming to school there as a boarder, so whatever the upheavals at home he could count on seeing his best friend every day in school. In fact Tim not only saw Arthur in school, but at home as well, because for the next two years Arthur came to live with us. It was a very happy arrangement for all concerned. Arthur became part of our family and gave Tim invaluable moral support in his changing circumstances.

  It was my infinite good fortune that I was not alone. Jonathan had stood discreetly and steadfastly by my side despite being the target of considerable hostility. Equally discreetly and steadfastly, and with endless patience, he began to reassemble the broken shards of what used to be my personality, the while trying to come to terms himself with what had happened. From the outset he had been under no illusions: he knew that our relationship depended on a fine balance and on Stephen’s acceptance that it was dedicated to the survival, not the destruction, of the family. Jonathan had feared the possibility of Freudian repercussions, but had underestimated the havoc that the intervention of an outside party could wreak by gossip and misrepresentation. There had not been any viable alternative, since he cared so deeply for me and for the family, including Stephen. For my part, not only could I not cope, I could not survive without him: he shouldered the physical burdens, and in his arms I found a longed-for emotional security. The new reality flung us together, though not with any joy or elation, only with sadness at the betrayal of our best intentions, coupled with muted relief that the long ordeal was over. Although Jonathan and I started to live together and began to look for a suitable house to buy, we were not intending to rush into marriage. We were committed to each other, but I was in no fit state, physically or emotionally, to marry anyone, let alone someone who deserved so much more than I could offer. In any case, since there had been no mention of divorce, I was technically still married to Stephen.