Travelling to Infinity (30 page)

We were informed of the election in mid-March, a couple of weeks in advance of the official announcement, giving me time to arrange a surprise celebration. I planned a champagne reception in the
dignified setting of the Senior Parlour in Caius, to which Stephen’s family, friends and colleagues were invited, and I prepared a buffet dinner for a smaller, more intimate group of family
and friends at home afterwards. There was no more fitting occasion on which to open the two bottles of Château Lafitte 1945 which had appeared a couple of years back on the Caius
Fellows’ wine list at the remarkable – though erroneous – price of forty-five shillings a bottle. The number of guests for the dinner party was limited therefore not by the
capacity of the house nor by the amount of crockery we possessed, but by the quantity of extremely rare old claret in the two bottles, just enough for everyone to have a taste.

On the evening of 22nd March 1974, Stephen’s students diplomatically steered him in the direction of the College where he was cheered as a conquering hero by friends and family, students
and colleagues. The children did their best to pass round plates of canapés, caviar toasts, vol-au-vents and the miniature smoked salmon and asparagus rolls in which the Caius catering
department excelled. Dennis Sciama agreed to propose the toast to Stephen and this he did very generously, listing all Stephen’s many scientific achievements which, he said, would have more
than justified his faith in him without this culminating honour of the Fellowship of the Royal Society. The children and I stood together in a glow of pride.

It was Stephen’s turn to reply. It was a measure of the change in him since our marriage that he was well accustomed to making speeches in public these days but, of course, on this
occasion the party had come as a surprise and he had had no chance to prepare what he was going to say. He actually made quite a long speech, speaking slowly and clearly, though faintly. He talked
about the course of his research and the unexpected way in which it had developed over the past ten years or so, since coming to Cambridge. He thanked Dennis Sciama for his support and inspiration,
and he thanked his friends for coming to the party, talking as was his habit always in terms of “I” not “we”. With my arms round each of the children, I waited at the side
of the room for him to turn towards us with a smile, a nod, just a brief word of recognition for the domestic achievements of the nine years of our marriage. It may have been a mere oversight in
the excitement of the moment that he did not mention us at all. He finished speaking to general applause, while I bit my lip to conceal my disappointment.

In the very week of the publication of the Royal Society Fellowship list, Stephen received an approach – no doubt instigated by Kip Thorne – from Caltech, the California Institute of
Technology in Pasadena, inviting him to take up the offer of a visiting Fellowship for the following academic year. The offer was lavish in the extreme. Quite apart from a salary on an American
scale, it included a large, fully furnished house rent-free, the use of a car and all possible aids and appurtenances, including an electrically powered wheelchair to allow Stephen maximum
independence. Physiotherapy and medical care would be arranged for him, and schooling for the children. Stephen’s students, Bernard Carr and Peter De’Ath, were also invited to accompany
him. We needed a change, a change that would bring us a renewal of commitment, a new perspective and a fresh impetus. A change would be good for the children, too, and this was an appropriate time
to make it. Lucy had not yet started school and Robert would be moving out of the state system the following year. The offer from the Americans, who espoused our cause with generosity and
imagination, was even more opportune – and our situation in Cambridge much more precarious – than we realized. Years later a close friend reported to me a scene witnessed at a somewhat
frosty dinner party in Cambridge in that period in the early Seventies. To the surprise of that dinner guest, Stephen’s likely fate was indicated in a remark delivered with consummate
indifference by a senior don. “As long as Stephen Hawking pulls his weight, he can stay in this university,” the speaker announced, “but as soon as he ceases to do that, he will
have to go…” Luckily for us we were able to go of our own volition, not quite sure of what the future would hold, but in the event, we were actually to be invited back a year
later.

If an opportunity to exchange the icy chill of the fen winds for the warm deserts of southern California was to be welcomed, the obstacles associated with such an enterprise could not be lightly
dismissed. Weighing up the advantages against the disadvantages preoccupied me most. Whereas Stephen might well have mastered the fifteen-thousand-million-year history of the universe, my vision of
the future had become restricted only to the foreseeable perspective of the next few days. I had learnt not to speculate on a more distant future, or plan for two, five, ten or twenty years hence.
However the next eighteen months demanded careful consideration, especially in the light of my past chaotic experiences on the west coast of America. I steeled myself to confront my personal
problem, the fear of flying. At least this time I should not have to abandon my children because they, of course, would be coming with us – but that, in a changed perspective, was the least
of my anxieties. Far more worrying was the question of how I was going to manage to travel a third of the way across the world, solely responsible for Stephen in his very debilitated state, as well
as for the children. Secondly how should I cope for a whole year, entirely alone, with neither parents nor neighbours on hand to help in time of crisis? Frequently in the past couple of years when
I had been laid low with flu, headaches, backache and even pleurisy, I had been able to rely on my mother or the Thatchers to come and help. No such help would be forthcoming in California.

In addition, one of the most perplexing stumbling blocks for some time had been Stephen’s absolute rejection of any outside help with his care. He staunchly refused to accept any help,
apart from snippets of advice from his father, which might suggest either an acknowledgement of his condition per se or of the fact that it was deteriorating. This attitude, together with his
refusal to mention the illness, was one of the props which underpinned his courage and was part of his defence mechanism. I well understood that if once he admitted the gravity of his condition his
courage might fail him. I well understood, too, that the mere struggle to get out of bed in the morning might defeat him if he gave any thought to his plight. How I wished that he, for his part,
could understand that just a little help to relieve me of some of the severe grinding physical strain which was stifling my true optimistic self might contribute to an improvement in our
relationship.

My doctor had listened to my troubles and had conferred with Stephen’s doctor. Together they had tried to initiate a rota of domiciliary male nurses to lift Stephen in and out of the bath
at least a couple of times a week. This embryonic plan was aborted soon after it was conceived, because the pleasant but elderly male nurse was able to come only at five o’clock in the
afternoon, and such an abrupt interruption or conclusion to his working day was, understandably, anathema to Stephen. Only a miracle could resolve the problems we faced. However, that Easter a
miracle of an idea floated into my mind like a thistledown seed gliding to earth. It lightened my step and removed my anxieties at the impracticability of well-meaning attempts from the other side
of the world to offer us a welcome change of scene. The idea was quite simple: we should invite Stephen’s students to live with us in our large Californian house. We could offer them free
accommodation in return for help with the mechanics of lifting, dressing and bathing. This was all the more essential since Stephen was no longer able to feed himself at all and needed a constantly
watchful eye. With assistance from Bernard, he would not be humiliated by the unmentionable indignity of having to receive help from nurses – which he considered a detrimental step, an
acceptance of the deterioration in his condition – but would be assisted by people from his own circle, if not family then at least friends, part of the household. Stephen’s first
reaction to the idea was automatic rejection, but when he had had time to think about it and realized that the fate of the Californian venture might hang on his decision, he changed his mind. I
broached the idea to Bernard Carr and then to Peter De’Ath who, after due consideration, agreed that it would suit all parties very nicely.

There remained one major function to be fulfilled that summer: Stephen’s admission to the Fellowship of the Royal Society on Thursday 2nd May. We set off from Cambridge in good time for
lunch at Carlton House Terrace, the fine eighteenth-century headquarters of the Royal Society overlooking the Mall. As we approached north London, the car began to lurch uncontrollably and the
steering became heavier and heavier. We had no alternative but to press on with the journey, hoping against hope that we would be able to reach our destination. At last, tugging the resistant
steering wheel round, I turned with relief into the forecourt of Carlton House Terrace, there to embark on the well-rehearsed sequence of searching out the usual bevy of elderly porters, heaving
the various parts of the wheelchair out of the car, assembling them, stationing the chair by the passenger seat and then lifting Stephen under the arms and swinging him round from his car seat into
the chair. Then the porters had to be instructed in the careful lifting of the chair up the inevitable flight of steps to the main entrance. This time the sequence was more complicated because the
car as well as Stephen needed attention: the front nearside tyre was flat.

As on many occasions, help came from the least expected quarter. It was the secretary of the Royal Society himself – a man of few words, flustered with the demands of the important guests
and the significance of the occasion, for all of which he was responsible – who got down on his hands and knees, dressed in his smart dark grey suit, and changed the wheel for us while,
unawares, we were being regally entertained to a formal luncheon by another Cambridge scientist, the President of the Royal Society, Sir Alan Hodgkin. The admission took place in the early
afternoon amid much ceremonial in the lecture theatre. Speeches were made introducing each new Fellow who then stepped onto the platform to sign the admissions book. When Stephen’s turn came,
a hush descended on the audience and the book was brought down from the podium for his signature. He inscribed his name slowly and carefully to a tense silence. His final flourish was greeted by a
burst of rapturous applause, which brought a jubilant smile to his face and tears to my eyes.

Stephen was not the only Cambridge scientist to be honoured that year, nor yet the only physicist from the Department. John Polkinghorne, the Professor of Particle Physics, was also being
admitted to the Fellowship of the Royal Society on the same occasion. Having reached the apogee of his career in science, he was on the point of giving up physics to take up theology; that is to
say, from being Professor Polkinghorne FRS, he was about to become an undergraduate again, embarking on the long haul of study for ordination, curacy and parish, with the particular motivation of
healing the schism between science and religion which had originated with Galileo. In his opinion, science and religion were not in opposition but were two complementary aspects of one reality.
This thesis would become the theme of his writings as a priest-scientist. Although we did not know him well, I admired his conviction and was greatly encouraged to find that atheism was not an
essential prerequisite of science, and not all scientists were as atheistic as they seemed.

“Oh, hi! My name is Mary Lou and I live in Sierra Madre. And who are you? Where are you from?” The speaker, a slight, tanned figure, invited our reply with a broad
smile. As we had only just arrived at the party, hosted by some English expatriates, a week or so after landing in Los Angeles, we were not yet accustomed to such directness. There was a long pause
while we overcame our surprise and realized that an equally spontaneous reply was expected. After all, it had taken the best part of ten years for us to be recognized at parties in Cambridge, and
even then the approach was always tinged with a certain diffidence. Of late some of the senior Fellows – and more especially their wives – had regularly shown a benevolent interest in
us, but over the years we had become used to sitting trapped at the ends of tables, or in corners on our own, never really expecting anyone to speak to us, always pleasantly surprised if during the
course of the evening we happened to encounter a friendly face. Indeed one of the kitchen managers had once confided in me that it was difficult to place us at table at College feasts because no
one really wanted to sit with us. Small wonder, then, that we were unprepared for Mary Lou’s initiative. Her exuberance was infectious and I attempted to convey our elation at all things
Californian in my letters home to our families and friends, as for instance in my first letter to my parents, written in the days before regular phone contact was financially feasible: