Travelling to Infinity (64 page)

Naturally, Her Majesty was a little flustered – as was I – so we failed to shake hands and I forgot to curtsey as she uttered a short formal speech of welcome. After an awkward
silence she must have decided that the best course of action was to go ahead with the presentation without delay, and so proceeded to announce that she was pleased to invest Stephen with the
insignia of the Companion of Honour. I received the medal on Stephen’s behalf and showed it to him, reading the inscription aloud as I held it out for him to see. “In Action Faithful,
in Honour Clear” it read. The Queen remarked that she thought it was a particularly lovely wording, and Stephen typed up, “Thank you ma’am.” We in turn presented her with a
thumb-printed copy of
A Brief History of Time
, which rather nonplussed her – “Is it a popular account of his work such that a lawyer might give?” she enquired of me. It
was my turn to be nonplussed, since I could not imagine anything remotely approaching a popular account of the law. I recovered my composure sufficiently to say that I thought
A Brief
History
was more readable than that, especially the first chapters, which provided a fascinating account of the development of the study of the universe – before the physics became too
complicated with elementary particles, string theory, imaginary time and that sort of thing. Thereafter the conversation continued haltingly for another ten minutes or so, ranging from a basic
explanation of Stephen’s science and interests to a demonstration of the workings of the computer and its American voice. The Queen directed her questions to me with a piercing, blue gaze, as
bright as the large sapphire and diamond brooch on her shoulder. Although there was warmth and consideration as well as keenness in that gaze, it transfixed me. I was too terrified even to move my
eyes, much as I should have liked to glance round the pretty turquoise reception room with its paintings and mementoes, and I stood awkwardly rooted to the spot, hardly daring to turn my head to
left or right.

Over lunch on the top floor of the Hilton we recounted the details of the audience to the family, whose movements had been restricted to the Empire Room, not omitting the carpet episode, which
appealed to their irreverent sense of humour. We described the subsequent conversation as somewhere between an oral exam and an interview with an intense but well-meaning headmistress, both equally
terrifying. I had little doubt that the Queen had found it pretty difficult as well. Did we give the right answers, we wondered, as we looked out over the London skyline? There, directly beneath
us, was the Palace, surrounded by the Elysian Fields where, after the audience, we had just walked. Stephen complained that he had not been able to converse as much as he would have liked because
of a problem with the setting of the hand control of the computer, disturbed by the contretemps with the carpet. Be that as it may, the overall impression was that the occasion had gone well, and
Stephen had yet another impressive medallion to add to his already extensive collection.

Just as we were leaving the restaurant, I was surprised to be presented with an enormous bouquet of orange and yellow lilies by the management. Although it came from a commercial institution,
one of the chain of Hilton Hotels, the gesture was quite affecting. It reminded me of the pearl that Ruth Hughes had given me in California when Stephen was awarded the Papal medal in 1975, and it
told me that somebody had noticed me.

A week later Tim and I were in France again. The Moulin blinked sleepily in the evening sun as we drove towards it up the track and as I opened the gates. The crisp, fresh air
penetrated deep into my asthmatic lungs, reviving my spirits, for I was physically tired after the long journey and emotionally taut after the recent peaks and troughs. The inner courtyard was
quiet and still, enveloping us like a soft blanket and protecting us from the tyranny of the outside world. The silence was broken only by the chirruping of sparrows, echoing off the white walls.
Then Tim added his piping voice to theirs, impatiently urging me to open the door so that he could get in and clamber up to his attic to check the state of his model aeroplanes, which swooped
vertiginously over the stairwell, suspended from the banisters by an intricate web of thread and Sellotape. Inside we ran from room to room, inspecting every nook and cranny and renewing our
acquaintance with every old beam. To our astonishment, the dusty black barn had undergone a Cinderella-like transformation and was ready to accommodate Stephen’s entourage of nurses. The
rubble, cobwebs and rotting rafters had disappeared, and in their place downstairs there was a large room with a tiled floor and a kitchenette, and upstairs two large bedrooms and a bathroom. A
blend of solid new beams and usable old ones held up the structure, so confident in their age-old tradition that were it not for the sheen of newness on all the fittings, they could have been there
from time immemorial. Then we ran out into the garden, anticipating more discoveries. Some strange enchantment had been exercised in our absence. Tim gasped, “It’s just like Buckingham
Palace!” – and indeed he was right. The plants and seeds in the herbaceous border had leapt to maturity, and where in May there had been small isolated clumps and diminutive seedlings,
now a riot of densely nodding flower heads and dancing colour shouted ecstatic greetings. There were still things to be done, walls to be painted and floors to be covered, but the essential work
was completed. The Moulin was ready to receive not only us, but the whole crowd of our summer visitors as well. My brother was to bring his family of four children at about the same time as
Tim’s friend Arthur, and his parents would be arriving for a weekend visit. Jonathan would be bringing my parents and Stephen would be coming out by air to Le Touquet, attended by Pam Benson,
a most trusted nurse, and by Elaine and David Mason and their family.

Despite my mother’s misgivings, I had in my optimism invited the Mason family, hoping that the experience of living with us in the same house but in more relaxed circumstances than in
Cambridge would encourage a greater respect for the self-discipline which was basic to our routine. While I had no intention of interfering in any fond attachment that might have developed between
Elaine and Stephen, I thought that, as a professional nurse, she might be persuaded to see that the success of our task depended on finely balanced teamwork. There was no room for troublemakers in
this situation. Naively I trusted too that if she realized that Jonathan and I did not, as a matter of course, sleep together in the same room, she would learn to respect the modus vivendi which
enabled us to go on caring for Stephen and the children indefinitely, come what may. Surely only the most bigoted fundamentalist could be blind to what we were trying to achieve and the effort and
restraint that we put into that endeavour? It was ironic that in days gone by Stephen would have been scathing in his intolerance of fundamentalism and would have laughed to scorn anyone who tried
to preach it.

We – that is me, Tim, my handyman Claude and a very helpful girl from the village – were still energetically applying white emulsion to the walls of the new part of the house
downstairs when my absent-minded brother and his family of four children arrived a week early. Chris more than compensated for their unexpected arrival, however, by taking over the cooking. In his
opinion, the best tourist attractions of France were the supermarkets, where he would happily spend his days browsing along the shelves in search of ever more extravagant ingredients to add to his
cooking pot, the aroma of which, wafting from the new kitchen, made our mouths water every evening with the promise of gastronomic delights.

By the time Stephen and his motley crew flew in to Le Touquet in the middle of August, the new wing of the house had been well and truly tested by successive waves of visitors, including my
parents, who had pronounced it entirely satisfactory both for its charm and its convenience. But a perceptible tension reigned among the new arrivals. My delight at seeing Stephen met with a cool
response, arousing my suspicions that the underhand mutterings about his dislike of the French countryside had struck home, persuading him that he really did not want to spend any time on holiday
in France, let alone in the country. All efforts to interest him in the glorious views from the house across sun-drenched fields to the distant blue line of hills and forests encountered the same
bored, disdainful expression. Day after day, the truth forced itself remorselessly on me that his smiles and his interest were reserved for Elaine, and I had no doubt that he was being encouraged
to despise me because I was flawed and did not conform to the image of perfection with which he was constantly being tantalized. He was being persuaded that I was no longer of any use to him, that
I was good for nothing. Elaine was in a position of strength: her responsibilities were minimal and she could indulge Stephen by doing anything he asked; she could wheedle and coax, and her
specialized training enabled her to attend to his every whim. Since his work and his physical condition were his two principal preoccupations, my role was logically much diminished, and hers was
ostensibly greatly enhanced. The familial and intellectual bonds which I had valued and through which we maintained a semblance of normality had apparently become insignificant. Probably with her
he had found someone tougher than me with whom he could again somehow have a physical relationship, whatever the other dimensions of their affair. I could not deny him this, and was prepared to
accept it in our scheme of things – in the same way that he had generously accepted my relationship with Jonathan – provided that it was discreet and posed no threat to our family, to
our children, to our home or to the running of the nursing rota achieved at such wearisome cost. It was also essential that it must not negate my relationship with Stephen, because I was convinced
that without me he would be like a lost child, an unruly, assertive child but a helpless and naive one as well. My fate had been bound up with his so closely and for so long that I could never be
indifferent to him, however difficult his peculiar set of circumstances – those of a disabled genius – had made him. Care for his well-being had become second nature to me. Whether it
was the slightest sign of distress, discomfort or disapproval that his mobile features betrayed, I could not ignore him. The truth was that I still loved him with a deeply caring compassion. In
that emaciated body, despite the power of the mind, his suffering was all too painfully apparent, and it was through that suffering that my feelings for him were constantly being aroused. These
feelings were never intended to be patronizing; indeed often they could lead me onto an emotional tightrope, where despair and frustration at his stubbornness and unreasonable demands had always to
be reconciled with deference for his dignity and respect for his rights as an extremely incapacitated person.

Our marriage, and the large and complex structure that it had become, was the definition of my adult life, summing up my most important achievements: Stephen’s continued survival, the
children, the family and the home. It was the long history of our joint battles against his illness and the story of his success against all the odds. I had dedicated most of myself to it –
even if I had accepted help to allow me to persevere without becoming suicidal. True, I sometimes longed for more freedom of movement and resented the strict limitations it imposed, but I had never
thought of running away from it except – when driven to utter despair – by drowning myself. The structure may have become dangerously top-heavy and unstable, but it was unbelievable
that all that the marriage represented might now be swept away in a flush of passion. The fact that Elaine had an able-bodied husband and a family of her own was beyond the scope of my
comprehension: that was a matter for her conscience in which I could not become involved.

The situation might have resolved itself peaceably had the personalities involved been different, had they been more considerate, less determined, less self-centred, less bent on the fulfilment
of their own desires to the exclusion of all else. Perhaps, if I had been stronger and less confused, I could have handled the situation differently and with more assurance. As it was, the holiday
was a disaster. Various mishaps combined to intensify Stephen’s distaste for the country, even for the Moulin, which was so unlike his enthusiasm in the spring, and he became increasingly
hostile to both the family and to Pam, the other nurse. When eventually I took it upon myself to point out to Stephen that his and Elaine’s behaviour risked losing Pam from the rota, I
inadvertently set fire to the conflagration which would consume us all. It engulfed the old house that day and the following night, shattering the cherished silence and shaking the aged beams, as
it raged up around me. Flames of vituperation, hatred, desire for revenge leapt at me from all sides, scorching me to the quick with accusations – the unfaithful wife, the uncaring partner,
the selfish career woman, work-shy and frivolous, more intent on singing than on looking after her frail, defenceless husband. I had had things my own way for too long, they said. I should
“put Stephen first”.

I faced the attacks alone. I would not demean Jonathan by bringing him into this uncivilized fray, but nor could I douse the flames. It was hopeless to try and point out that, throughout all the
alienating distractions of physics and the grinding, ceaseless demands of illness, I had honestly tried to be a good wife to Stephen; that through the paraphernalia of medicines, medical equipment
and nursing rotas, through the plethora of scientific papers, equations and meetings, I had honestly tried to do my best, however distorted my own life had become. That Jonathan’s love and
help had preserved us and saved me from ultimate despair would never be countenanced as a valid defence. My best was not good enough, and now I was being cast aside in favour of someone who
beguiled the sick man with the flimsy straws of extravagant promises and unrealistic expectations. It was the beginning of the death of our marriage.