Travelling to Infinity (66 page)

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performing like puppets for the cameras, still conveying the outdated happy and united façade.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.

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.

It was some consolation that, for all the chaos that
A Brief History of Time
had plunged us into, at least it had not left me destitute. We were able to buy and enlarge a detached house
on a modern estate on the same side of Cambridge. At first sight I found the house and its garden dispiriting to the point of heartbreak. The house was cramped, featureless and uninspiring –
a modern brick-and-concrete box, its inner walls covered in torn and faded hessian; the garden was pitifully bare and sombre, shaded from the neighbours by a row of overgrown leylandii. Yet again I
would have to start from scratch and try to recreate a home in that characterless house and a flower garden from the unyielding grey clay which passed for soil. The attraction of the house was its
position: it was still within cycling distance of the centre of town and of Tim’s school. It also happened to be quite close to Stephen’s luxury flat, which had to be regarded as an
advantage, since Stephen insisted on seeing Tim twice a week. With uncomplaining loyalty, Arthur accompanied Tim on these regular visits, the outcome of which was never predictable and always
disturbing. I was relieved that Stephen showed no urgency in pressing for divorce, because I dreaded that Tim might become a pawn in yet a further acrimonious battle. Occasionally a demanding
letter would arrive, but as this clearly was Stephen’s response to domestic pressure, these letters could be taken lightly, whatever their contents. Generally our discussions were civilized
and even affectionate whenever we met.

As long as no divorce proceedings were filed, Tim was safe from legal wranglings over custody. Eventually that potential problem, because of his age, ceased to be an issue. For my part, I was
leading a normal life, a tremendous luxury after more than twenty-five years of a life which had never really been normal. Jonathan and I cherished our normality and our privacy, though still
living in fear of abuse by the gutter press which, we knew, would not hesitate to exploit our situation to please the salacious tastes of their readership. Occasionally those fears were justified,
though never to lasting effect.

It was no secret that both the University and the College had designs on the land on which the house at 5 West Road stood. The two institutions were engaged in negotiations for the redevelopment
of the end of the garden as a library for the Law Faculty, while for many years the College had been intending to build a hall of residence on the site of the house. In that last year of our
occupation, we watched from the house in a silent state of siege as surveyors stalked the garden, armed with measuring rods, marking out distances with stakes and poles, while down by the holly
hedge a pile driver forced its way deep into the light alluvial soil. With our removal the fate of the whole property – the old house, its lovely tranquil garden and its majestic backdrop of
trees – would be sealed. In the name of progress, the University and the College were predictably intent on destroying yet another shady green space. In the mayhem of moving, there was little
that I could do to save the house and garden except to ensure that the trees, especially the two magnificent sentinels, the wellingtonia by the house and the western red cedar, the
Thuja
plicata
at the end of the lawn, were protected by tree-preservation orders. The self-styled arboreal officers conducted a survey and assured me that I had no need to worry: the trees were
protected already because they were in a conservation area. I moved house satisfied that I had done my civic and environmental duty.