by Jane Hawking
Those intense periods of total concentration, which the children and I had witnessed, had led him to the conclusion that, contrary to all previously held theories on black holes, a black hole could radiate energy. As the hole radiates, it evaporates, losing mass and energy. Proportionately its temperature and surface gravity increase as it shrinks to the size of a nucleus, still weighing between a thousand and 100 million tons. Finally, at an unimaginable temperature, it disappears in a massive explosion. Thus black holes were no longer to be considered impenetrably black and their activity could be seen to obey, rather than conflict with, the laws of thermodynamics. The long gestation of this particular infant had been cloaked in secrecy. For my part, I felt a certain vested interest in attending its birth since its rivalry for Stephen’s attentions had already caused me much heartache. Bernard Carr was to act as assistant midwife, projecting a transcript of Stephen’s lecture on slides to the audience.
On the morning of the lecture, I sat outside the lecture hall in the tea room, idly flicking through a newspaper while waiting for Stephen’s session to begin at 11 a.m. My concentration was interrupted by the raucous chatter of a gaggle of charladies in the far corner. Their spoons clinked noisily against the side of their cups as they stirred their coffee, and their cigarettes filled the room with smoke. Irritatingly their gossip was as pervasive as the smoke from their cigarettes, and I found myself compelled to listen as they mulled over the conference and the delegates. To my bewilderment, one of them observed to her two companions, “And there’s one of them there, that young chap, he’s living on borrowed time, isn’t he?” Momentarily I could not think whom they meant. “Oh, yes,” one of her companions agreed, “a right state he’s in, looks as if he’s falling apart at the seams, can hardly hold his head up.” She laughed a light callous laugh, amused at her own comic invention. It reminded me of a comment Frank Hawking, already white-haired and seventy years old, had once made in my hearing to the effect that Stephen was likely to die before he did. That had shaken my sense of security and then as now, the offhand condemnation of Stephen behind his back and the dismissal of our vision for the future had made me smart in silence.
When Stephen came rolling out of the lecture hall in his wheelchair, ready for a quick coffee before embarking on his lecture, I scrutinized him carefully from head to foot. He was alive certainly – alive with excitement and anticipation – but I had to ask myself if he really looked as if he were living on borrowed time, and if he were really falling apart at the seams. I had to concede that, to a casual observer, he probably did, and that concession to outside perceptions made me very sad. Fortunately such concerns could not have been further from his mind. Firmly rooted in the physical world and as unaware as Don Quixote of unkind scepticism at his appearance and purpose, he was ready to charge into battle accompanied by his faithful Sancho Panza, Bernard Carr. Still shaken, I followed them into the lecture hall. I comforted myself with the reflection that those cleaning women had only seen the pitiable state of the frail body and were ignorant of the power of the mind and the strength of the spirit, conveyed so eloquently in that imperious cranium and those fine, intelligent eyes. My conviction that Stephen was immortal was nonetheless reeling from yet another blow.
With exquisite irony, Stephen reaffirmed his immortality in that very lecture, although at the time the chairman and some of the audience gave the impression that they thought that he had taken leave of his senses. I sat on the edge of my seat as I listened to Stephen, hunched in his chair under the lights on the stage, and read the slides which Bernard brought up on the overhead projector, clarifying the substance of Stephen’s faint whispering speech. In effect the lecture was given twice, once by Stephen himself and again by the slides, so there was not the slightest doubt about the message: black holes were not as black as they seemed.
Despite the clarity of the presentation, silence reigned as the lecture came to an end. The audience seemed to be having difficulty digesting that simple message. The chairman, Professor John G. Taylor, of King’s College, London, did not remain silent for long however. Aghast at this heretical attack on the gospel of the black hole, he sprang to his feet, blustering, “Well, this is quite preposterous! I have never heard anything like it. I have no alternative but to bring this session to an immediate close!” His behaviour seemed to me to be quite preposterous, reminiscent in fact of Eddington’s attack on Chandrasekhar in 1933, except that Eddington had used “absurd” rather than “preposterous” to describe Chandrasekhar’s theory. Not only is it usual for a chairman to allow time for questions after a lecture, it is also a commonly accepted courtesy that he should thank the speaker for his “extremely stimulating talk”. J.G. Taylor (not to be confused with Professor J.C. Taylor, the particle physicist who, with his wife Mary, was to become a close friend some years later) extended neither of these courtesies to Stephen; rather he gave the impression that he would willingly have had him burnt at the stake for heresy. This conscious insult to Stephen was as intolerable as the cleaning ladies’ mindless remarks. It implied a deliberate attempt to belittle him, suggesting that he had now proven himself to be incapacitated mentally as well as physically.
Whereas in the lecture hall one could have heard a pin drop, in the refectory after the lecture there was uproar. It was as if particles from radiating black holes were spinning in all directions, knocking the delegates sideways like skittles. Bernard settled Stephen quietly at a corner table while I went to queue at the counter for food. Still blustering and indignantly muttering to his students, J.G. Taylor stood behind me in the queue, unaware of my identity. I was rehearsing a few cutting remarks in Stephen’s defence when I heard him splutter, “We must get that paper out straight away!” I thought better of drawing attention to myself and went to report what I had heard to Stephen. Although he shrugged in a good-humoured way, he sent his own paper off to Nature immediately on our return to Cambridge. Since it was reviewed for the magazine by none other than J.G. Taylor, it was no surprise that it was rejected. Stephen then requested that it should be sent to an independent referee and, on the second time of asking, it was accepted. J.G. Taylor’s paper was also accepted but died a natural death, while Stephen’s marked the first step along the road towards the unification of physics, the reconciliation of the large-scale structure of the universe with the small-scale structure of the atom – through the medium of the black hole. Undoubtedly the Rutherford experience served also to reinforce Stephen’s determination to fight against all odds, whether physical or in physics. The same experience left me proud but perturbed by the many hidden undercurrents it had revealed. The theory of the evaporation of black holes paved the way for Stephen’s election to the Royal Society the following spring at the unprecedentedly early age of thirty-two. In the seventeenth century Fellows had been elected as young as twelve years old, but that was in the days when privilege rather than merit ensured election. In the more recent past a Fellowship was an honour to which scientists aspired towards the end rather than the beginning of their careers, usually after acquiring a handful of honorary doctorates and serving on a few advisory scientific committees along the way. It is the crowning glory of a scientific career, second only in prestige to a Nobel Prize.
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 extrem
ely 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.
