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Authors: Jane Hawking
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because we both knew that the promise my father had demanded of us on our engagement – that I would
complete my undergraduate course – was not to be taken lightly. Since a year was a long time in the course of an illness such as Stephen’s, as his father persistently reminded me, his
survival for that length of time could not be guaranteed. This unpalatable truth was a factor that I should have to bear in mind constantly whenever I looked to the future. In the first instance,
it was now up to me to persuade Professor John Varey, the Head of the Spanish Department, and Mrs Matthews, the Principal, that the situation was urgent. Professor Varey’s response, when I
tentatively broached the matter, was that the situation was most irregular, but that if the Principal gave her blessing, he would not object.
As my previous – and only – encounter with Mrs Matthews had been at the interview in 1962, I was not hopeful of a propitious outcome. At the time appointed by her secretary, six
o’clock one evening towards the end of the autumn term of 1964, I knocked with trembling hand at the green baize door which separated her flat in the Regency house from the administrative
area of the College. Mrs Matthews evidently sensed my nervousness from the moment I walked through the door. She bade me sit down and thrust a cigarette into one hand and a sherry into the other.
“What’s the matter?” she began, frowning and looking me straight in the eye with an anxious concern, “don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you.” I took a deep
breath and did my best to explain my relationship with Stephen, his illness, the prognosis and our plans to make the most of whatever time we had left to us. She never took her eyes off me and
betrayed very little emotion. When she had heard my tale through without interruption, she came straight to the point. “Well, of course, if you marry, you will have to live out of College,
you understand that don’t you?” My heart lifted slightly, aware that she had not vetoed our plans outright, and I was able to nod confidently because I had already done my homework on
that score. “Yes, I know that,” I replied, “I have found out that there is a room available in a private house in Platt’s Lane.” “Well, then, that’s
fine,” Mrs Matthews replied, staring fixedly at the embers in the grate. “Go ahead and make the most of the chance you have.” She paused and then, changing her tone to one of
uncharacteristic absent-mindedness, she confided that she herself had been in a similar situation. Her own husband had been severely disabled. She was only too well aware of how important it was to
do whatever one knew to be right. Equally she agreed with my father that I must complete my education. She warned me that the future I faced would not be easy. She promised to help in whatever way
she could – most significantly, by conveying her agreement to Professor Varey.
Having surmounted that major hurdle, all that remained was to arrange my accommodation in Platt’s Lane, which was easily done. Mrs Dunham, the landlady, readily agreed to let the attic
room on the third floor to me, and both she and her husband proved to be hospitable and patient landlords. “Patient” because never once did they complain about my monopoly of their
telephone in the study downstairs. Stephen had devised a way of ringing me for fourpence, the cost of a local call, via all the intermediate exchanges between Cambridge and London: this meant that
there was no time limit on our conversations every evening. Quite apart from the frenzied pleasure of daily communication and love-talk, we had plenty to discuss as we laid our plans for our
future. The illness assumed the proportions of a minor background irritant as we talked about job prospects, housing, wedding arrangements and our first trip to the United States, to a summer
school at Cornell University in upstate New York, due to start just ten days
complete my undergraduate course – was not to be taken lightly. Since a year was a long time in the course of an illness such as Stephen’s, as his father persistently reminded me, his
survival for that length of time could not be guaranteed. This unpalatable truth was a factor that I should have to bear in mind constantly whenever I looked to the future. In the first instance,
it was now up to me to persuade Professor John Varey, the Head of the Spanish Department, and Mrs Matthews, the Principal, that the situation was urgent. Professor Varey’s response, when I
tentatively broached the matter, was that the situation was most irregular, but that if the Principal gave her blessing, he would not object.
As my previous – and only – encounter with Mrs Matthews had been at the interview in 1962, I was not hopeful of a propitious outcome. At the time appointed by her secretary, six
o’clock one evening towards the end of the autumn term of 1964, I knocked with trembling hand at the green baize door which separated her flat in the Regency house from the administrative
area of the College. Mrs Matthews evidently sensed my nervousness from the moment I walked through the door. She bade me sit down and thrust a cigarette into one hand and a sherry into the other.
“What’s the matter?” she began, frowning and looking me straight in the eye with an anxious concern, “don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you.” I took a deep
breath and did my best to explain my relationship with Stephen, his illness, the prognosis and our plans to make the most of whatever time we had left to us. She never took her eyes off me and
betrayed very little emotion. When she had heard my tale through without interruption, she came straight to the point. “Well, of course, if you marry, you will have to live out of College,
you understand that don’t you?” My heart lifted slightly, aware that she had not vetoed our plans outright, and I was able to nod confidently because I had already done my homework on
that score. “Yes, I know that,” I replied, “I have found out that there is a room available in a private house in Platt’s Lane.” “Well, then, that’s
fine,” Mrs Matthews replied, staring fixedly at the embers in the grate. “Go ahead and make the most of the chance you have.” She paused and then, changing her tone to one of
uncharacteristic absent-mindedness, she confided that she herself had been in a similar situation. Her own husband had been severely disabled. She was only too well aware of how important it was to
do whatever one knew to be right. Equally she agreed with my father that I must complete my education. She warned me that the future I faced would not be easy. She promised to help in whatever way
she could – most significantly, by conveying her agreement to Professor Varey.
Having surmounted that major hurdle, all that remained was to arrange my accommodation in Platt’s Lane, which was easily done. Mrs Dunham, the landlady, readily agreed to let the attic
room on the third floor to me, and both she and her husband proved to be hospitable and patient landlords. “Patient” because never once did they complain about my monopoly of their
telephone in the study downstairs. Stephen had devised a way of ringing me for fourpence, the cost of a local call, via all the intermediate exchanges between Cambridge and London: this meant that
there was no time limit on our conversations every evening. Quite apart from the frenzied pleasure of daily communication and love-talk, we had plenty to discuss as we laid our plans for our
future. The illness assumed the proportions of a minor background irritant as we talked about job prospects, housing, wedding arrangements and our first trip to the United States, to a summer
school at Cornell University in upstate New York, due to start just ten days
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