whispered a proposal of marriage to me. That moment
transformed our lives and consigned all my thoughts of a career in the Diplomatic Service to oblivion.
6
Backgrounds
Once the momentous decision had been taken, everything else began to fall into place, if not automatically, then with some determination and effort. We sailed through the next
year, carried high on a tide of euphoria. Whatever misgivings my friends and family may have had about Stephen’s state of health, they kept them to themselves, and the only comments I
received concerned the eccentricity of the Hawking family.
Such comments did not worry me too much, because I liked the Hawkings and regarded their eccentricities with a respectful fascination. They made me welcome, already treating me as one of the
family. They may have economized on material goods, preferring the old and tried to the newfangled, and they certainly did compromise on heating to the extent that people who were cold were
brusquely told to follow Frank Hawking’s example and wear more clothes, a dressing gown for example, even during the day. Moreover, as I had already discovered, there were areas of the house
which could be charitably described as distinctly shabby. However, none of this was particularly new to me. It simply indicated that this household had a set of priorities which were not so very
different from those I was used to. My own parents had scraped and saved for years. We were not wealthy, and we often had to make do and mend because so much of Dad’s income went on our
education and on those wonderful summer holidays. We did not have central heating at home, and I was well used to sitting by the fire with my face and toes burning while a freezing draught whistled
down the back of my neck. At night in bed I would rest my numbed feet on my hot-water bottle, in the full knowledge that blistering chilblains would be the price of such small comfort the next
morning, when an exquisite ice garden of opaque fronds and ferns would cover the window panes. If our house was smarter than the Hawkings’, it was both because it was smaller and because Dad
had given up all pretensions to any prowess whatsoever as a handyman – and for good reason, since his attempts at repairs usually made matters much worse, bringing ceilings down on his head
for example, while his attempts at interior decorating usually sent the paint flying everywhere except on the target – and had long decided that it was cheaper in the long run to pay
professionals to do his odd jobs for him.
Rarely when I was present did members of the Hawking family bear out the stories about their habit of bringing books to the table. Mealtimes were generally sociable occasions, calmly presided
over by Stephen’s mother, who kept remarkably cool in the face of her husband’s frequent displays of temper. Although he could be sharp and demanding, Frank Hawking was not
hard-hearted. His outbursts were usually directed at the crass inadequacies of some inanimate object, like a blunt carving knife or a spilt glass or a dropped fork, never at people within the
family circle. In fact, in handling young Edward, who was given to tantrums particularly at bedtime, he was a model of patience and forbearance. As for Stephen, apparently no longer subject to the
savage black moods of the past, his placid, more philosophical nature promised a quieter lifestyle.
The talk at mealtimes was predictably intellectual, ranging over political and international issues. As Philippa had gone up to Oxford to study Chinese, the Cultural Revolution was a frequent
topic. I knew little about oriental history or politics and thought it expedient to keep quiet rather than betray my ignorance. Spain and France seemed very parochial and unglamorous by comparison
with the Orient, and nobody expressed any interest in them or in their cultures at all. The Hawkings, in any case, knew all there was to know about France, since Isobel had French
transformed our lives and consigned all my thoughts of a career in the Diplomatic Service to oblivion.
6
Backgrounds
Once the momentous decision had been taken, everything else began to fall into place, if not automatically, then with some determination and effort. We sailed through the next
year, carried high on a tide of euphoria. Whatever misgivings my friends and family may have had about Stephen’s state of health, they kept them to themselves, and the only comments I
received concerned the eccentricity of the Hawking family.
Such comments did not worry me too much, because I liked the Hawkings and regarded their eccentricities with a respectful fascination. They made me welcome, already treating me as one of the
family. They may have economized on material goods, preferring the old and tried to the newfangled, and they certainly did compromise on heating to the extent that people who were cold were
brusquely told to follow Frank Hawking’s example and wear more clothes, a dressing gown for example, even during the day. Moreover, as I had already discovered, there were areas of the house
which could be charitably described as distinctly shabby. However, none of this was particularly new to me. It simply indicated that this household had a set of priorities which were not so very
different from those I was used to. My own parents had scraped and saved for years. We were not wealthy, and we often had to make do and mend because so much of Dad’s income went on our
education and on those wonderful summer holidays. We did not have central heating at home, and I was well used to sitting by the fire with my face and toes burning while a freezing draught whistled
down the back of my neck. At night in bed I would rest my numbed feet on my hot-water bottle, in the full knowledge that blistering chilblains would be the price of such small comfort the next
morning, when an exquisite ice garden of opaque fronds and ferns would cover the window panes. If our house was smarter than the Hawkings’, it was both because it was smaller and because Dad
had given up all pretensions to any prowess whatsoever as a handyman – and for good reason, since his attempts at repairs usually made matters much worse, bringing ceilings down on his head
for example, while his attempts at interior decorating usually sent the paint flying everywhere except on the target – and had long decided that it was cheaper in the long run to pay
professionals to do his odd jobs for him.
Rarely when I was present did members of the Hawking family bear out the stories about their habit of bringing books to the table. Mealtimes were generally sociable occasions, calmly presided
over by Stephen’s mother, who kept remarkably cool in the face of her husband’s frequent displays of temper. Although he could be sharp and demanding, Frank Hawking was not
hard-hearted. His outbursts were usually directed at the crass inadequacies of some inanimate object, like a blunt carving knife or a spilt glass or a dropped fork, never at people within the
family circle. In fact, in handling young Edward, who was given to tantrums particularly at bedtime, he was a model of patience and forbearance. As for Stephen, apparently no longer subject to the
savage black moods of the past, his placid, more philosophical nature promised a quieter lifestyle.
The talk at mealtimes was predictably intellectual, ranging over political and international issues. As Philippa had gone up to Oxford to study Chinese, the Cultural Revolution was a frequent
topic. I knew little about oriental history or politics and thought it expedient to keep quiet rather than betray my ignorance. Spain and France seemed very parochial and unglamorous by comparison
with the Orient, and nobody expressed any interest in them or in their cultures at all. The Hawkings, in any case, knew all there was to know about France, since Isobel had French
Similar Books
