Read Undue Influence for Free Online

considered himself to be neglected. In fact he was not neglected, but he was quick to sense when my mother was tired, or when I warily brought him a cup of tea and was forced to watch while it ran down his chin … And that awful last sight of him as he lay comatose in the hospital, his hand still about its business under the sheet. ‘It’s the catheter that’s bothering him,’ said the nurse, but she was young, and as embarrassed as I was.
    For that reason I appreciated wholeness in men, whatever their moral character. The partners I have chosen have all been well set up, viable, as if I need to know that they carry no trace of mortal illness, that I am not threatened with their decrepitude. My worst nightmare is to be shackled to a sick man, for I have seen what physical sickness can do to the mind. I dare say my father was aware of his lamentable appearance. I am sure he was aware of my lack of love for him. But with a young person’s primitive instincts I was frightened of ugliness, wanted to have nothing to do with it. To have him in the flat all day was bad enough. And to be fair I was not entirely to blame. He did not care for me, although he pretended to do so. He cared only for my mother, who tended him faithfully. He found my childhood noises distasteful, which was why I soon learned to be quiet, so as not to remind him of my presence.I was anxious not to have to encounter him, although this was impossible, as he installed himself in the living-room and stayed there, in his chair, unavoidably present. For this reason, when I came home from school, I made straight for my bedroom. I read a lot in those days. I have a picture of myself furiously reading, my fingers in my ears to drown out the sound of his harsh, altered voice, how it came out as a groan, as if he were angry all the time.
    No doubt he was angry, yet he was determined to live, whereas I, again with the ruthlessness of a child, thought it would be more appropriate if he would simply disappear. I was nineteen when he had the second stroke, the one that killed him. Until then all I knew of men was impairment, inadequacy. After that I wanted only a certificate of durability, unaltered features, easy unthinking movements. Presumably daughters are more easily influenced by their father’s habits and appearance than by their worth. The idea that my father could have provided me with worldly instruction was simply laughable. Who could learn from a man so gracelessly concerned with what remained of his damaged life? Or so I thought, in my ignorance. In mitigation I can state that he was inclined to dismiss me as unimportant. It was not until he was dead that I began to relax. It was shortly after his death that I took, at my mother’s urging, my first tentative holiday. I like to think she remained in ignorance of what was to become something of a habit. In any event my holidays were never discussed in detail. We pored over the photographs and postcards together—rood screens and tympanums, choirstalls, misericords, clerestories and elevations—as if these had had exclusive claims on my attention. I faltered when I found that she had compiled several albums of the postcards, which she kept in her bedroom. She was soinnocent herself that I am sure she managed to think me innocent as well.
    I am alert now to signs of damage in a man. If this is combined with physical excellence I feel a perverse desire to take him over, as if his weakness excited me. When the two conditions are combined—attractiveness and hesitation—our conjunction is often spectacular. I sometimes think that my childish ruthlessness has survived undiminished, but in fact I am careful to cause no harm. Indeed I disappear discreetly, leaving several questions unanswered. I wish that this particular pattern did not impose itself, that I could happily offer affection without that slight feeling of vengeful satisfaction. On the whole I have managed quite well. It is just that my mother’s