Rachel Cusk - Saving Agnes

Merlin groaned and picked up the remote control, which he aimed at the television set. A picture of a large monkey nonchalantly scratching itself appeared on the screen.

‘Wildlife,’ he said. ‘We were watching this before, Nina. You told me to turn over, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah. How about three?’

‘Game show. Large spinning wheel, ugly spectacle of human greed and suffering.’

‘Two?’

‘Documentary on rise of capitalist economies. Same thing.’

‘One. Put it in one, Merlin. We have no choice.’

‘Walls have fallen over such things.’ They had spent most of the afternoon watching the liberation of Eastern Europe on television. Merlin flicked the remote control again. ‘Look, one’s a Western. Everyone happy with this? Agnes?’

‘Fine,’ said Agnes. She had been strangely disturbed by the scenes on the streets of Berlin and Budapest. Through the jiggling of a hand-held camera, they had witnessed the rough, unscripted love of humanity for itself; a far cry from the world of svelte, film-star embraces and edited dialogue in which she lost herself nightly. She had felt almost embarrassed by the reality of it.

‘I love these movies,’ said Nina contentedly. ‘The women always look so amazing. Orange hair and beauty spots. Really fake.’

‘They look like inflatable dolls,’ Merlin agreed. ‘Maybe we’ll start getting Easterns now. Frontier dramas with consumer durables.’

‘They’re propaganda films really, aren’t they?’ said Nina, still watching the screen. ‘Like those ones they made about British factories during the war.’

‘No, those were morale boosters. Westerns are just fiction, really. No one believes it was like that any more.’

‘Well, that’s what I said!’ replied Nina petulantly. ‘Propaganda. It’s just outlived its significance, that’s all. The only difference between these and the war films is that we still believe we run the world.’

‘I don’t think you can compare them like that.’ Merlin put his hands behind his head and looked at Nina expectantly.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start it sounds like a conspiracy theory, which suggests a lack of moral vision.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Nina sarcastically. ‘So, when we butcher and proselytise it’s enlightenment, right? But when anyone else does it, it’s persecution. That sounds like a moral hallucination to me.’

‘We needed to win the war,’ Merlin replied calmly. ‘And I would go so far as to say it was one of those rare historical situations when there was a clear case of right and wrong. And we were right.’

‘Oh, come on!’ said Nina. ‘Do you really believe we charged in there for charity?’

‘Charity?’ exclaimed Merlin. ‘That’s an outrageous thing to say! Tell that to six million Jews.’

‘We didn’t care about them, did we? They were politically secondary! We were more worried about munitions factories than camps.’

Agnes stood up, white-faced.

‘Can’t we just enjoy the film?’ she said. Her voice warbled nervously. ‘I mean, can’t we just watch a film without — without holding a full-scale political debate? Why does everything have to be taken so seriously?’ The other two were looking at her in astonishment. She headed for the stairs. ‘Why do you have to take everything so seriously?’

‘Look who’s talking,’ said Nina audibly as Agnes retreated.

‘Oh dear,’ said Merlin.

‘I got a letter from London Transport this morning,’ said Greta dolefully on Monday.

She had, it seemed, tired of her underground admirer, but his affections were not to be so easily derailed.

‘What did it say?’

‘Say is putting it a bit strongly. Grunt would be more accurate.’

Greta’s hand dived into the packet of biscuits in front of her and emerged triumphant.

‘The guy’s a fruitcake,’ she continued between bites. ‘I’m amazed he can write. Cookie?’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Agnes took one and began to chew it. The soft, sugary mass on her tongue comforted her momentarily and was gone. She took another. ‘At least you’re getting some attention,’ she said.

It had been meant as a joke, but instead had the effect of sounding out the depths of her own desperation. Greta laughed loudly, her lipsticked mouth studded with crumbs which Agnes wondered uncomfortably if she should tell her about.

‘Yeah, it makes you feel kind of special getting fixed on by people who are funny in the head. Did I tell you he’s been hanging around outside my house?’ She inspected her nails. ‘I mean, we went out on a few dates and now he’s behaving like a pervert. I hate dates. Dates are things you eat.’

‘You’ve got some crumbs on your lip,’ said Agnes, who was beginning to feel upset.

Greta grinned and put her hand into the now empty biscuit pack, her fingers upon withdrawal laden with the offending matter.

‘Gee,’ she said hilariously, implanting a thick layer of crumbs over the meagre few already there. ‘Have I?’

The bus home was so crowded on Tuesday that Agnes could not get a seat. She stood by one of the doors instead, whose dark glass panel steamy with the oppressive breath of humankind informed her that she looked wan and hollow-eyed. She gazed at her reflection, sucking in her cheeks a little to deepen its shadowy aspect of suffering. The bus shuddered to a halt and the doors sprang open with a compressed sigh. A wave of sharp night air broke unpleasantly over the damp warmth of the interior. Agnes, moving to one side so as to allow others to disembark, now caught her fugitive reflection in one of the large fish-eye mirrors angled for the driver’s benefit from the ceiling. In it, her face appeared alarmingly large and pasty, with pores which gaped through an oily sheen of make-up. She looked away quickly, her heart plummeting.

‘Oh my God!’ said a man’s voice just then. ‘Oh my God!’

Agnes looked up. The man appeared to be looking at her. The other people in the bus were looking at her also, their faces blank as a row of sunflowers.

‘It’s you!’ he said, peering and smiling uncertainly. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Oh my God!’

‘Excuse me?’ said Agnes, as quietly as she could. She hoped he would take the hint and lower his tone.

He was middle-aged, with a face which seemed intelligent but trampish clothes and a lingering odour which proclaimed that even if he was, it certainly hadn’t got him anywhere. Her heart pounded with embarrassment as she saw that he was mad, and had singled her out as the subject of his rantings.

‘You’re the lady in the pub,’ he said, smiling again in a manner which seemed contradictorily urbane. ‘Aren’t you? God, how embarrassing.’

‘Why is it embarrassing?’ said Agnes, and was surprised to find that their audience found her curiosity amusing.

‘Well—’ He was still smiling. ‘I was in the pub and I’d had a bit to drink — is it you, actually? Is it? The lady whose handbag I was sick into.’

A few titters of revulsion emanated from the back of the bus. Agnes felt unusually calm. She smiled back at him and addressed him in her most authoritative voice.

‘In that case, I’m relieved not to be her,’ she said, casting a conspiratorial glance at the other passengers. They responded with a hearty gust of laughter.

The man looked nervously at them and then back at her. He appeared confused. The bus was alive with comment and several people looked at her approvingly. They liked her style. The man shook his head and walked lurchingly to an empty seat at the far end of the bus. He appeared crestfallen. Agnes got off two stops early and walked home in an agony of guilt.

On Wednesday she came home to find two men in boiler suits tapping expertly at the sitting-room wall.