Rachel Cusk - Saving Agnes

To Agnes’s surprise, however, the phone was picked up after several rings, albeit without any of the usual pleasantries.

‘Greta?’ she ventured into the silence. ‘Is that you?’

‘Who is this?’

The voice sounded so unfamiliar that Agnes thought she must have dialled a wrong number; but while her feelings on such occasions were normally a mixture of horror and fascination as she landed with the arbitrariness of a falling meteor on the house of a complete stranger, her prevailing sense of Greta’s essential oddness led her to persevere.

‘It’s me. Agnes. From the office,’ she added stupidly.

‘Oh,’ said Greta (for it was indeed she), apparently enlightened by this latest addition. ‘What do you want?’

‘Well — nothing really. It’s just that you didn’t come to work and we wondered what had happened to you. We thought you might have overslept so we decided to give you a wake-up call!’

‘Just leave me alone.’

Greta’s voice had at least the effect of distracting Agnes from uncomfortable ruminations about her own tone of asinine plural jollity. Greta put the phone down. Agnes stared at the receiver in her hand and felt unutterably wounded. How could she speak to her like that, she who was only trying to help? As if she, Agnes, were in the wrong, sitting here alone in the office at twelve o’clock with no one to help or comfort her! Worse still, as if Agnes were not a friend or a sharer of confidences! As if she didn’t have her own cross to bear on this muggy Monday morning, with Finchley Central loitering on her doorstep like a persistent beggar and a stack of work dull as a telephone directory on her desk!

The receiver in her hand began to emit an alarmist noise. She recognised within its unrelenting blare the possibility that Greta had come to some harm which she was not prepared to divulge over the telephone. She wondered what she should do. To phone again would be futile; to raise the alarm somehow presumptuous. To do nothing would assist neither of them, for she would surely not be able to concentrate on her work with such a conversation so recently in her memory? The only remaining option appeared to be an impulsive act. She must go to Greta’s house herself and offer succour.

‘I’m going out!’ she cried, barrelling into Jean in the corridor, who wisely stood back as if from the path of a wailing ambulance.

She left the building and headed for the tube station. As if sensing her new-found command, a train came immediately. She boarded it and the crowds seemed to part like water before her, affording her a choice of seats. As the train was set in motion, Agnes felt the very tracks reverberating with her intent. Her face reflected in the window opposite looked severe but heroic, and the other passengers maintained a respectful distance. She drew herself up, ruminating upon the defence a sense of self-importance could provide against the importunate presence of the general public.

As the train rattled downhill towards Camden, however, the mysterious nature of her crusade began to nudge against her consciousness. What manner of thing could it be that had laid Greta, normally blithe and buoyant in adversity, so low? Perhaps she had received bad news from Mrs Sankowitz, her voice leaking through the interference from Saskatchewan to relay the particulars of death or destitution. Or something closer to home, a burglary or even an attempt upon her life. Perhaps she was unwell. Agnes disembarked at Camden with less composure than she had set out. What help was she, who knew so little of the world? What comfort could she offer, what unconventional wisdom, that she did not herself require? She trudged disconsolately over the lock and turned into Greta’s road. Perhaps, worst of all, Greta was merely suffering from world-weariness and angst; and for that, Agnes knew, there was no cure.

She knocked softly at Greta’s door, half-hoping not to be heard. Within seconds, however, the door flew open and Greta was before her. Her eyes were red and her cheeks puffy, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. She stood back to allow Agnes through.

‘What do you want?’ she said when they were in the sitting-room. Before Agnes could take steps to defend herself, she added: ‘I’ve got tea, decaff, or juice.’

‘What kind of juice?’ said Agnes, playing for time.

‘Mango.’

‘I’ll take tea.’

The preliminaries over with, they sat down in two facing armchairs. Greta’s flat was small but light. Being on the ground floor, Agnes could observe passers-by on the pavement outside. That combined with the comfort of her chair and the steaming cup of tea could have served to make the ensuing silence quite pleasant, had Agnes not found herself becoming rather annoyed. It was her job to comfort and reassure, but she could surely not begin it until Greta had completed her own task of confessing, weeping even, and most importantly requiring her assistance. She began thinking about the more straightforward work she had left behind at the office.

‘You’d better go,’ said Greta. ‘I’m sure you’re busy.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Agnes politely. ‘How are you, anyway?’

‘Fine, fine,’ mused Greta vaguely. ‘The proofs are due back tomorrow and since I didn’t show up there must be heaps to do.’

‘Jean’s taking care of it,’ said Agnes, abandoning her only means of escape, ‘It’s almost finished, anyway. What’s wrong with you, actually?’

Greta gazed at her. She seemed to have no intention of replying. Agnes found something quite unsettling in her bearing, as if she had left her body to go through the motions while her mind hid somewhere dark and quiet.

‘I’ve been thinking about my father,’ Greta volunteered. ‘Normally I don’t think about him, but today he’s been on my mind.’

‘Oh.’

‘I really hate him, you know.’

Interesting though this was, Agnes could not help but wonder nervously where it was all leading.

‘Why?’ she said, hoping for something specific. ‘What makes you hate him?’

Greta gave an explosive snort of laughter.

‘Well, what particularly?’ Agnes persevered. ‘I mean, why has he been on your mind?’

‘Well, I was thinking about the last time he spanked me, actually,’ Greta replied. ‘He pulled down my pants, you know, and did it with his bare hand.’

‘How old were you?’ said Agnes. She couldn’t think of what else to say.

‘About sixteen. What a sleaze, huh?’ Greta folded her arms over her chest. ‘Not that it was anything unusual. It was just kind of part of the scenery in our house. He used to beat all us girls, and my brother too until he got too big to hit. The first time I remember him doing it was when my parents came back from this trip to Toronto. My dad used to go there sometimes for work and Mom would go to shop. Anyhow, they left the others in charge which was pretty dumb, seeing as they were into some weird stuff in those days. When my folks were away they could get pretty wild.’

‘How old were you?’ said Agnes. It sounded even less interesting second time around.

‘About six, I guess. What they used to do was, they would smoke a lot of pot and then they would make me smoke some. Then they used to dress me up in funny clothes, like my sisters’ lingerie, you know, suspender belts and things. Then they would put this big fat joint in my mouth and take pictures of me. Like that. Weird. Anyway, I remember my dad coming in the room and everyone stood up because they were so surprised. They didn’t hear the car or anything. I was kind of lying on this sofa in this dumb underwear and I couldn’t get up because I was so stoned, and he just stared at me, like stared without saying anything. Then he threw the others out and he came over to me and spanked me. You little tart, he said. Thwack.’ Agnes flinched. ‘That’s what he called me, a little tart. I was, like, six!’