Rachel Cusk - Saving Agnes

‘La-de-da! Well, tell us it anyway, hen. I could do with a laugh.’

Agnes began to make something up. She had never been very good at telling jokes. Halfway through her rambling narrative, the woman began to cough. Her whole frame shook with the effort of trying to contain the bronchitic explosions within her bony chest. Presently the attack receded and she leaned back against the wall.

‘Ha’ ye got a cigarette for me, hen?’ she whispered, peering up at Agnes with chastened watery eyes.

‘No,’ said Agnes. ‘I could buy you some if you like, but I don’t think they’d make you feel any better.’

The woman closed her eyes and leaned against her. She appeared to be asleep. Through her coat Agnes could feel she was as brittle as a bird. Her breath rattled and wheezed its way out of her pursed lips. A few minutes later she awoke.

‘I’ll tell you a secret, hen,’ she said. Her face brightened. ‘I’ll tell you something no one else knows. Can I trust ye? Can I?’

‘Of course.’

‘Look at tha’!’ The woman thrust out a skinny arm from within the folds of her coat, her spidery hand fluttering as she turned her arm about for Agnes to see. ‘What d’ye make of tha’?’

‘It’s very thin,’ ventured Agnes.

‘Well, I can see tha’! You don’t need glasses to see tha’.’ She clenched up her face and nodded. ‘I’m just bones, me. I don’t need you to tell me tha’.’

‘Sorry,’ said Agnes.

‘What’s sorry? I’m the one should be sorry.’ Her eyes closed again and she swayed unsteadily back and forth. ‘Ha bloody ha. Tee-hee-hee. What’s so bloody funny anyway? Eh?’

‘Nothing. I’m not laughing.’

‘I’ll tell ye something.’ Her eyes snapped open. ‘I’m dying, that’s what. Nae much more o’ this for me.’ She laughed a little and began to hum ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. ‘No more Leicester Square for me. Goodbye to the high life.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Agnes.

‘Course I am! Who else would be, eh? Am I sure, she says. Did ye nae look at this arm?’ Her mouth chewed drily on air. ‘It’s a long way— ’

‘Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to take you to the hospital or — or maybe you have someone I could call?’

The woman stopped singing and scrutinised her closely.

‘Good thing my Jacky’s not here,’ she said firmly, nodding her head.

‘Who’s Jacky? Is she a friend? Maybe we should call her.’

Another seizure, however, prevented the woman from replying. She shook silently. When she raised her head, Agnes saw that in fact she was laughing.

‘Ay,’ she gasped. ‘Good thing Jacky’s away. Aye, it’s a good thing.’

‘Who is Jacky?’

‘He’s my boy, hen. Who else but my lovely boy? “Is she a friend?” ’ she mimicked. ‘Good thing Jacky did nae hear tha’ — he’s a great big thing, that he is.’

‘Well, where is he?’

‘He’d want to be here, though. Pretty thing like yourself, ye’d have your hands full.’ She laughed, rocking herself.

‘Why isn’t he helping you?’ she burst out.

‘Aye, you’d not get a moment’s peace. That’s a fact, that is.’ She closed her eyes and leaned back. ‘I believe it’s my bedtime.’

‘Where are you going to sleep? You can come and stay at my house if you like. We can take the tube. It’s not that far.’

She opened her eyes.

‘Have ye got any clothes?’

‘Yes, of course. I can give you some.’

‘It’s a bit worn.’ She plucked at the sleeve of her coat. ‘That it is. A bit worn. But it’s a lovely red. A lovely colour, that red. Just ask for Annie and they’ll tell ye where to find me. Ask anyone here.’ She indicated the barren sweep of the dark high street.

‘But what about tonight?’

‘I’ve got me bed right here.’

She patted the doorstep and closed her eyes. Agnes removed a note from her wallet and crumpled it into the tiny fist. As she did so, the eyes opened.

‘Dunnae forget,’ she said. ‘Just ask for Annie. Ye can put them in a bag and ask for Annie.’

‘I won’t forget. It was nice to meet you.’

‘The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,’ said Annie demurely.

Agnes got up. She had other business to attend to. As she turned to leave the thin arm scuttled out from beneath the coat and grabbed her hand.

‘Dunnae forget,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll haunt ye. I will. I’ll haunt ye.’

In the tube station everyone was transient except the transients, who hovered by the barriers like vultures waiting to swoop. The escalator trundled around like a mobile tongue disgorging diminishing gobs of passengers out into the cold night. It was getting late. People wrapped their coats around them and eyed those in the foyer suspiciously. They hurried out to the street, anxious suddenly to be home.

Agnes did not look at them as they passed. She was looking instead at the two guards who were hanging around the wooden booth by the ticket barrier. One of them spat at the wall. The other one had his hands in his pockets and was whistling.

‘Oi, Wayne,’ said the one who had spat. ‘What do you reckon to this lot, then?’

He nodded in Agnes’s direction. She felt sure Greta’s assailant hadn’t been called Wayne.

‘Dunno, mate,’ said Wayne. He grinned nastily. ‘We could send ’em down the tunnels for the night, I suppose. They won’t know they’re living.’

Wayne’s mate found this hypothesis hilarious and guffawed loudly. One or two of the tramps by the door sidled surreptitiously out into the street.

An attractive woman emerged from the escalator, and both guards followed her with their eyes as she passed through the barriers.

‘I could fancy that,’ said Wayne’s mate. ‘Fancy a bit of rough, my dear?’ he yelled after her in a plummy voice.

The girl passed close to Agnes as she left the station. Her face was burning. Back inside, the guards had forgotten her already and were laughing about something else. Scum, Agnes thought. Absolute scum. She wanted to run after the girl and offer her something: friendship, loyalty, invisibility, whatever she wanted. We should stick together, she would say. She would tell her about Annie. That was what happened to you in the end. You had to stick together.

More people hurried through the barriers. Agnes craned her neck to see beyond them. She wanted to get a better look at Wayne’s mate.

‘Last train!’ he shouted just then. ‘Ten minutes till the last train!’

He turned his back and leaned against the booth. Agnes looked at her watch. She had not realised it was so late. She would have to come back tomorrow. The tramps began pulling blankets out of plastic bags and unfurling them against the wall at the back of the station. They were bedding down, and would remain there till morning if Wayne’s mate did not succeed in luring them to the tunnels. Agnes knew she had to go home. She had no choice, any more than they did. It was who she was. Even so, with the alternatives lined up against the wall like convicts, she was fascinated by the opportunity of change. She could lose it all just by doing nothing. Just by staying here, she could become someone else. There would be a certain freedom in having nothing. The possibilities were endless.

She went over to the ticket machine and got out her purse. It was empty. She had given the last of her money to Annie. A knot of panic began to grow in her stomach. It was all right, she could go back to Greta’s house and maybe spend the night there. It was several seconds before she remembered telling Greta not to answer the phone or the doorbell. She could phone home and ask Merlin to meet her at the door to pay for a taxi. That was the answer. She found a telephone and reversed the charges. There was nobody at home. Agnes stood in the cold neon-lit station and felt a wave of desperation rise up in her throat. A middle-aged man in a camel-hair coat was coming through the ticket barriers.