Rachel Cusk - Saving Agnes

‘I wasn’t,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just the truth, that’s all.’

‘Look, just because you’ve got a bloody axe to grind about getting the sack doesn’t give you the right to have a go at me! Much good your conservative claptrap has done you now. You can take your stupid principles and flog them for pin money for all I care. You’re going to need it, as I assume you won’t be accepting help from the welfare state!’

To her surprise, Tom flopped down on the grass and started laughing. The dogs lumbered over and began mournfully to lick his face.

‘I thought you were supposed to be depressed,’ snapped Agnes.

Tom tickled the dogs’ bellies.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ he said. ‘I’m not depressed at all.’ He shut his eyes and crinkled up his face towards the sky as if it were sun-filled rather than a cloudy iron-grey. ‘I feel — I feel free!’

‘What do you mean?’ said Agnes. For one so recently initiated into the working world, such claims to liberation outside it were hard to bear.

‘Well, it’s not exactly living, is it?’ Tom stretched languorously. ‘Cooped up in an office all day long with people you don’t really like. At someone else’s beck and call from morning till night. And what’s it all for?’

He sat up and glared expectantly at Agnes, who found herself without a reply immediately to hand.

‘Money,’ he revealed finally.

‘Well, of course it is,’ she replied. ‘What else did you think it would be for?’

‘But don’t you see?’ cried Tom exasperatedly. ‘It doesn’t mean anything! There’s no meaning!’

Agnes stared at him.

‘Look,’ he continued. ‘I’ve spent most of my life thinking that it didn’t really matter what happened to the rest of the world as long as I was all right. And I thought I was all right! But now I realise I was just — half-asleep, dreaming, and now I’ve woken up and really started to see things. I was living a lie, but I was so involved in it I thought it was the truth. My life was a kind of imprisonment, Agnes. I’ve set myself free.’

‘You didn’t exactly have much choice,’ Agnes reminded him. ‘You were sacked, after all.’

‘Yes!’ said Tom. ‘Being sacked was just the beginning. It was like a sign. It opened my eyes!’

‘A sign,’ said Agnes.

‘And shall I tell you what I see? I see that the world is dying, destroying itself with greed. All my life I’ve taken, without a thought to the consequences. So, now I reckon it’s time for me to give something back!’

‘You’re going to save the world?’ said Agnes. ‘Well, thank heavens for that. We were all getting a bit worried there. Good thing you had a change of heart.’

‘I understand it might take time for you to get used to it,’ said Tom. ‘After all, I used to give you a pretty hard time about things like this. But I hope that sooner or later you’ll be pleased. I remember something you said to me, last time we were home. It’s kept coming back to me the last few days. You said something about my making money out of other people’s misfortune. I’ll never forget that. That’s what started me thinking. I thought, is that really what I want to do? When I die, do I want people to say, Oh, Tom, yes, of course, he made his money screwing people who’d already screwed up their own lives. It was the way you said it, you make it sound so — so evil. Making money out of other people’s misfortune.’

‘I was probably just jealous,’ said Agnes, ‘I couldn’t make money out of my own misfortune, let alone anyone else’s.’

‘But I admire that, Agnes. You do your job for the love of it. That takes character, and guts.’

‘So what exactly are you going to do?’ inquired Agnes, moving hastily on from this undeserved eulogy. It disturbed her even more than his plans for global salvation, although she was reassured by her certainty that Tom’s creative views on unemployment would evaporate with the first whiff of a lucrative job opportunity.

‘I thought I might try and find something in conservation, actually,’ he replied. ‘There’s these companies which are like environmental hired guns. They keep an eye on industry and big business. I know the field, so I thought I may as well put it to good use. I’ve been writing letters.’

‘Do you mean to say you’re serious about this?’

‘Of course I am.’ He looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve certainly changed your tune these days.’

He got up and began brushing grass from his trousers. Agnes suddenly became aware of how cold it was. She rose from the hard November ground and followed him slowly back to the house.

Agnes went up to her room that night to find her mother sitting on the bed.

‘I brought you up a blanket,’ she said as Agnes appeared in the doorway. ‘It seemed rather cold.’

Agnes sat down beside her on the bed and waited to be afforded the real purpose of her visit. She knew her mother to be no handmaiden of domestic drudgery. She was not a bringer of blankets or provider of packed lunches. While this deficiency had certainly been a source of grief in the past, when Agnes had seen the dotingly cut sandwiches and fond crisp-packets of others of proof of a somehow superior love, these days she would not have suffered being the progeny of an unpaid servant. Now she would rather see herself descended from a harbourer of ulterior motives.

‘How did you find Tom?’ asked her mother. Years of suffering at the hands of over-smart children had not apparently taught her to avoid questions which could beg such precocious answers as ‘I just looked up and there he was.’

‘Oh, Tom’s fine,’ Agnes replied bitterly. ‘Tom’s found the meaning of life. Apparently it has to do with shooting people who drop litter.’

She waited for the torrent of uncomprehending concern which her over-literal reply would undoubtedly provoke. She did not want to talk about Tom. She did not want to discuss the worrying proclivities of others. Right now, she wanted to be warm and hidden, nursed and held like something precious; taken back inside the body beside her, for example, to float and hum wordlessly. For a while, her mother said nothing.

‘What about you?’ she volunteered presently. ‘You don’t seem quite yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so. Is there anything wrong?’

‘Everything!’ burst out Agnes, who had not really thought anything was. ‘Everything’s wrong! I hate myself! I hate my life, I do!’

She began noisily to cry. Her mother, although slightly taken aback by this outburst, nevertheless held out her arms and enfolded Agnes within them. Agnes howled. Soon she had clambered on to her mother’s lap, still weeping, and the two of them effected an embrace which their various ages and sizes might have rended improbable.

‘There, there,’ soothed her mother. ‘Now what’s this all about, hmm? What’s it all about? Agnes, dear, you may have to get off my lap. It’s a bit of a strain on my silly old knees. You know what they’re like in cold weather.’

This instruction precipitated a fresh overture of grief.

‘I’m too big!’ Agnes cried.

‘Oh, really, darling!’ sighed her mother. ‘I agree you are a bit plumper, but it’s just my arthritis. There’s absolutely no need to take it personally.’

‘No, not like that!’ Agnes hid her face in her mother’s arm. ‘I want to be a child again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just want to be small and have someone protect me and look after me!’

‘Well, we all feel like that,’ said her mother firmly.

‘Do we?’ Agnes peered at her through watery eyes.

‘Of course. Life can be very frightening sometimes, darling. Everyone finds it so, no matter what impression they might give to the contrary. Of course we all want to be children again. Why do you think people love routine and security so much? It makes them feel safe. It reminds them of when they were children. But it’s most important to take life by the horns and not let it push you around. Things will come right in the end.’