Rachel Cusk - Saving Agnes

Nina leaned against a cupboard and looked thoughtful.

‘I’ve always thought it was more a question of your distorting the truth rather than not seeing it,’ she said.

‘Why would I do that?’ said Agnes nervously. She stared at the floor. She was not accustomed to hearing herself so frankly discussed, although it did occur to her that this might simply be because she wasn’t normally present when such discussions were held.

‘How should I know? Maybe you don’t like the way things are. Maybe you want to protect yourself. Everyone selects certain things from what’s around them to conform with their idea of how they want life to be. Like I’ve always gone for outlandish, subversive things because I’m afraid of being normal.’

‘Really?’ Agnes was surprised.

‘So would you,’ said Nina, ‘if you’d grown up in East Sheen.’

‘I’ve always wanted to be normal,’ Agnes confessed.

Nina raised her eyebrows. Agnes felt they were like two old women comparing varicose veins, each secretly marvelling at the other’s worse defect beside their own known one.

‘Like I said,’ Nina continued. ‘Everyone has their own way of dealing with things. Sometimes it’s hard to admit the truth. Like with Jack. I was well on the way to hating myself, because it seemed easier than hating him. Do you see what I’m saying? Sometimes we’ll ruin everything, sacrifice everything, just so that one thing can be perfect.’

‘But nothing is perfect!’ said Agnes. The truth of her words dawned on her only after she had said them. It seemed to her then the saddest thing she had ever known. ‘Nothing is,’ she repeated.

‘No,’ said Nina, putting a friendly arm around her. ‘But some things are pretty good.’

Agnes was in Jean’s office. Beyond the window a low sky darkened, threatening rain. A gust of wind rattled the glass against the stainless steel casing like something trying to get in. Agnes glanced at the clock on the wall and synchronised her watch with it to pass the time. Opposite her, Jean appeared to be recounting the story of her life.

‘In those days I was doing your job, although the company was much smaller then, of course. There was something rather — cosy about it. Things were quite different then. Everyone knew everybody else.’

‘Of course,’ echoed Agnes belatedly. Even in this alien era in the history of Diplomat’s Week, she knew everyone trapped within its portals and had effectively tired of the vast majority. Figures bent against the wind scurried past on the pavement outside.

‘We were almost like a family,’ Jean continued sighingly. ‘That was our philosophy, sort of “keep it in the family”. So when the editor, my boss, finally went — well, it seemed very natural.’

‘Had he been ill for long?’

‘Excuse me? Oh, no! Oh no, you misunderstand me! Goodness no, he didn’t die. He retired.’

‘Oh.’

‘So it seemed natural that I would — you know—’

‘Take over?’

‘Exactly. But I hadn’t expected it, not at all! You could have knocked me over with a feather when they told me. Once the first thrill had passed, of course, I became terribly nervous. What did I know about running a department? I was like you — a young girl with no real ambitions of my own. I didn’t think I’d be able to keep up. All the cut and thrust, you know. But then the MD said to me, “Jean,” he said, “what this place needs is the feminine touch.” I felt much better after that.’

Agnes twitched nervously. She longed for Greta, who was taking a few days off. It was hard to laugh at things on one’s own. One got sucked in.

‘So what do you think, dear?’ said Jean.

‘About what?’

‘Well — well, about everything.’ She waved her hands distractedly in the air, a gesture apparently intended to encompass global concerns.

‘What do you mean?’ Agnes persisted.

‘Agnes, dear, haven’t you listened to a word I’ve been saying?’

‘Yes, you told me about the old days and your boss leaving,’ she obediently repeated. ‘And then—’

‘Oh dear,’ Jean interjected. ‘We don’t seem to be understanding one another very well, do we?’

‘It’s not my fault!’ Agnes cried impatiently. ‘You won’t tell me what you’re trying to say! Just say it in a way I can understand.’

‘I’m leaving,’ Jean blurted out. ‘And there’s really no need—’

‘You see, it wasn’t so hard!’ said Agnes. ‘It’s really very easy. You should try it more often.’

‘I admit I might not have made things clear,’ Jean conceded nobly. ‘It’s all been rather sudden, you see. These upheavals can be quite stressful, I’ve found.’

‘I’m sure,’ Agnes politely returned. ‘But you’ll be surprised how quickly one adapts.’

A spatter of rain hit the window with a gravelly sound. Old autumn leaves were hurled acrobatically into the air by a fierce gust of wind. The disturbance outside made the atmosphere within the office suddenly rather pleasant. They sat in companionable silence. Agnes thought of Jean leaving, and decided she might even miss her.

‘So why are you leaving?’ she inquired presently, as the still-mysterious fact of it occurred to her.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘To Dave?’

‘To David, yes. We decided last week.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Agnes. An atmosphere of candour having now been established, she felt confident to continue: ‘But — if you don’t mind my saying so — that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to leave, does it?’

Jean took some time to consider the question. Agnes was struck by the thought that her soon-to-be ex-boss might be harbouring some old-fashioned ideas about wifely duty from which she herself might be able to dissuade her. Further delay, however, forced upon her the idea that such concealments could only hint at the importunate presence of scandal and subterfuge. Perhaps Jean had become pregnant and was being driven by shame towards a hasty union. The thought of it filled her with horror: not so much for the fallen Jean, but for the thought that her inquiry might provoke tearful confessions. She wished she could recall her words. Under such circumstances, they were both prurient and inflammatory. Despite the currently civilised tone of their discussions, she felt sure her relationship with Jean would not bear up beneath the strain.

‘I’m not just doing it for David,’ Jean finally declared. She pronounced her words carefully. ‘Although David certainly showed me the way and I am profoundly grateful to him for it. Our forthcoming marriage should make that gratitude adequately clear. But there are other, greater reasons for my resignation. I am dedicating my life to Jesus and all his works.’ She fixed Agnes with a steely eye. ‘And might I tell you, for me there could be no greater privilege.’

Agnes’s horror doubled. Jean gave her a sinister smile. All at once, the thought of her leaving did not seem so very unfortunate. Agnes glanced at the door, calculating the time it would take to hurl herself through it should Jean decide to commence her ministry peremptorily with the doubter before her. Immediately, however, she repented her aversion. What business was it of hers if Jean found happiness in the employ of the Almighty? Was it, perhaps, her own recent sense of redundancy from that very realm that had brought from her such a response? Could she resent the certainty currently illuminating Jean’s features, knowing that she herself no longer possessed it? Might she even be jealous?

‘So,’ she said hurriedly, before she could work upon herself the conversion which, so far, Jean had not attempted to perform. ‘So, who’s replacing you? That is, if you don’t mind my asking. I mean, I don’t want it to seem as if I want you to go or anything, but it would be helpful to know what we can expect.’ She laughed shrilly. ‘I suppose they’ll be getting a real slavedriver. After a couple of months, we’ll probably be begging you to come back.’