Quiver (18 page)

Sitting at the back of the classroom, forever slouching over her desk, she watched in envy as other girls flirted effortlessly with the boys, who only ever seemed to treat her with a brotherly respect for her size. They would offer to arm wrestle with her, or recruit her for the basketball team, but they never acknowledged her femininity. It was agony for Stacey, who had a crippling shyness. She could have compensated by becoming funny or successful academically, but the cruel reality was that there was nothing outstanding about Stacey except her height.

On one particularly anguished day, after her best friend had seduced the boy she’d been secretly fantasizing about for months, she sent away for a restraint to stop growing. She’d found the advertisement in the back of a comic: “The gawkiest in the class? Frightened of never finding a boyfriend you can see eye to eye with? Try McKay’s growth restraint. Guaranteed to control unnecessary height. $15 plus postage.”

The gadget came in a plain brown box. She rushed up to her bedroom, locked the door and drew the curtains. She carefully tore off the tape, frightened she might break the mysterious equipment that would be her salvation. In the box were two heavy elasticized ankle binders along with a roughly photo-copied page of handwritten instructions: “Fasten around each ankle every night for a month. Reduced blood circulation will decrease the flow of growth hormones around the body. No refund available.”

She wore the ankle binders for a year, until her mother noticed the bruising. In that time she’d grown an extra four
inches, reaching five foot ten at fourteen—with the rest of adolescence still to come. By twenty she was six foot two and still growing, resigned to a cranelike existence bombarded by unwanted views of hidden nests of dandruff, shiny bald patches and toupées. It gave her a definite angle on masculinity, one that made men very nervous.

At dances she took to flirting sitting down. Men would approach her, and Stacey, dreading their moment of realization that she was taller than them—and thus usurping the natural order of things—would remain seated. She’d invite them to sit with her, giving some poor excuse like weak knees. The curious would stay, while she chatted on brightly, a bit too brightly, a bit too incessantly, as the anticipation of standing grew in the pit of her stomach.

Dancing meant that most men would be conversing with her nipples. She would have to hold them at arm’s length, terrified that any proximity would look too obscene. Ridicule was her constant terror, from the moment she woke up to the moment she lay down, horizontal and safe in her extra-long single bed. With her long arms wrapped around herself, Stacey would rock herself to sleep, her electric blanket humming beneath her.

She lost her virginity at twenty-seven to a drunken brickie who mistook her for a transvestite hooker. On finally relieving her of her underpants, he voiced his disappointment, but fucked her anyway. It was a grubby and rather uncomfortable affair, but Stacey was glad to be rid of her virginity; at least she didn’t have to wear that too, like a stigmata.

She worked behind the counter at a branch of a gambling enterprise collecting money and distributing the betting slips. It was a man’s world, but one that was too distracted to notice
or dwell on any physical anomaly. She was quiet, efficient and had a knack of talking down the occasional devastated gambler. In another life she could have been a good nurse or social worker, but the scale of her world had been totally distorted by her size. Fear made her innately clumsy and she was forever tipping things over with her huge awkward hands.

Des, her boss, a cheerful man in his late sixties, liked her and was secretly thankful that she was the only employee who never asked for a pay raise and was even grateful to work on public holidays.

She’d walk in every morning in her usual plain blue dress that covered up her ample bosom and remarkably good legs. She matched the dress with a short cardigan, heavy tights and flat shoes. Buying clothes had always been a problem. It was painful negotiating the changing rooms with the stark reflections of herself in the full-length mirrors, some of which cut off her head completely, leaving her torso strangely dismembered in bra and pants. It was terrifying having to ask for a skirt of the right length. She was a size sixteen, not fat but womanly, as her mother kept saying proudly, while wondering where the bosom and height had come from; it certainly wasn’t
her
side of the family.

Stacey’s uniform brought her invisibility, carefully constructed to make her melt into the very walls. She could stand at the bus stop and not get noticed, sit opposite an attractive man and not blush as she reached up to pull the cord.

It was his height that initially attracted her—five foot one or two at the most. He was a flashy dresser, always in gray, blue or pale-green suits, the padded shoulders of which only seemed to emphasize his lack of height. His shirts were expensive
but in atrocious taste, invariably undone to display a virile growth of chest hair, buried in the center of which shone a heavy gold chain. A mass of black curly hair worn to his shoulders framed a podgy face of bog Irish ancestry. His eyes were his most beautiful feature, a piercing blue, shining behind surprisingly long black eyelashes. His age was difficult to determine, but almost certainly between the mid-thirties and forties. Stress, and possibly drink, had blurred the features, which somewhere in his youth might have optimistically been described as elfin.

Jock was the first man she’d met who acknowledged her womanliness. He complimented her hair or her complexion, grabbing her hand as she passed him the betting slip and saying things like, “The deeper the treasure is buried, the greater the joy in discovery.” At first she was terrified he was parodying her, but he was insistent, staring intensely into her eyes, while his own seemed to convey such warmth and passion that at times she felt as if he was making love to her right there in the middle of the TAB.

His authority and the way the other men revered him excited her. He seemed totally confident in his swaggering and aggressive presence. It was as if he had used his diminutive stature as a propellant to power. Soon she found herself dreaming about him at night. She wondered what it would be like to have that head of long hair buried between her breasts.

It is the day of the Adelaide Cup, one of the grand events of the Australian racing calendar. Stacey is working a double shift; it is her fifth hour behind the counter, but she smiles on.

Des brings her a cup of tea. She places it carefully beside her keyboard. She’s always liked Cup Day, the atmosphere being
more charged, more electric than usual. Even the regular punters seem festive, clean-shaven with carnations flashing red in the odd buttonhole.

“G’day, Jock, how’s the meat trade?”

“Thriving, mate, thriving.” The other men part deferentially as he makes his way up to her booth. “Gidday, gorgeous, a thou on Gypsy Queen.”

She glances at the clock, the race is up in two minutes. Automatically she prints out the betting slip. This will have to be the last bet she’ll take. A thou. The odds are twenty to one. He must have some inside information.

“I win and you’re mine,” he says. As he takes the betting slip he slides his finger between hers. The gesture is inherently sexual in its meaning. It makes her wet immediately, her sex contracts at his touch, hidden there behind the counter. Stacey blushes, and tries to cover her confusion by shuffling papers in some semblance of control. Jock smiles at her. Despite herself she finds herself smiling back.

The next anxious punter comes up to the window. “I’ll bet what he’s betting,” he points to Jock, who stands, legs spread stoutly on the ground, staring up at the TV monitor.

“Sorry, you’re too late.”

The gates go up and the racing call begins, fast and hard. The old world of Australian masculinity sweeps Stacey up in a false sense of security, taking her back to her father’s knee on a Saturday afternoon by the radio. Watching the race on the video monitor in the corner she finds her heart accelerating, racing up there with Jock’s horse, in the outside lane, limbs straining, sweat on the flanks, arching forward with each bound of those lean legs, past the first horse, then the second. She wants him to win, she wants him to take her like this.

“And it’s Yellow Sky fast behind Lovesick close to Gypsy Queen who is lagging way behind in the pack and they’re coming up to the fourth lap. Who will take that corner? And it’s Gypsy Queen in fourth. She’s gaining pace. Look at that filly go! And it’s Yellow Sky close on Lovesick in second, hundred and fifty meters to go. Gypsy Queen has just overtaken Yellow Sky in third, neck-to-neck with Lovesick. She’s gaining, it’s going to be a photo finish…and it’s Gypsy Queen! What a horse! What a race! Tremendous odds…”

A shout goes up among the punters. Jock is screaming at the top of his lungs. “I done it! I bloody done it!”

He runs in behind the counter, grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet. “Fuck, you’re tall. I like that. It’s sexy. Eh, Des! I’m just borrowing your staff, okay? You won’t mind, especially after you’ve paid me the twenty thou you owe me!”

Des smiles nervously down at this tiny man who dances around Stacey. Jock propels her toward the door, his hand pushing proprietorially against her buttocks.

“I told yer if I won you’re mine.”

The regulars look on with respect as Jock opens the door of a bright red Mercedes sports parked outside the shop. For once Stacey does not feel ridiculous.

He glances across at her; under the bravado he’s nervous. There is something impenetrable about her cool veneer that scares him. It has been a long time since he has wanted a woman this much. But if it scares you, he thinks to himself, it’s always worth doing. He wants her to want him for himself, for what he still sees himself as—the short, bullied kid who learned to fight back harder, who learned to use his mind to outwit his enemies. There is an empathy between them he recognizes, the empathy of being outsiders. Her vulnerability
shows in her movements: the way she stoops to try to make herself smaller, the way she hides her large hands in her lap.

“What are you going to do with the money?”

“It’s not the money, it’s winning. That’s what I’m addicted to.”

“But you could always lose.”

“Risk, Stacey; when faced with the choice, always take the dangerous way. It pays off.”

“Well, I’ve taken a risk now, taking off with you.” She smiles cheekily. His interest in her gives her courage. She stretches her legs in the small car, feeling his eyes following her every movement.

“The bigger the risk, the bigger the pay-off.” He smiles back. He wants to see those long limbs out of control, to discover all of her beauty. He can scarcely believe that she is sitting in his car, but none of his anticipation shows as he smoothly shifts the car into fifth gear.

He takes her shopping. Striding defiantly beside her into David Jones, and heading straight for the lingerie department, he orders bra, stockings and underpants, guessing her size precisely. He is exacting about the length of the stockings and the quality of the imported Parisian silk teddy he wants to buy. Stacey, totally seduced by the utter confidence of this man who ignores the whispers and giggles of the shop assistants, complies, not silently, not submissively, but with a growing confidence of her own.

“Not the red, it clashes with my blond hair. The mauve is better.”

“You’re right. Why use a blowtorch when a candle will do? You’re gorgeous, you know. A goddess—don’t let anyone tell you different, you understand?”

She stands in front of the changing-room mirror, dressed only in the pale mauve teddy. For a second she doesn’t recognize this Botticelli creation, this full-fleshed goddess with loose, shoulder-length blond hair. He looks down at her feet.

“You need shoes.”

In the shoe department he runs through a list of designers with the shop assistant, whose attitude metamorphoses from one of ridicule to open respect. Jock knows his designers, from Charles Jourdan through to Walter Steiger. Stacey, nervous about volunteering her foot size, remains mute, pinned into a chair, wishing herself smaller as she tentatively arches forward one long leg, her foot seeming to stretch out for miles.

“What size, Madam?” She thinks she can detect a hint of mockery under the tone.

“Twelve,” she whispers.

Jock leaps up in excitement as the shop assistant gazes on in mild astonishment. “Twelve!”

He yells out to the passing trade. “Twelve! What a woman! What a glorious mass of female flesh!”

Peeved at this emotive display the shop assistant hurries out the back to locate the appropriate shoe. Jock kneels at Stacey’s feet, running his small muscular hands up the inside of her calves. His touch sends a shiver of expectation up her legs. He smiles suddenly, a brilliant, strangely child-like grin, open and mischievous. “Don’t ever be ashamed of your size. It is power, it is what makes you different from the rest of the plebeians.”

He buys her a size-twelve pair of patent leather deep red Charles Jourdan stilettos. She stands six foot seven in them, towering over both him and the shop assistant. Jock insists that she wear the shoes, along with the Chanel suit, Dior stockings and Guy Laroche teddy, back to the car. The only thing about
her appearance that remains untouched is her hair, which at his order she wears loose and unravelled down her back.

They fly along in the Mercedes. Despite sitting on a cushion, Jock can barely glance over the dashboard. Luckily for Stacey, the car has its top down, so she can stretch her neck back as far as she likes. Hair flying back, the black silk of the Chanel suit fitting snugly across her broad bosom, the length of stockinged leg shimmering expensively beneath her, Stacey feels glamorous.

Jock has one hand on the wheel and the other on her knee, as he talks incessantly about his empire. Meat. More specifically butchers’ shops, a whole chain of them across the north-eastern suburbs.

“Me father’s business see, but then he was never much of a visionary. Only had the one shop all his life; couldn’t see the value in expansion, in providing intimate service, cheap cuts and decent offal at old-fashioned prices. Too much of a tradionalist, was Dad. Believed in staying in yer own class. Well, fuck that! And I did, well and truly. Now I can hobnob with the best. I earn as much as them—what’s more I earned it all myself, didn’t get some poxy handout from some rich daddy. Nothing’s sweeter than money you’ve earned for yourself, believe me, Stacey. That name doesn’t suit you, you know. From now on I’m gonna call you Stance.