Size can mislead. This is because we are a conditioned lot. Big, to us, is, stereotypically, dangerous, awesome, something to fear. Confronted by the small, on the other hand, there's a perceptible lack of adrenalin rush and the fear factor is almost laughably low.
Occasionally, however, size doesn't run to stereotype.
History has the odd reference to a bearded giant being overrun by a diminutive pocket-sized upstart. Beth is one of those contra-types. Built like a little sparrow she has, probably unconsciously and in keeping with her slight frame, developed a hopping gait that carries her through her day at the office where she's the head librarian.
There's an air of vulnerability - of exposedness - that surrounds her making nearly all that come in contact with her want to throw an arm, or two, around her like a protective blanket and shield her from the elements. She could easily pass for an unfortunate, helpless bird that's been ejected from its rightful nest by a covetous home-invading cuckoo.
Beware, though, for all is not as it may seem. Beth didn't get to be head librarian by flapping her wings weakly. As we all know, no one gets to the top that way. She is a woman driven by a rare fuel and, in a stand off she can be hard as nails.
Rules prevail
The library is, chiefly, her domain and, consequently, her rules prevail. For example, whispering in very hushed tones is permitted. Conversation, however, is discouraged. And speaking in normal tones is taboo. If one forgets his place and does so, the person is promptly shown the door and pointed in the general direction of the cafeteria to continue his normal-toned discourse.
As a consequence of all this, Beth finds herself on everybody's (silently) admired list but way down in the popularity stakes. Outside the precincts of the library, if there's the slightest opportunity to place the seemingly fragile Beth in a joke, it's used unabashedly.
Yet, for Beth, outside the boundaries of her library she's just a normal social being, chitting and chatting with everybody equally. If she's aware of the silent jokes doing the rounds her demeanour reveals it not.
Much of her talk centres around her husband, Lucas, of whom she appears to be possessive, or still very much in love with after eighteen years, or just simply an object she loves to boss, given the hen-pecked nature of some comments she makes, or maybe even just plain suspicious.
None of her colleagues has ever met Lucas but they, in the context of all imaginative workmates, have spun imaginary details about Beth and Lucas and their lifestyle that, to a newcomer, it's impossible to tell where the fiction stands vis-Ã -vis the fact.
Most recently, Beth stirred the smouldering pot of fictive tales by stating that she had bought Lucas a personalised pager with an automatic hourly timer inbuilt and linked to her own mobile phone. "Whatever for?" asked one curious co-worker, nearly choking on her green tea.
"So I can keep track of his movements," was the reply.
Needless to say, that brief conversation got fleshed out many times over in the retelling until, at last, it was generally agreed that Lucas was the hyper-flirtatious kind, probably involved in a myriad affairs while Beth monitored the whispering levels in her library.
"And probably driven to the affairs by the woman herself," claimed some male colleagues, in defence of their own.
And then, one day, quite out of the blue, several of Beth's office friends got invited over to her house - for the first time ever. The occasion: Lucas's 50th birthday. Lucas himself, white haired, clean-shaven, on mildly unsteady feet, was at the door to say hi and welcome, smile beamingly and shake hands with all these total strangers.
Pinned to his shirt pocket, a little badge, with red lettering: My name is Lucas Redding. I have Alzheimer's. I live at.....Telephone No....
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
