We were guided down to the banks of the main pond, and instructed to stay quiet. Roger must have weighed sixteen stone at least and yet he moved with the skill of a practised cat burglar.
‘Mustn’t frighten them,’ he mouthed, as he surveyed the scene. As we stood there, I wondered whether this was really the best approach to finding Andrew. I envisaged weekends spent with Roger silently waiting on these creatures, mud seeping into my boots, rain chilling my bones, and felt somewhat defeated. But I had no better options. Andrew was the next person on my list and I don’t like to deviate when I have a plan, it unsettles everything.
After about fifteen minutes of awkward silence, as Roger prowled around on the lookout and Lucy stood stock-still, her body almost humming with anticipation, there was movement. The old man flicked a hand at us, and bent a finger in command. We tiptoed through the reeds, straining to get a look at the promised animal. From the description, I half imagined we’d see some giant multicoloured thing, with glittery skin, hopping about with joyous abandon. Instead, we looked down to see a small sludge green speck, the only embellishment a few light green lines on its back. It was just about the most overrated thing I’d ever seen, and Jimmy’s mum, Sophie, once made us watch Life Is Beautiful.
The frog scuttled （can a frog scuttle?） back into the reeds the moment we approached, and Roger gave us a look of deep disappointment, as though we’d tried to spear it with arrows.
‘Ah well, you’ve not learnt the ways yet. Next week you might see a mating! Tis the season for it.’ Resolving never to learn the ways of a basic-looking frog, I trailed Roger and Lucy back to the visitors’ centre to collect my things. As we departed, I spied a notice board with photos of staff and volunteers pinned up, with notes typed in Comic Sans explaining who was who. Not caring what Roger or Lucy thought, I made a beeline for it. And there he was. It took me a minute, my eyes searching for the clean-cut prince I’d seen in photos. But in this photo, he had a ponytail and … a large earring made out of a shell. Even Camden Market doesn’t sell hippy tat like that anymore. What terrible thing had befallen Andrew, for him to make such a life choice? He’d doubled down on his decision though, with an ear tunnel on the other side, and a wooden necklace that suggested a gap year had been taken and decisively wasted.
I stared at the photo for longer than was probably acceptable, before trying to casually ask Roger about his colleagues.
‘There’s Linda, who you might’ve seen outside weeding.’ He lowered his voice, ‘She’s lonely, poor love, caring for her husband with dementia.’
I wondered whether weeding out a frog’s habitat was preferable and came to the conclusion that it probably was. Rather that than helping the man you used to fancy go to the toilet.
‘Then there’s Phyllis – Phil, we call her. A bit of a battleaxe but very good with school visitors. And then we have young Andrew. Does research on the wildlife and is very knowledgeable about conservation. We’re lucky to have him – he did his degree in ecology at Brighton and he’s got a grant to go and ID undocumented species in Australia next year. They have 240 known types there already,’ he said wistfully.
‘Is he around?’ I asked offhandedly.
‘Not today – he’s at a seminar on fungus in the general population.’ I must have looked alarmed, because he quickly added, ‘In FROGS that is!’ and laughed uproariously.
Finally released from the trial day, I gathered up my things, pleading an engagement and saying I had to rush. I was worried that Lucy would want to head back with me, and dreaded the idea of forty-five minutes on a train going over the day’s events with someone who’d set the bar so low for a new hobby. But strangely she had lingered, and Roger seemed thrilled about it, offering her another cup of tea and asking what she knew about newts. I hoped that wasn’t Roger’s idea of a chat-up line and fled.
So that was that. Every Saturday, I headed off to serve Roger in his tiny dull kingdom. Every Saturday I pulled weeds, cleaned pathways, and tried not to feel insulted that Lucy was working closely with Roger on frog maintenance, while I did manual labour. Their heads close together, I’d hear snatched words and occasional laughter as he showed her how to trap and mark the frogs, for what I will never know. I’ve since learned that the marsh frog is in no way special, endangered, or prized. There were no amphibians that needed Roger’s tender care, these mongrels of the marsh world would have been just fine without the watchful eye of a 50-year-old man wearing what looked suspiciously like Hush Puppies.