How to Kill Your Family(20)

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.

The only thing that stopped me from deliberately braining some of these animals and leaving the centre for good was Andrew. On my first proper shift, I spied him immediately, cleaning the pathway down to the ponds, humming along to music (what genre I didn’t learn, since his enormous headphones blocked it off, but I’m guessing it was something like UB40). I waited for the inevitable introduction and sure enough, at break time, Roger brought him over to meet us. As we said our hellos and Lucy droned on about how interesting the work was, I drank him in. The long hair, almost down to his shoulders, was badly cared for and straggly. He wore khaki trousers and an ancient grey vest, and his fingernails were encrusted in dirt and grime. But he was broad and fit, with muscles clearly made by manual labour and not in a fancy gym. If he’d cleaned up, I could easily see how my cousin fitted into the Artemis family. His face was kind, but his eyes had the same fleck of grey that my father’s had, and when he turned to the side, I saw that he had the same profile as Jeremy. Was there the same arrogance? Hard to tell.

I gave him the same vague story I’d told Roger and Lucy. I was Lara, an estate agent in North London, had just broken up with my long-term boyfriend, was looking for a new challenge and I’d had a fascination with conservation and rewilding since uni. I’d deliberately given myself his mother’s name to see if it unnerved him but he didn’t blink. Instead, he nodded eagerly and told me that he’d also come to develop this particular interest at university. Off to a good start at least.

That first day, Andrew was busy repairing a fence which had slipped, while the odd couple Lucy and Roger busied themselves with frogs and I cleaned the visitors’ centre. I must just note that I’d not seen a visitor as yet, but Roger was full of anticipation for a school trip on Monday. ‘Just what our young people need – the great outdoors – none of this leisure centre drudgery.’

I watched Andrew work, effortlessly rebuilding the fence, engrossed in his work. If he hadn’t looked so like his grandfather, I’d have been convinced I’d got the wrong person. This man was carefree, simple, hardworking. I’d wager nobody in the Artemis family had done a day’s physical labour since about 1963, unless you count stepping on other people to get what they want as hard work.