by Bella Mackie
Andrew wasn’t trying to bulldoze the wetland and build a factory for small children to make flammable polyester clothes, nor was he intent on rounding up the marsh frogs to use their skin for designer handbags like most in his family would have suggested if the profit margins were good enough. No, he was volunteering, helping to observe mating behaviour, ensuring that these hideous creatures had a place to live and thrive. And for next to no money. Honestly, if I’d not driven his grandparents off that dusty Marbella road, I think they’d have done it themselves upon hearing what their grandson was doing with his life.
It quickly became clear that the work I’d put in at the Artemis company would count for nothing if I wanted to try to get close to Andrew. In fact, I suspected it would actively count against me. From the casual enquiries I had made when I worked at Artemis HQ (depressingly few given my decidedly junior role), it seemed that my cousin had cut himself off from the family some years ago, barely speaking to his parents from year to year. Ironic really, in the Alanis Morissette definition (who really understands what irony is anyway?), that I’d spent so long trying to smuggle my way into the Artemis inner circle and my cousin had broken out just as determinedly.
But despite his obvious intentions to lead a different life, he was still one of them. Still likely to be welcomed back with open arms if he got bored of helping disgusting frogs gentrify East London – which, let’s face it, seemed likely. And crucially, still a potential beneficiary when the rest of the family died (and as you know, I was helpfully hastening that day along). So I did what I had to do. I researched frogs, bought a hideous windbreaker and signed up to a volunteer scheme at the Walthamstow marsh project.
I once watched one of those ‘based on a true story’ movies on Channel 5 late one Sunday night. It was about a high-flying city woman who packed it all in to live the simple life tending to goats in the hills. She renounced her designer bags and (the obviously male director’s eye played heavy here) her vapid life. She saw the purity in earth, in nature, in getting back to the land. It was glossy and the leading lady wore pristine overalls and the sun shone – and for a brief minute I was seduced (before I remembered my pressing family extermination goals). My tenuous point is, the Walthamstow marsh project will never be the setting for anything remotely similar. Nobody is coming away from this particular section of nature with an inspirational tale. Nobody will ever learn that the greatest love in life is loving yourself while wearing a hairnet and rubber gloves, so as not to contaminate the sacred frog area.
The volunteer induction took place on a sticky May Day, and I travelled by train from King’s Cross, wearing clear lens glasses, sensible shoes, a parka and a bucket hat. I felt completely invisible, which was disconcerting and interesting at the same time. Nobody glanced at me, no man smiled my way. I even brought a packed lunch with me, something I’ve always thought was a warning sign in a person over eight years old. According to Google Maps, the marshes were nowhere near a familiar coffee shop, and I wasn’t going to risk food which might have been cross-contaminated by anything remotely both wild and in Zone 4.
The visitors’ centre was a bleak affair. That description is already grandiose – don’t imagine a brightly lit complex with friendly signs or a working loo. It was a hut with a corrugated iron roof and, inside, childish posters displaying scribbled weeds and the occasional abstract bird. Roger, the man who ran the marsh project, was there to welcome the two of us who’d turned up. I was slightly shocked that someone else was voluntarily coming to work in a bog without the motivation of murder. But here one was. Lucy, she told Roger and me, was a 30-year-old woman who worked in IT but had always had a yearning to spend more time in nature. She had the look of someone who wasn’t exposed to vitamin D on a regular basis, pallid and drawn in the face. I fought to keep my expression neutral, seeing Roger’s eyes light up as he nodded enthusiastically in agreement with her every word.
‘You’ve come to the right place, Lucy!’ he said. ‘We might not be a UNESCO world heritage site but I always like to say that these marshes are the real eighth wonder of the world!’ His eyes disappeared into the crinkled skin which surrounded them as he laughed. I imagined he told someone that line at least once a day and idly wondered if he had a wife who’d dearly like me to dispose of him too.
My cagoule was pitch-perfect. Lucy wore a similar one, and Roger seemed to have taken it one step further and was decked out in what I can only describe as a waterproof onesie. A thermos of tea was proffered, as Roger leant against the reception desk and described what our duties would be. Though there were repeated assurances that we’d be entering the exciting world of conservation, our duties seemed really to boil down to just weeding. This was very important, according to Roger, to maintain the delicate ecological balance of the site. From reception, we were taken on a tour of the marshes, which only took us twenty-five minutes in total. Perhaps marsh singular might have been more appropriate.
It was a sorry affair, with little in the way of great beauty. A forlorn heron stood some way off, and a host of flies buzzed around the reeds, but aside from that, it wasn’t singing with wildlife. It also wasn’t exactly heaving with visitors. At one point, Roger muttered something about the local leisure centre and how funding was terribly weighted, his face darkening. Imagine a leisure centre being your nemesis.
Lucy seemed genuinely interested in the induction, asking detailed questions about netting and composting. I stayed quiet, nodding along, all the while searching for a man who could be Andrew. From the few photos that showed him at a younger stage, he was a tall, slim guy, with sandy hair and unnervingly symmetrical teeth. Moderately handsome, might get a second glance at a bar, standard enough London level handsome. But apart from Roger and an old lady, who reminded me somewhat of Alan Bennett’s old lady in the van, ripping up some unidentifiable plants, there was nobody around.
Amusingly, Roger wouldn’t let us actually do anything practical on the day, telling us that the job was very sensitive and insisting we spend an hour in the hut going over health and safety requirements instead. This mainly consisted of repeated warnings about the ponds, a few measly looking puddles, I’d thought, but Roger told us sternly that they were much deeper than we could imagine, their size concealed by reeds. We must be very careful when we worked near them, as one misstep could mean trouble. Even Lucy didn’t look very convinced at this.
As the induction wrapped up, Roger paused reverently, looking to the sky as if seeking permission before he spoke. ‘And now for the moment I’m sure you’ve been waiting for,’ he grinned. ‘The FROGS.’
‘There are,’ Roger said with a smile, ‘only two native species of frogs in this country – the common frog and the pool frog. They are commonly found in shallow water and gardens. But we have a more exotic customer here. Oh yes, we have the MARSH FROG.’ He waited for a murmur of approval, which Lucy duly gave, and continued. ‘The marsh frog is a special kind of fellow. A chap called Edward Percy Smith brought twelve of them back from Hungary in 1935, and they duly escaped the confines of his garden and multiplied. Clever buggers,’ he nodded, as though the frogs had some kind of master plan to colonise the British Isles.
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 f
inger 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.
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.
I had to think up a reason to talk to him, and as asking advice on how to properly clean the minuscule kitchen wasn’t really going to cut it, I waited until everybody stopped for lunch and took my sandwiches over to where he sat, eyes closed, soaking up the spring sun.
‘It’s so lovely to work outside,’ I ventured, ‘I’m so tired of working in an office just chasing profits and cynically duping clients.’ OK it was a bit too on the nose, but it got the right reaction. People so often just want you to hold up a mirror for their own opinions. This is especially true of men, and Andrew might have presented himself as a woke eco-warrior but he wasn’t immune.
‘God, that’s so TRUE,’ he said, turning towards me and smiling. ‘This place is my sanctuary. I can’t bear the way we, as a society, have been tricked by those with everything into chasing impossible gains, just so that big corporations can make more off their labour.’
OK, so this was going to be easier than I thought. After fifteen minutes of chat about capitalism and the evils of the empire, I told him a bit about ‘my’ family, the Latimers. Of course, I didn’t use their real names or explain that Sophie and John weren’t my real parents, but I hedged that, telling him about my liberal family who marched against climate change and voted Labour might get him to open up about his own relatives.
‘I guess your family was the same growing up?’ I said, as I helped myself to his Waitrose olive pot. His body slightly shifted, and he scratched at his neck with his pinky finger.
‘No, actually. I figured all this stuff out by myself. My parents didn’t bestow me with much in the way of ideological direction. Too busy enjoying themselves, making money – well, spending money, I guess. I had the best private education, lovely nannies, a good home, and for a while, I guess I drifted down that road – interned at a wealth fund at 16, enjoyed all the nice things that my family had. But uni changed me – it made me see proper inequality for the first time. People think that Brighton’s wealthy you know? But it’s got really poor pockets and the other students … well, they were all so engaged and connected to the real world y’know? It made m
e ashamed of myself, you know?’
I charitably assumed the constant ‘you knows’ were a nervous tic and tried to see beyond them.
‘Good on you,’ I said and squeezed his arm. ‘Takes guts to really open your eyes.’ Well, not really, if there’s a multi-million-pound trust fund to fall back on when you get tired of living like the common people, but he seemed to appreciate it, absent-mindedly rubbing the spot I’d just touched.
From then on, I was in. It took a couple more weeks of weeding to suggest a drink after work, but he was keen. Unfortunately so was Lucy. And, even worse, Roger. We ended up in a dismal pub near the centre which I guess could’ve been nice if a roundabout hadn’t encircled it at some point in the recent past (and, let’s be honest, if the clientele had been completely different and the wine list had offered more than a lukewarm chardonnay from Australia). The talk was mainly about fucking frogs, with Andrew keen to tell us about his own private collection.
Roger rolled his eyes. ‘This chap thinks the local ones aren’t interesting enough, don’t you, fella? Always looking for something a bit more … exotic.’ He said it as though a foreign frog was dangerous, enticing Andrew away from the decent hardworking types found in the marshes. Roger definitely voted to leave the EU. I feigned interest, and encouraged my cousin to say more, while Roger turned to Lucy and attempted to engage her on the topic of topsoil. Andrew lowered his voice and tilted his head towards me slightly.
‘The centre is a lovely place, and Roger means well. But he’s right, I am interested in the more “exotic” ones, just as he says. It might sound mad …’ he trailed off as I looked at him with interest, ‘but I’ve been researching what frogs can do for depression. Have you heard of Kambo?’