By the pond at the bottom of the garden at her aunt’s house, there was a muddy thicket that bordered the fence which intersected with the neighbour’s land. The undergrowth was a buzz with activity. If you were there at the right time, you might be able to catch a toad, huge and bulbous with a glossy throat and bulging eyes. To catch a toad was an art mastered only by persistent practice in catching smaller amphibians. You can't be an expert until you’ve put the time in. So, every evening during the long Summers spent in the Hague, where her mother’s family lived, was spent hunting frogs.
Knowing the importance of being prepared for these endeavours; equipped with a medium sized bucket and soft shoes, she would begin her mission into the undergrowth. Beginning each step on the outsides of her feet, putting pressure first on the pinky toe and then evenly on every other before reaching the big toe and repeating this same meditative practice again on the following footstep. Avoiding large pieces of bark, or particularly gnarled twigs and sticks, she found an efficient rhythm and could sneak up on even the most frenetic and agile of the species. Once close enough, she would settle into a low squat and rest her hands on the muddy ground- frog-like in pose. Just as the amphibian catches a fly, she was measured but quick in execution. Slowly extending her forearm and fingers, while moving the other arm to block off any possible escape route; she would masterfully scoop up an unassuming frog up place it in the bucket.
The aim of this practice was not entirely clear, as once enough frogs had been added to the bucket, she would make her way to the pond to release them. A swinging bucket containing a startlingly large number of frogs wielded by an absent minded 9-year-old would inevitably be empty by the time the pond was reached, so there she would sigh and watch the dragon flies dip in and out of the water before beginning the same routine once more.
It was the Summer before secondary school, and she was bigger now than she had been in previous years and more aware of her weight and size. It was high season for frog catching, and her goal of catching a toad grew more urgent as each day passed. Journeying into the dark, leafy enclave, she moved swiftly; artfully dodging the bracken and at intervals, pressing her face to the earth to peer beneath the bushes. It was later than usual, the toads appeared to be more nocturnal than their smaller family members. At the back of the garden, where the mud piled high against the chalky, decaying wooden fence, emerging through a cloud of aphids she could see the glimmering eyes and lacquered green body of a toad. Poised and ready, she gently placed her bucket on a soft mound of mud and dewy grass and began to crawl. Her fingers sinking into the cool, damp soil, she pulled out small clumps of grass as she made her way in the direction of the toad.
There were two boys playing by the fence to the right of her, one jumping up and down on a trampoline as the other laughed and threw leaves at him. Furtive in her movements, aware of her breath, she passed them by and ducked into a shadow. Crouched down, twisting the knots of her shoelaces she could hear the boys jeering at one another, laughing and making kissing noises. Pushing her hair back from her eyes, adjusting the ponytail that was now at the nape of her neck, she turned to look at the two of them. Immediately catching their eye-, a deep, hot blush grew across her cheeks as she cowered behind the leaves and branches of the brush. The boys, thrilled, cackled and clapped as they sauntered over in the direction of the fence. Whooping and cheering ensued as they beckoned her out of her hiding place, they were only a year or so older than her, but she was frozen in fear.
Before this evening, her focus for that Summer had been on learning to ride a bike, embarrassed at how long it had taken her to master the art, she now zoomed down the country roads with a sense of unbridled achievement. There were many solitary moments in the winding months of July and August in which she would gleefully create soap opera narratives with her Mum’s old Barbies and spend hours writing her own comic books. While frog hunting, she would often murmur to herself in an American accent, the voice of a character she had created in one of her games. Little songs she had written, pieces of Dutch she had picked up. The Dutch word for frog is ‘kicker’, with a strong emphasis on the ‘r’ sound. Kickerrr, Kickerrr, Kickerrr.
The upturned nose of the trampoline boy was now pressed against the fence, he was staring right at her. She stood very still and planned her escape. Sinking her hands once more into the muddy ground, she pushed back against the bushes and forced her way between the branches, catching her hair as she did so. The boys howled with laughter, pointing excitedly at her predicament and nudging each other with glee. She was not used to this feeling, which now presented itself viciously. Her hair now stuck, and her head cocked back, she glanced over to see if the toad was still there, but it had gone. The trampoline boy reached his hand through the fence and she screamed, he pulled her hair out of the branches and her head swung forward. They laughed even more. Grasping at the undergrowth she clambered out from below the bush and darted toward the garden, as the boys’ began to call for her in a cooing yet leering way.
The following summer she sat by the pond, away from the bushes, and watched the dragonflies. No more buckets were filled and she did not hear the boys again.