For six months an iceberg of a frog in our pond gave us a regular heads-up. Two eyes and a plimsoll-line mouth popped out from under the duckweed blanket. The size of the animal beneath was a matter of conjecture until a fortnight ago, when I cleared out the pond and the frog – or rather frogs – were exposed in clear, open water.
All four frogs hung around for the rest of that day. There were two big buddhas the size of my fist. One took proprietary rights at the water’s edge, forelegs resting like a regular with his elbows on the bar. He stared impassively, jowly throat pulsing, as human shadows passed over him again and again. I got on my knees before him, eyeballed him.
I blinked first. Frogs have transparent eyelids.
The other giant, holding to the centre, was invariably accompanied by a 50p-sized frog, maybe one of the previous spring’s tadpoles. When the larger one bobbed up, junior came out from under his chin, a student of flotation. The fourth frog, lithe and long-limbed, kept his distance and surfaced rarely.
Towards dusk, one of the big daddies went a-hunting, stiff, stubby legs crawling up the bank, carrying a great fleshy body that wobbled like a walrus or a saggy popped balloon, a gross monster that had been on the flies. But there is no such thing as an overweight wild animal. After nightfall, I didn’t see it or any of its fellows again.
The pond has settled into winter rest. Patches of duckweed have regrouped after the scourge. Brown hazel leaves are scattered over the surface, some crinkled and curled, looking fleetingly like beasts that have risen from below, instead of detritus waiting to sink. There are a few filmy bubbles that tell of life beneath.
They are down there now in their bachelor basement, sitting out the winter, breathing incremental changes in temperature through their skin. These males – and frogs that hibernate in ponds are nearly always males – will squat with their eyes open, staring into the blackness at the bottom for months to come.
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