The Pond

Once upon a time, there was a frog. This frog, while perhaps a tad bit larger than most, was quite ordinary. He leaped from lily pad to lily pad like his brothers, he caught flies with great zeal, and he even had a few young human girls give him a chaste peck on the cheek. Yes, this frog was ordinary, predictable, and undeniably dull. This is why there are only two stories that concern frogs as protagonists. So we move on from our amphibian friend and take a peek at his neighbour, Frank.

The “Frank” in question was strolling around the front yard, contemplating the existence of frogs. “They must be very predictable and dull”, he thought to himself, as a particularly large one emitted a rather rude noise that sounded like a croak. He found them very disconcerting, but could do little about it at the present. He would speak to his mother about removing the beasts. After all, Frank was not the Lord of Hazey Park yet. But soon, soon Frank would be the owner of all three hundred acres, including the noisy pond. In the meantime, he would simply have to stay at his mother’s side, and continue being the perfect son.

As the months went by, Frank’s impatience grew. His mother, though in poor health, seemed to be stuck in a long lasting limbo between life and death. The old woman was not giving up as easily as he had hoped. He had been visiting her in Scotland ever since he heard that she had caught a cold in early autumn, his hopes high. But now the last leaves of summer were once again turning a bloody shade of red. It had been a year since Frank first came to stay with his mother, Lady Agnes, and he was starting to think that his trip had been in vain. Oh, everyone on his street would smile and clap him on the back and tell him what a good job he was doing at nursing “Poor, darling, Aggie” back to health in her time of need, but in the safety of their houses, they would put their heads together and whisper.

This whisper never reached the ears of Hazey Park, and so Agnes never thought to bolt her door at night, or to have one of her maids stay by her bed while she slept. Because she didn’t take these precautions, she was not awakened when her son’s patience had finally reached its end. And because she was not awake, she did not notice the dark figure looming over her like some common villain, a pillow poised menacingly in his hands. Unfortunately for Agnes, the pillow, which under most circumstances would not be menacing at all, (in fact, the case for this very pillow was part of a set that she had embroidered for her son when he bought his own house in London), had become a most fowl instrument in her demise.

The next morning, everyone in the house grieved, and the now orphaned Frank immediately took charge of the household’s mourning. The servants were dressed head to toe in black, every curtain was shut, and a viewing room was prepared for the body. The days went by quickly after that, and by the time a lawyer from town had been brought in to read the will, a week had passed.

The only people present for the reading were Frank, the Lawyer, and Frank’s Fiancé, Clara, who had come on the same boat as the lawyer. Mr. Greyson was his name. He was a full three heads shorter than Frank, and a good deal plumper, and was obviously an armature at his profession. He was by no means young, (to the contrary, for he had the merest wisp of silvery hair combed to the side of his otherwise bald head), but he had absolutely no tact for the circumstances. He would joke casually with his employer; as if they were at the marketplace passing the time. However, when the hour actually came to present the document, Mr. Greyson’s attitude took a more serious tone, and began thrusting papers under the witnesses’ noses, informing them where to sign. Frank found the whole ordeal frightfully boring, but did a superior job of nodding his head and looking sombre while making noises of understanding as Mr. Greyson went through all of the formalities that came with such a task as reading an important document.

But when the issue of inheritance was mentioned, Frank’s ears picked up a little, and a sparkle of genuine interest gleamed in his eye. He concealed his anticipation by strolling over to the sherry decanter and offering Clara a glass to calm her nerves.

“And I’m sure that the both of you have been anxious to hear who shall run Hazey park from now on, am I right?” asked Mr. Greyson with a small chuckle. “I’m sorry that you could not be informed before today, you see, it took us several days to track down the man described in your mother’s will, as he has no permanent residence...”

Mr. Greyson turned around at the sound of breaking glass, just in time to see Frank’s look of horror. He had dropped the decanter in his shock.

***

It appeared that Frank had a cousin, Marcus. He was 31, two years older than himself. He had been blissfully ignorant of this fact for all of his life, because his sweet, caring mother had been ashamed of him. Apparently, Agnes’ older sister, Margret, ( whom he also knew nothing about), had disgraced the family by eloping with the gardener some thirty five years ago. In the will, it stated how Agnes regretted her treatment of her nephew, and wished to make it up by giving him a property of his own. “And I know my boy Frank will not mind giving up his inheritance for family” she ended,” as he already has his own estate now.”

***

Marcus came to Hazey Park the next morning. He arrived in a carriage at 8:00, wearing tattered clothes and carrying very little luggage. The staff immediately took a shine to him, and began fawning over their new master as he told them of his lack of good fortune. His mother had died when he was 12, he had worked as a stable hand until he was old enough to write articles in the newspaper, which were few and far between. But he got by, and managed to rent a room in an apartment for the last 13 years. He considered his inheritance to be the work of an angel, (although he continuously apologized for the death in the family, as if it were his fault), and was exceedingly grateful for the chance to succeed as a real gentleman with an estate of his own. He was overjoyed when his cousin Frank offered to take him on a tour of the grounds. He was, however, less than enthusiastic when Frank Hurled showed him the pond. The root of his displeasure may have been caused by his cousin kicking him into the murky depths, (which were a full 15 feet in the center), and then forcing his head underwater until his struggles ceased. Then again, maybe he just didn’t like the frogs.

The servants were devastated to hear that their late master had tripped into the pond, and they were overwhelmed with grief when they were told how Master Marcus couldn’t swim. “Of course”, said their new Master Frank, “I pulled him out of the water as soon as I could, but he was struggling too much for me to be of any real assistance, and he managed to drown himself in a panic. If only I had been able to swim, then surely my cousin would be alive today.” Oh, everyone on his street would smile and touch his arm and tell him how he had done the best he could to help “Dear cousin Marcus” in his time of need. But in the safety of their houses, they would put their heads together, and they would whisper.

***

Frank and Clara were married within the month, and it was not long before they were expecting an addition to their family. Barely 5 weeks after they had settled at Hazey Park, Clara was quite ready to go back to London in order to visit her mother for the whole of her confinement. Frank reluctantly agreed, unhappy to leave his new “castle”. But he did as she wished, and closed up the house for the winter. He spent the next 8 months visiting clubs, settling accounts, and, (his favourite), picking out new furnishing for Hazey Park. He had also hired an entire new staff; he didn’t want his manor to be overrun by his Scottish servants. No, he needed pure British blood, like his Father’s had been before his death.

Finally, one soggy day in May, they returned to their new home in Hazey Park, but this time with a son in tow. Clara had decided to name the child Marcus, after their lost relative. However, almost as soon as the luggage was unpacked, little Marcus began to act most strangely. He cried far more often than usual, and his brow was often red with a fever. The happy parents assumed that he was just having trouble settling into his new lodgings, and wasted little time thinking about it. They allowed him to crawl about the park as soon as he was able. They found it soothed him more than any lullaby. But soon, even his outdoor activity was too much for him, and the child grew weaker. The parents weren’t especially concerned at this point, for the weather had once again started to turn cold, and the leaves were already changing their colors. Of course their son wouldn’t want t be outside. But when his sleep became more and more disturbed, and he suddenly lost all interest in eating, they called an apothecary.

“It’s salmonella” said Dr. Harris, after a full examination. “I’m sorry, but the way things have progressed, it seems very unlikely that he will survive the winter.” There was shock at first. And then severe denial. These stages were nothing, however, compared to the blind rage that followed. How could God take their son, their precious baby boy who had done nothing wrong? Was there no justice in this world?

“I’ll drop by tomorrow for some Landrum to help him sleep” the doctor said as he gathered his things. “The most you can do for now is to make him comfortable.” He paused before continuing, “I’m afraid there is no cure for salmonella to date, at least none that has advanced this far. If we had caught it a bit earlier...”he left the sentence hanging as he reached for his coat. Frank suddenly blurted out angrily, “What is salmonella? What caused this to happen?”

The doctor continued shrugging on his coat as he replied, “It’s a disease that’s transmitted by amphibians. Sometimes lizards and toads, but the worst carriers are frogs.”