doing here on his day off and he said he couldn’t keep away, winking at the twins before wandering through to the downstairs bathroom, leaving muddy footprints behind him. Mother nearly choked on her port.
MONDAY, MARCH 24
I woke to the sound of screaming. Had the house caught fire? Was Randolph stalking the landing with a gun, revealing himself to be another tormented American teenager with a chip on his shoulder and revenge in his eyes?
No. Natalia had a frog in her bed. This unfortunate state of affairs only became clear when I had dashed out of my bedroom brandishing the pepper spray I keep in my handbag for emergencies, followed by Jeffrey, sleepy-eyed, holding a baseball bat at a limp angle. The latter, at least, was superfluous.
When we reached the source of the screaming, we found Natalia, shuddering, dressed in a short shiny black nightie, pointing at her bedclothes. She was quickly joined by Lydia, dressed in an identical slip, and the two girls confided quickly in Lithuanian, clasped each other, and shrieked. I wanted Jeffrey to do somet-hing but he was still so drowsy that he simply stood therestaring at them, transfixed. After a few long moments, Natalia (or Lydia?) grabbed a coat hanger, and gingerly used it to pull back her duvet.
It was then that we saw it, a small squat amphibian, which took a grotesque leap forward and landed squarely on Natalia’s lilac-colored pillow. Having grown up in the countryside, I am not squeamish about such creatures; and yet I would rather not touch them when there are other perfectly good means of remedying the situation. I gave it a quick blast with the pepper spray. Natalia and Lydia left the room choking; the frog sat quite still, stunned. I made Jeffrey seize the moment by taking off one of his bed socks and scooping the green interloper up into it. He quickly knotted the end and stood holding his wriggling bundle when Sophie and Zac finally emerged to check out the noise.
Zac, rubbing his eyes, hair standing on end, looked truly baffled, then alarmed. Sophie, I noticed, seemed bright-eyed, with a trace of mud on each kneecap. Would she have? Could she have? I suppose her time studying the ecosystem of the Ardèche will have made her quite capable of catching the odd frog; and yet I don’t like to imagine my own daughter capable of stooping to such spite.
Once Jeffrey had taken the sock and deposited its contents under the bushes at the edge of the garden, I made everyone a cup of tea. We were a silent group, Natalia and Lydia sitting close together, wrapping their fingers around their mugs, each of them no doubt wondering how such a thing had come to pass. Sophie was the first to speak. “Someone must have put it there,” she said. Natalia and Lydia looked up as one. “Someone who knows the outdoors, who knows where to find gross things like that. Someone who knows us, and the house too.” She paused. Everyonelooked down, perplexed. “And why was Randy lurking about here yesterday? It was his day off.”
Oh, dear. Was she right, or was Randolph (I do wish she would use his full name) being framed? Either way, Natalia whispered a translation to Lydia, who promptly burst into tears. Who could blame the girl? She fled one country in despair at the sort of man who would cruelly dump her for a rich girl, only, one assumes, to find solace in a man who now appears to be the sort to smuggle amphibians into her sister’s bed. I felt I had to intervene. “But Sophie,” I said pointedly. “Why on earth would Randolph do such a thing?”
She was unfazed, and took a long sip of tea before replying: “Oh, you know what men are like. He probably thought it would be funny.”
Natalia again translated for Lydia, who listened with fresh tears running down her puffy cheeks. Then she stuck her chin out and declared something that Natalia translated back into English (of a sort) as “She says she hate men. All men are whole asses. She from now will be girl who like
MONDAY, MARCH 24
I woke to the sound of screaming. Had the house caught fire? Was Randolph stalking the landing with a gun, revealing himself to be another tormented American teenager with a chip on his shoulder and revenge in his eyes?
No. Natalia had a frog in her bed. This unfortunate state of affairs only became clear when I had dashed out of my bedroom brandishing the pepper spray I keep in my handbag for emergencies, followed by Jeffrey, sleepy-eyed, holding a baseball bat at a limp angle. The latter, at least, was superfluous.
When we reached the source of the screaming, we found Natalia, shuddering, dressed in a short shiny black nightie, pointing at her bedclothes. She was quickly joined by Lydia, dressed in an identical slip, and the two girls confided quickly in Lithuanian, clasped each other, and shrieked. I wanted Jeffrey to do somet-hing but he was still so drowsy that he simply stood therestaring at them, transfixed. After a few long moments, Natalia (or Lydia?) grabbed a coat hanger, and gingerly used it to pull back her duvet.
It was then that we saw it, a small squat amphibian, which took a grotesque leap forward and landed squarely on Natalia’s lilac-colored pillow. Having grown up in the countryside, I am not squeamish about such creatures; and yet I would rather not touch them when there are other perfectly good means of remedying the situation. I gave it a quick blast with the pepper spray. Natalia and Lydia left the room choking; the frog sat quite still, stunned. I made Jeffrey seize the moment by taking off one of his bed socks and scooping the green interloper up into it. He quickly knotted the end and stood holding his wriggling bundle when Sophie and Zac finally emerged to check out the noise.
Zac, rubbing his eyes, hair standing on end, looked truly baffled, then alarmed. Sophie, I noticed, seemed bright-eyed, with a trace of mud on each kneecap. Would she have? Could she have? I suppose her time studying the ecosystem of the Ardèche will have made her quite capable of catching the odd frog; and yet I don’t like to imagine my own daughter capable of stooping to such spite.
Once Jeffrey had taken the sock and deposited its contents under the bushes at the edge of the garden, I made everyone a cup of tea. We were a silent group, Natalia and Lydia sitting close together, wrapping their fingers around their mugs, each of them no doubt wondering how such a thing had come to pass. Sophie was the first to speak. “Someone must have put it there,” she said. Natalia and Lydia looked up as one. “Someone who knows the outdoors, who knows where to find gross things like that. Someone who knows us, and the house too.” She paused. Everyonelooked down, perplexed. “And why was Randy lurking about here yesterday? It was his day off.”
Oh, dear. Was she right, or was Randolph (I do wish she would use his full name) being framed? Either way, Natalia whispered a translation to Lydia, who promptly burst into tears. Who could blame the girl? She fled one country in despair at the sort of man who would cruelly dump her for a rich girl, only, one assumes, to find solace in a man who now appears to be the sort to smuggle amphibians into her sister’s bed. I felt I had to intervene. “But Sophie,” I said pointedly. “Why on earth would Randolph do such a thing?”
She was unfazed, and took a long sip of tea before replying: “Oh, you know what men are like. He probably thought it would be funny.”
Natalia again translated for Lydia, who listened with fresh tears running down her puffy cheeks. Then she stuck her chin out and declared something that Natalia translated back into English (of a sort) as “She says she hate men. All men are whole asses. She from now will be girl who like
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