When I was about seven, along with some of the braver boys my age, walked through our local edgelands wood. At its' farthest, darkest corner was a derelict house. Quite grand it must have been in its day, with gardens, outbuildings and a small lake. If you look hard you can still find one of the stone gateposts that would have been at the end of the drive, fallen and wrapped in brambles.
After finding the buildings too scary to enter I heard the sound of older boys at play. There were four or five who we knew. Not well but enough to go see what they were up to.
My father was a keen amateur naturalist so I had grown up watching birds, fishing, birds nesting, collecting butterflies. Some of these activities are now unacceptable but for me were all part of a greater exploration of the world. Any intervention was carried out with care. Never taking more than one egg, not disturbing your surroundings. Clumsiness precludes further study.
I had never seen airifles close up before, they were objects of dreams and desire.
Greenys pond had dozens of frogs that year. I had collected spawn earlier in the year which, with my brother had tenderly reared.
These boys, maybe 12, early pubescence had found that by inserting a straw in to the frogs anus they could inflate them. They proceeded to launch them across the pond. Being full of air prevented them from finding protection underwater in the dark belly of the water.
It is the laughter that stuck with me. That and how not one of them could present an angle on the situation to their peers to prevent the carnage.
As the doomed frogs scuttled in futile terror across the water, the boys took it in turns to shoot them and watch their spasms and watery death dances.
Our day was done. Innocence lost we walked home in silence, none of us able to articulate our misery.
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