THE BEGINNING by Elenya. First posted April 2002. This is the first story I wrote, and was the beginning of a very steep learning curve. I have tidied up some of the poor grammar and erratic POV shifts, but other than that it is as I first wrote it. I am very grateful to my beta at the time, Ariel, who gave me gentle criticism and encouragement in equal measure.
Chapter 1: PROLOGUE
Author's note: It has always seemed strange to me that Sam's three sisters were not more involved with looking after the Gaffer while Sam was away. Why was it left up to Farmer Cotton to look out for him. And why was Sam so protective about his father? Maybe the answer lies way back in the history of the family. If Bell died when Marigold was very small then Daisy and May would have been under 10. Very young when hobbits are not considered grown until they are 33. So what would have happened to them? How would Ham have coped with the demands of such a young family? It is likely that a relative would have come to the rescue. But maybe Sam stayed with Ham, or more likely, went back to him. Living and working together, it's no wonder that Sam would take such a proprietary attitude to 'his gaffer'.
May sat on the edge of Sam’s bed and looked down at the sleeping figure. The small hobbitling’s brown curls spread over the pillow, and his thumb was wedged firmly in his mouth. In his sleep, he suckled against it, seeking the comfort it offered. His free hand was wrapped tightly around hers. His aunt gently stroked his forehead, and lifted the corner of her apron to wipe away the tears streaking his face. Carefully, she eased her hand from his grasp. Blowing out the main candle, she left a night light burning in the bracket on the wall. ‘Sleep tight, little one,’ she whispered.
In the kitchen, her cousin Rowen was still sitting at the neatly scrubbed table; the two women had been discussing the Gamgee family when Sam’s distressed cries had interrupted them.
‘Nightmare,’ said May, simply. ‘He gets them every night, but he won’t say what about. I really don’t know what to do for the best.’
Rowen shook her head. ‘Seems to me that little mite misses Bell, and no wonder, being so young an’ all. Marigold is too young to grieve for long, I’m thinking. How are Daisy and May settling in?’
‘They have their sad moments, and we have a hug and a cuddle, but they’re good girls: they play together and they like to trot around after me. It’s like having my Lily back at home again. They’re always pleased to see Ham when he comes up of an evening, but Sam...’ May got up and put another log on the range, riddling the ash through with the poker so that the fire blazed up. The bright light reflected off the copper pots and pans hanging on the rack.
‘Yes? Sam?’ prompted Rowen.
‘Well, Sam mostly sits on the window seat and looks out of the window all day long. He’s found that if he leans well forward he can see Bagshot Row. Did I tell you, I thought I’d lost him last week? He’d gone home and was sitting in the garden. I was that worried until Mrs Bracegirdle came and asked me if I knew he was there.’
‘I think it’s a real tragedy!’ exclaimed Rowen, but she had said this so often during the evening that May didn’t bother to reply. May had loved Bell as a sister, the sister she’d always wanted, and in the weeks since Bell’s untimely death, May had often found herself in tears.
In addition to her grief for Bell, she was also worried about her brother. It was plain from the outset Ham was not coping well with the loss of his beloved wife. Daisy and May-lass were too young to run the household, and May saw Ham getting more and more depressed as he tried to keep a home going. Mr. Baggins had been kindness itself, giving Ham compassionate leave, but May saw that wasn’t really helping. Poor Ham was out of his depth in a sea of grief and would be much better off back at work.
With the blessing of her husband, Teemo, May had offered the young Gamgees a home; an offer gratefully accepted by her brother. Ham went back to work at Bag End, and each evening he came walking up the road to his sister’s house for a bite of supper and time with his family.
Now, sitting and talking things over with Rowen, May wondered aloud if she had done the right thing. Every evening she noticed Ham was looking more wan, and was becoming more withdrawn, as though he was in a little world of his own: a dismal grey world from which all light had gone. Meanwhile Sam was constantly on the look out for his father; sitting and staring out of the window, or sometimes swinging on the garden gate, but never playing.
‘And when he catches sight of his dada he’s off like a hare, and into Hams arms,’ explained May. ‘Most evenings our Ham arrives with Sam riding piggyback, and once Ham gets a chance to sit down, Sam’s there, all ready to climb on his lap.’ May dwelt on the scene in her mind: Ham smiling down at his small son, the greyness lifting from his face for a little, so that he looked more like his old self. She sighed heavily again.
‘And when Ham leaves of an evening, well you should hear Sam cry as though his heart was breaking. I thought it would be getting better by now, but it’s not. It’s getting worse. And now these nightmares have started!’
She didn’t like to say so, but she was pinning her hopes on her cousin. Rowen could always be trusted to see the way out of difficulties, when everyone else saw only thorny tangles. May had a lot of faith in her cousin’s clear sight and downright common sense.
Slowly, and with many diversions, May told her tale.
‘Mr. Baggins came to see you?’ exclaimed Row, interupting her after a while.
‘Yes, soon after the little ones moved up here,’ answered May, reaching for the teapot and pouring more tea for her cousin. ‘He came to see if there was anything he could do to help. Very nicely spoken he was. I don’t care what others say about him being so queer an’ all; if you want my opinion, he’s a real gentle Hobbit.’
‘Is there any way he might be able to help you now? Let Sam go up to the garden with Ham? Anything like that?’
May looked at Rowen almost speechless with admiration, and then rushed round the table to hug her, making Rowen spill tea down herself.
‘Rowen! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again! You’re a marvel!’
Rowen mopped her skirt with an old towel that May hastily passed her. ‘How will you persuade Ham?’ she asked. ‘You know how stubborn he can be. If you want my advice you’ll make him think it’s his idea!’
For the next few days, May kept a close eye out for Mr. Baggins. She had a lot of respect for her brother’s employer; he always treated her brother well, and she felt that was by far the most important indicator of his character and worth. If he wanted to gad about and talk about elves and dragons and all, well what of it! There was no harm in it, that she could see.
When, at last, he came strolling by her smial, she hurried out to intercept him.
‘Mr. Baggins!’ she called breathlessly as she got nearer. He was walking with that quick stride of his, and she had to almost run to catch up with him. Bilbo turned at her call, and stopped to wait for her.
‘Mrs. Brockhouse! What can I do for you? Is there a problem?’
‘Well, yes, sir, there is, in a manner of speaking,’ May replied, trying to catch her breath and very aware of how hot and bothered she must look. ‘I’m worried about Ham’s young lad.’
‘What! Samwise? He’s not ill is he?’ Bilbo looked genuinely concerned.
‘No, sir, not strictly speaking ill. But he’s not doing, if you take my meaning, and Ham seems very down to me, sir. I’m thinking it might do them both a power of good to be back together.’
‘And how might I help? What does Hamfast say about it?’ asked Bilbo, looking thoughtful.
‘Ham is... well, Ham can be quite a stubborn body when he wants, Mr. Baggins, as I expect you’ve found, begging your pardon, Sir.’
Bilbo burst out laughing, but didn’t make any comment, and May continued rather hesitantly. ‘If I just ask him to take Sam back to Bagshot Row, he’ll be making all sorts of difficulties ’bout not being able to look after the lad, so I thought... I wondered, sir, well firstly if Sam did go back to Ham whether you would allow Ham to bring the lad up to the garden.’
‘I think that could be arranged, Mrs Brockhouse. But I would have to reconsider if it meant he was making mischief, or stopping Ham working. But from what I’ve seen of him so far he seems a helpful little fellow.’
‘Oh, yes, sir! He is that, sir. Thank you kindly!’
‘But you said firstly, is there more?’
‘Well, sir, it’s just... could you see your way to mentioning to Ham that you’d heard rumours Sam wasn’t happy, sir, and say and that if he wanted to bring Sam up to the garden with him, that you’re agreeable. I think, if it was presented to Ham like that, he would think it over, and then come and tell me that he’d heard Sam wasn’t happy, and he’d want to know what were the rights of it, and that he’d decided Sam should come up to the garden with him!’
Bilbo looked rather breathless himself as he listened to May, but he seemed to understand the gist of what she was saying.‘And if you told him, Mrs. Brockhouse...?’
‘Oh! He’d think I was interfering, and he’d be angry that I’d been to see you, sir! And like as not, he wouldn’t do nothing about it, no how.’
Bilbo considered this. ‘Well I think I could stoop to that little subterfuge,’ he said at last.
‘Thank you, sir! Thank you kindly. I’m sure you won’t regret it!’ May dropped a curtsy and headed home, well satisfied with the meeting.
Bilbo must have spoken to Ham as soon as he returned to Bag End, because her brother didn’t just sit down in his usual withdrawn way when he came up that evening, but really looked at Sam, and then at May.
‘The boy’s losing weight, May,’ he said as Sam climbed onto his lap to put his arms around his neck and hug him.
‘He’s not eating as well as I would like, but he’ll settle, I’m sure. Just give him time, Ham!’
Ham humphed, but said no more. Daisy and little-May lay the table while Marigold played with some wooden blocks in the corner. Soon supper was ready, and May noticed Ham watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as Sam ate a Marigold sized portion, and then gave up, pushing his food around his plate.
‘Sam? Hm.... would you like to help me a bit up in the garden tomorrow?’ asked Ham, and May smiled at the gruffness that belied what her brother felt about his smallest son.
Sam looked up eagerly, wonder and hope shining in his brown eyes. ‘Can I, Dada? Can I really?’
‘What about Mr Baggins? Won’t he mind?’ asked May, keeping a straight face with great difficulty, especially as her husband was winking at her from behind her brother’s back.
‘No, no! Stop your worriting! I’ve asked him already!’ answered Ham. ‘He’d heard how Sam weren’t in the best of spirits, and he asked me if there were anything he could do to help, and we talked round it. It came to me to have the lad up to the garden; I’m sure there’s things he can do as would help me, and he’s good at playing quiet-like on his own. Mr Baggins thought about it for a while, but he’s given his say so, and if Sam promises to behave, he can come.’
Sam jumped up up from his seat quite unable to contain his excitement, and stood next to Ham jumping from foot to foot.
‘Can I go tomorrow, Dada? Can I? Can I?’ he pleaded.
‘I don’t see why not,’ answered Ham, and May noted how his face had some colour and how his eyes shone nearly as much as Sam’s.
She was so pleased with herself, and so impressed with Bilbo’s neat handling of her request, that she chuckled out loud.
‘What are you laughing about, lass!’ demanded Ham, one hand resting on his son’s curly head as he looked up at his sister.
‘I was just thinking it’s a wonderful idea, Ham. I wish I’d thought of it.’ And May carried the dirty dishes through to the sink, still smiling.
Chapter 2: First meeting
Sam wiggled his toes in the mud and watched his father work in the large garden. His very own small and brightly painted wheelbarrow - a present from his big brother, Hamson - lay on its side next to him. Sam adored his big tweenage brothers, Ham and Hal; they towered over him, and to his eyes, they seemed grown up. Ham was apprenticed to Uncle Andy, the Roper, at Tighfield, while Hal helped Grandfather Goodchild on his farm in the North Farthing. On their rare visits home they threw Sam up into the air, found sweets for him in their pockets, and gave him piggyback rides.
Some time had passed since Sam first came to the garden, but he still loved to spend most of his days there. In the beginning, he could just remember how they’d continued to eat supper at Aunt May’s, but now they managed well enough on their own at Bagshot Row. Sam had even overheard Aunt May telling Mrs. Bracegirdle what a great help he was to his father, and how his father couldn’t manage without him. His little heart had swelled with pride.
Today, Sam had been given the task of collecting up all the stones that were uncovered as his father dug over a new vegetable bed, and carting them away, a few at a time, in his little barrow. Now he was taking a well earned rest, and enjoying the feeling of the mud between his toes.
The gate at the end of the garden banged shut, making Sam jump, followed by the sound of laughter. Sam looked up quickly and saw old Mr. Bilbo coming up the garden path, followed by a young hobbit nearly as tall as his brothers. They both had packs on their backs and staves in their hands.
Bilbo smiled when he caught sight of Samwise, and turned towards him. The Gaffer saw them and straightened up from his work. ‘Nice to see you back from foreign parts, Mr. Bilbo, sir,’ he said. Samwise saw the hobbit at Bilbo’s side stiffened slightly, but his da didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you ‘bout that there new border you wants making under the window.’ Gaffer waved a hand towards the window set in a grassy bank, overlooking the garden.
‘All in good time, Master Hamfast. All in good time.’ said Bilbo. He drew his young companion forward. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Frodo, my poor cousin Drogo’s lad. Frodo, meet Hamfast Gamgee, he works marvels in the garden here. Don’t mind him talking about foreign parts, either; Master Hamfast thinks anyone who doesn’t live in Hobbiton is a foreigner.’
‘I’d have known you for a Baggins anywhere, Mr. Frodo,’ said the Gaffer looking Frodo up and down. ‘I remember your da when he were your age. It’s nice to be meeting you at long last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘And this is our budding gardener, young Master Samwise,’ said Bilbo. ‘Sam, I’d like you to meet my cousin Frodo. He’s come to stay for a few days.’
Sam went bright red and hid behind his father, but Frodo squatted down and smiled at the small hobbit.
‘Hello Sam, is that your wheelbarrow?’ he asked, and his voice was kind.
Somehow a stranger down at his level didn’t seem so alarming, and Sam plucked up his courage. ‘Yes,’ he whispered in reply.
Gaffer cleared his throat in a way Sam knew well. He glanced up at his father, who raised his eyebrows. Sam tried again, but his voice still came out as a whisper. ‘Yes, Mr. Frodo.’ He was embarrassed by his shyness, and hid his head behind his dada’s leg.
Bilbo laughed again. ‘Come on up to the house, Frodo, my lad, and make yourself at home. I expect you’re looking forward to sleeping in a decent bed again!’
Frodo stood up and waved goodbye to Sam. ‘What a shy lad,’ he said as he followed Bilbo towards Bag End.
‘Not everywhere’s like Brandy Hall you know, Frodo. Sam doesn’t get to meet many people. His mum died a few years ago. Bell was a fine lass, and a great loss to the family. I let young Sam play in the garden here, and he’s no trouble. I think Master Hamfast hopes Sam will follow in his footsteps.’
Meanwhile, in the garden, the Gaffer was giving Sam a lecture. The lesson sank in. Sam knew he must always say “Mr. Bilbo, sir” - he’d been told that when he was first allowed to come to the garden - and now it seemed the new hobbit must always be called “Mr. Frodo”.
* * *
The next morning, Bilbo went in search of Master Hamfast, and found him digging up the last of his famous taters in the kitchen garden.
‘Good morning, Mr. Bilbo, sir,’ said the Gaffer, stopping his work and leaning on his fork. ‘So that’s young Mr. Frodo that you never stop talking about. A nice looking lad. You wasn’t gone over Buckland way as long as usual, sir, if I may say so. It’s nice to have you back where you belong.’
Bilbo laughed. ‘You know I mainly go to keep an eye on Frodo - although I can’t deny I enjoy Rory Brandybuck’s hospitality - but I’m always glad to get home. There’s nowhere to sit and be quiet at Brandy Hall, nowhere smoke a pipe in peace and think. I often go walking when I’m there just to get away from all the bustle. Frodo started coming with me last year. He loves listening to my stories, you know.’ Bilbo winked at the Gaffer. ‘So I suggested he might like a longer tramp across the Shire, to stay with me here.’
For a while, they discussed the new herbaceous border to be dug and planted under the study window, and then Bilbo went back up to Bag-End to get breakfast ready for himself and Frodo.
* * *
Meanwhile, Frodo woke and lay listening to the unexpected quiet. He was used to doors banging and voices calling early in the morning as Brandy Hall woke up. He loved his relations there, but he often longed for more space to himself - somewhere to go and let his imagination roam freely over Middle-earth and beyond. He seemed to be the only one interested in Bilbo’s adventures and stories. He’d always eagerly awaited the old hobbit's visits, and they were over too soon. When Bilbo suggested that he actually come to stay at Bag-End, he had jumped at the chance.
He dressed quickly and went in search of Bilbo and breakfast. He hadn’t quite worked out his way around Bilbo’s rambling smial, but his hobbit sense lead him straight to the smell of mushrooms. He found Bilbo busy with a frying pan in the large kitchen. Frodo smiled happily at the thought of mushrooms for breakfast, and set the table as Bilbo directed him.
‘After we’ve eaten, my lad, I’ve things to do that I can’t put off,’ said Bilbo. ‘I’m hoping you can amuse yourself for a while. Another day, I thought we might walk to Michel Delving to visit the mathom house and stop over at the White Horse. I’d like to show you my mithril coat.’
Frodo looked at Bilbo in delight, his eyes shining. ‘I’d love that, Bilbo! Do you know, when we arrived, I almost expected to see the dents and scratches that Gandalf and the dwarves left on your front door.’ He looked down, feeling suddenly foolish; Bilbo’s adventures had been nearly fifty years ago.
‘You know, every time I return from Buckland, I’m just glad not to find Otho and Lobelia in residence, and all my goods being auctioned off!’ Bilbo confided, and Frodo laughed.
While Bilbo settled in his study with a backlog of letters, Frodo went into the garden and explored. He had to admit that although he enjoyed the quiet, he did miss his little shadow. His small cousin Merry loved to trot at his heels, and Frodo hadn’t realised how much he would miss the little hobbit-lad. He was always having to pick him up when he had fallen over, or explain to Esmerelda how her son had come to get so dirty again.
Suddenly, just as if Frodo had conjured Merry into the garden by thinking about him, familiar wails broke the silence. Frodo turned in surprise, and followed the sound, curious as to who he should find. Round the corner, he came upon a small hobbit-lad sitting on the ground crying; blood ran down one chubby brown knee. Frodo crouched down to put his arm around the sobbing figure.
‘Hello Sam,’ he said, ‘can you stand up? We’d better get your knee cleaned up for you. Was it this stone?’ Frodo picked up a flint lying by the path and threw it straight as an arrow towards a watering can some distance away; there was a satisfying ‘donk’ as it hit the metal can. Sam stopped crying in admiration.
‘Come on, lad, up you get. I’m Frodo, do you remember, we met last night.’
Sam stared at him solemnly for a moment. ‘Mr. Frodo!’ he said.
‘Just “Frodo” is fine,’ Frodo smiled.
Sam stared at him again. ‘Mr. Frodo!’ he insisted, but this time he smiled back, his tears drying on his face as Frodo pulled him up and helped him to the kitchen.
‘Have you heard the story of the three trolls?’ Frodo asked as he poured some warm water from the kettle and lifted Sam onto the edge of the table. He was well practised in the use of distraction; he had learnt the trick when dealing with Merry’s frequent cuts and bruises. As he cleaned Sam’s knee, he began telling the story of Tom, Bill and Bert, arguing over the best way to cook thirteen dwarves. The story outlasted the knee cleaning. Frodo lifted Sam down, and together they went back into the garden. As they left the house, Frodo felt a small hand grasp his, and so they went hand in hand. Just as the story finished, the Gaffer appeared looking hot and bothered.
‘Good morning, Mr. Frodo, I hope my lad’s not being a nuisance to you. Where did you find him, now? I’ve been looking for him all over!’
‘I’m so sorry, Master Hamfast,’ said Frodo, hurriedly. ‘He fell over and hurt his knee, so I cleaned him up, and we’ve been enjoying a story. I should have thought that you would be worried.’
The Gaffer smiled down at the two boys, the tall and the small standing so close together. ‘Well, now, that’s handsomely said, Mr. Frodo. I were worriting about the lad, to tell the truth, but all's well as ends well, and I can see he’s been in good hands. Now Sam, you come along an’ help me, and mine your manners, and say thank you to Mr. Frodo.’
Sam, still gripping tight to his new friend’s hand, looked up. ‘Mr. Frodo!’ he said with satisfaction.
Chapter 3: The Great Tale
For the rest of Frodo’s visit to Bag End, he only had to step into the Garden, and Sam would appear as if by magic to trot at his heels.
On the second day, the Gaffer came striding up to remove Sam. ‘I’m sorry if my lad’s being a nuisance, Mr. Frodo,’ he said as he bent over to pick up Sam. ‘You didn’t ought to have started telling him stories. He do loves stories, but he don’t often get to hear one these days.’ The Gaffer sighed. His Bell had been a great one for stories. Sensible Hobbit ones, mind you. None o’ this disappearing off nonsense, fighting dragons and coming back with sacks of gold. Unsettling, that’s what he called those sort of stories. Mostly made up anyway, he reckoned, although the gold had been real enough: he’d seen that with his own eyes. But look at the trouble Mr. Bilbo had with the sale going on when he got back and all, and the Sackville-Bagginses nearly taking over Bag End.
‘I don’t mind, really I don’t,’ said Frodo. ‘I’d love to tell Sam another story - if it’s all right with you, Master Hamfast,’ he added quickly.
‘Well now, if you really means that, then I’m going to suggest as how Sam must ask you if you can spare the time; and iffen you are willing to tell him a story, then well and good, but if not,’ and here the Gaffer looked very hard at Sam, ‘then he must leave you alone, and take “no” for an answer, and not go giving you no cheek.’
Sam hopped from foot to foot in excitement. ‘Can you spare the time, Mr. Frodo. Can you? Please?’ Sam looked up at Frodo with his brown eyes appealing to Frodo to say “yes”.
‘I’d be delighted to tell you a story, Sam,’ replied Frodo, trying to keep a straight face as Sam stopped hopping, and started jumping up and down on the spot.
‘Humph,’ said the Gaffer gruffly. ‘Well, just remember young Sam-me-lad, to thank Mr. Frodo and don’t be a nuisance!’ He turned to Frodo. ‘And just in case he forgets his manners, I’ll thank ‘ee kindly now, Mr. Frodo.’
As soon as Gaffer had gone, Sam pulled Frodo’s hand. ‘Would you like to see my special place, Mr. Frodo?’ he asked. Frodo nodded, and Sam dragged him by the hand into the shrubbery. Together they crawled into a green cave made by overhanging branches. Sam offered Frodo a windfall apple he had collected that morning, and they sat cross-legged on the ground.
‘How about a story about dragons, Sam?’
Sam nodded with shining eyes, and Frodo began. ‘Long times past, there was a dragon who lived all alone in the Heart of the Lonely Mountain, greedily hoarding gold and jewels beyond imagination...’
As the story unfolded, Frodo found Sam took a more active role. ‘But why couldn’t the dwarves kill Smaug, Mr. Frodo?’ ‘Mr. Bilbo always says “Never Laugh at Live Dragons.”’ ‘What did they do then, Mr. Frodo?’ The last was when Frodo had stopped talking to eat some of his apple, leaving the dwarves and Bilbo in a tight corner on the mountain side. Sam might be shy of strangers, but got over his shyness very quickly, and Frodo enjoyed telling the story to such an enthusiastic and attentive audience.
Frodo stayed at Bag End for four more weeks, and then went back to Brandy Hall with the carrier in his pony and cart. Before he went, he promised a tearful Sam that he would be back, probably in the spring when the weather improved. To a small Hobbit of few years, that seemed like forever. However, spring came at last, and found Frodo walking across the Shire on his own to visit his cousin Bilbo again. While most of Frodo’s thoughts were on Bilbo and the comforts of Bag End, he had to admit he was also looking forward to seeing Sam, and trying out some new stories he had made up for Merry.
Bilbo had given Frodo a key to Bag End, and as Frodo came wearily up the Hill, with his camping gear weighing him down, he decided to let himself in quietly by the front door, change into some clean clothes, and let Bilbo find him, sitting at his ease as though he’d never been away. As he slipped into the hall, he heard voices in the kitchen, and curiosity overcame his mischievous nature. He turned the handle and swung the door back. Bilbo was sitting in a big comfy chair at one end of the kitchen table, while Sam was sitting on a stool, with a cushion to bring him up to table height. There were two cries of delight as both hobbits saw Frodo standing in the doorway; Bilbo was the first to reach him and hugged him warmly. Sam struggled off his high seat, scattering the cushions, and rushed over to add his welcome.
After Sam had gone, Bilbo and Frodo sat at the table drinking tea and exchanging news. ‘What was Sam doing here?’ asked Frodo. As far as he knew, the only time Sam had ever been inside Bag End was when he’d had his knee cleaned up.
‘All your fault, Frodo my lad!’ said Bilbo, handing him a plate of biscuits. ‘You started Sam on stories about dragons and trolls. After you’d gone, he looked so sad that I offered to tell him a story. He loves hearing about Elves, and I’ve started teaching him to write his name. I asked Master Hamfast’s permission first of course. “Elves and Dragons!” he said to me, “Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and him”. “Well, Master Hamfast, it’s possible to have both, I believe,” I said to him, and with Sam standing there, pleading with his eyes as well, we won the day. Sam runs in and out of Bag End all the time now.’
Frodo laughed; Bilbo did the Gaffer’s voice very well, and he was also beginning to suspect that Sam was good at getting his own way.
* * *
Frodo’s visits continued twice yearly over the next three years. He spent most of his time out and about with Bilbo, but always gave Sam some story time, and sometimes Bilbo would tell a story to both of them. He had a great wealth of stories from ages past that he had acquired in Rivendell going both There and Back again. During this time Frodo grew a little, but Sam changed and grew into a sturdy nine year old Hobbit lad, still eager for stories, but now being given more to do in the garden. He still ran in and out of Bag End when he could, but always took heed of the Gaffer’s warnings regarding ‘cheek’ and ‘being a nuisance’ and was very respectful to both his heroes: Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo.
The Gaffer was resigned to Sam’s passion for Elves and Dragons, finding that work still got done, and that Sam (usually) only needed asking once to get on with the task in hand. Moreover, against all expectations, the cabbages and potatoes survived. He still shook his head and constantly warned Sam against “getting mixed up with his betters,” but Sam let the Gaffers grumbling run off him like water off a duck’s back.
Late summer blew Frodo into Bag End again. He had been lucky to arrive in the dry because soon afterwards the rain started, and continued for several days. The Gaffer found jobs for Sam in the potting shed, but eventually there was nothing more to do until the weather cleared. Sam raced up to the house, shaking the water from his curly hair as he stood steaming in the warm kitchen. He hung his coat up behind the door on his special low peg - a reminder that Bag End had not always been a bachelor residence - and dried his feet carefully before heading into the long corridor. He knocked on the study door, the most likely place to find Mr. Bilbo on a wet morning.
‘Come in!’ called Bilbo, and Sam stuck his head round the door. Bilbo was sitting at his desk with a pile of papers scattered before him.
‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, sir’ said Sam, ‘but I was wondering if you was busy, sir.’
‘And begging yours, Sam, I guess you mean: can you come in for a story,’ laughed Bilbo at the sight of Sam’s hopeful face. ‘Why don’t you see if Frodo is free, and if he is, I’ll tell you both a story. If he’s busy, then you can come and show me how you’re getting on with your writing. I’m not sure where he is.’
Sam’s face broke into a wide smile, and he rushed down the corridor calling, ‘Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo!’
‘In here, Sam!’ came Frodo’s voice from the sitting room.
When Sam had repeated the message, Frodo jumped up with delight and clapped Sam on the back.
‘Well done, Sam,’ he said. ‘I was at a loose end, but I didn’t want to disturb Bilbo. Come on.’
Sam hung back, looking crestfallen. ‘Did I disturb Mr. Bilbo?’ he asked. ‘My da said I wasn’t to go disturbing him.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Sam!’ Frodo grabbed him by the hand. ‘Bilbo would have told you to go away if he was really busy. Come on!’
In the study, Bilbo had already tidied his papers to one side. Despite the rain, the window was open; there was little wind, and it was warm and humid. The flowers outside hung their heads with the weight of water, and rain dripped steadily past the window frame.
Bilbo lit his pipe and settled into a comfy chair. Frodo sat on the footstool, and Sam sat cross-legged on the floor. Looking at their eager expectant faces, Bilbo decided the time was right to tell Frodo one of the greatest stories there was. The story of Beren and Lúthien. He often simplified the old elven stories if he was just speaking to Sam, but when both lads were present, he told the stories in full for Frodo’s benefit, leaving Sam to follow as he could. When he began the story, he started just as he had heard it told in Rivendell:
“Among the tales of Sorrow and of Ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien”
As the story unfolded Frodo sat as one in a trance, eyes fixed on Bilbo, mouth slightly open. Bilbo’s gaze strayed to Sam, and for the most part he, too, was listening intently. Sometimes his attention wandered, and he would doodle on the floor with his finger, but then the story would catch his attention again. When that happened, his head jerked up, a light kindling in his eye.
They heard of treachery and revenge, and great suffering; of a mortal heart being smote by great beauty, and the binding love between mortal man and immortal elf. They listened as Lúthien’s father, Thingol, gave Beren - whom he despised, being mortal - the impossible task of bringing him a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown in Thangorodrim, the Mountains of Tyranny. In this way, Thingol thought that he would accomplish Beren’s death without breaking his oath to Lúthien that he would neither harm nor imprison Beren. Bilbo told how Beren was aided by the great elf king, Finrod Felagund, and how Finrod battled with Sauron with songs of power, but was overcome and thrown with Beren into a pit. Their companions perished one by one, taken by a werewolf, yet when the werewolf came for Beren, Finrod sacrificed his life to save the man, as Beren’s father had saved Finrod’s.
Frodo and Sam listened enthralled, as Lúthien - escaping from her father with an enchanted cloak woven from her own hair, and coming to Beren’s rescue - was tricked by the sons of Fëanor, only to be rescued by Huan, the great wolf hound from Valinor. Riding on Huan’s back, Lúthien came to Sauron’s fortress and sang a song of power that no walls of stone could hinder. Sauron sent wolves against her, but Huan slayed them all, until finally Sauron took on a wolf shape, but he could not master Huan.
“But no wizardry, nor spell, neither fang nor venom, nor devil’s art nor beast-strength could overthrow Huan of Valinor; and he took his foe by the throat and pinned him down. Then Sauron shifted shape, from wolf to serpent, and from monster to his own accustomed form; but he could not elude the grip of Huan without forsaking his body utterly.”
Bilbo glanced at Sam and saw that the small hobbit was transfixed, eyes bright and mouth open. He continued the tale, telling how Beren and Lúthien escaped, but more treachery befell them at the hands of the sons of Feanor. Beren was wounded with an arrow as he threw himself in front of Lúthien to protect her.
After Lúthien had healed him, they journeyed together to Morgoth’s fortress of Angband, guarded by the terrible wolf Carcharoth, the Red Maw. Here, Lúthien cast a spell of sleep upon Carcharoth, and stood before Morgoth, and offered to sing for him, while Beren crept in wolf’s form beneath the throne. Morgoth, in his pride, left Lúthien free for a moment, but she enchanted him with her song so that he fell asleep, and his crown rolled from his head.
Then came forth Beren, with a knife taken from the sons of Feanor, and cut a Silmaril from the crown. He and Lúthien fled together, but Carcharoth had awoken from his sleep, and took Beren’s hand that held the Silmaril in his great, venomous jaws. He bit off the hand at the wrist and swallowed it, to be driven mad by the fire that burned within him. Lúthien drew forth the poison from Beren’s wound, and they were rescued from the wrath of Morgoth by the Eagles, for all beasts and birds loved Beren.
There wasn’t a sound in the room, and Bilbo sucked on his pipe, enjoying his spellbound audience. He cleared his throat and continued, telling them how Beren came before Thingol claiming Lúthien as his own.
“And Thingol answered: “What of your quest, and of your vow?”
But Beren said “It is fulfilled. Even now a Silmaril is in my hand.”
Then Thingol said: “Show it to me!”
And Beren put forth his left hand, slowly opening its fingers; but it was empty. Then he held up his right arm.”
Frodo gasped as he realised the significance. Beren had fulfilled his vow, the Silmaril was in his hand - but the hand was in Carcharoth!
And so the story drew towards its close. They heard how Carcharoth was slain, but how he was the death of Beren and Huan, as well, and how Lúthien begged Beren to wait for her in the Halls of Mandos, until fading away with grief she joined him there. By the intervention of Manwë, they returned again to the living, Lúthien having chosen to become mortal for Beren’s sake.
“This Doom she chose, forsaking the Blessed Realm, and putting aside all claim to kinship with those that dwell there; that thus whatever griefs might lie in wait, the fates of Beren and Lúthien might be joined, and their paths lead together beyond the confines of the world”
Bilbo finished speaking, and the silence that filled the room was the best praise any storyteller could wish for. Slowly Frodo and Sam came out from under the spell, and Frodo sighed, then slowly stood up and stretched. He held out his hand to help Sam to his feet.
Sam turned to Bilbo, still looking a little glazed and wrapped up in the story. “Thank you, Mr. Bilbo, sir,” he whispered.
Authors note: all passages in italics within the story of Lúthien and Beren are direct quotes from the Silmarillion. I particularly wanted Bilbo to tell them this story because of the discussion about stories, and Sam’s words, on the Stairs of Cirith Ungol, when he realises that Frodo is carrying some of the light of the Silmaril in his star-glass. “Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales ever end?”
It has since been pointed out, quite rightly, that after the Ring has gone into the fire, Sam says: “What a tale we have been in, Mr. Frodo, haven’t we? ...I wish I could hear it told! Do you think they’ll say: Now comes the story of Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom? And then everyone will hush, like we did, when in Rivendell they told us the tale of Beren One-hand and the Great Jewel...”
I don’t think this prevents Sam from already having heard it from Bilbo. Indeed he may have forgotten it himself, until he realised how familiar the story was as he sat listening in the Hall of Fire. Whether he remembered or not, it was in Rivendell he first heard the title “Beren One-Hand and the Great Jewel,” but it was in Bag End he first heard the tale.
Chapter 4: The Decision
Bilbo felt drained after the telling of the great story. He hadn’t actually meant to tell the whole thing in one go, but his rapt audience had been hard to resist, and he was delighted that Sam had appreciated it as much as Frodo.
Just as Sam finished thanking him, a gruff voice coming from the garden made them all jump. A figure stooped at the open window, rain dripping from his hat. ‘Well told!’ he said. ‘Now could someone let me in, or must I stand out here all night as well?’
Bilbo leapt to his feet. ‘Gandalf!’ he cried with delight, ‘I’ll let you in at once!’ He rushed to open the door, followed more slowly by Frodo and Sam.
As Gandalf entered, taking off his wet hat, he seemed to take up the whole hallway. Bilbo embraced his old friend with joy, but at the sight of the tall figure - taller than he had ever imagined possible - Sam took two steps backwards, and then turned and bolted for the kitchen.
‘As unexpected as ever, but always welcome! Why didn’t you knock?’ laughed Bilbo.
‘Knock! Knock? I should think they heard me knocking in Michel Delving!’ answered Gandalf rather shortly. ‘So I came round by the garden to rap on the window. When I heard your story, I hadn’t the heart to interrupt.’
‘But you are soaked, take off your cloak!’ exclaimed Bilbo. Meanwhile, Frodo stood shyly by. Like Sam, he was overawed by the size of the wizard. He had never seen any men, and although Bilbo had said Gandalf was short compared to many, he seemed like a giant to Frodo. Moreover, he looked so fierce, that Frodo was tempted to follow Sam. He had to remind himself that this was Gandalf, who wound in and out of Bilbo’s stories. He was safe, wasn’t he? But safe didn’t seem to describe Gandalf in the flesh.
Before he could edge away, Bilbo pulled him forward to introduce him, and Frodo found his eyes held by a penetrating gaze under thick bushy eyebrows. He shivered as though pierced by a cold wind, but the next moment Gandalf smiled down at him, and Frodo felt a rush of affection for the old wizard, once again remembering all Bilbo’s stories about his adventures. He felt honoured when Gandalf stooped to embrace him, as well.
* * *
Much later, Bilbo and Gandalf sat alone together smoking Old Toby and playing the smoke ring game that Bilbo had first watched Thorin play with Gandalf in the very same room all those years ago. A collection of green smoke rings hovered over Gandalf’s head to show that, as always, he was winning. They’d enjoyed a fine supper and drunk a bottle of Old Winyards, and were now relaxing in front of a fire scented with apple wood. After a warm, rainy day, the sky had cleared and the evening was chilly.
‘Frodo looks very like his father,’ said Gandalf, breaking the silence.
‘Looks, yes,’ replied Bilbo quickly, ‘but that’s where any resemblance ends!’
‘I rather guessed that,’ laughed Gandalf. ‘Drogo was a worthy Hobbit “decent and respectable “ I believe! But not one you cared to spend much time with as I remember. What was Frodo’s mother like?’
‘I always thought Drogo and Primula suited each other.’ answered Bilbo. ‘She was a rather silly girl. You wouldn’t have thought she was the daughter of my aunt Mirabella.’
‘Now Mirabella I remember,’ said Gandalf. ‘She was very like your mother, Belladonna, as I recall. Both very Tookish, if I may say so. And what about Frodo?’
‘After Drogo and Primula died, I felt it my duty to keep an eye on him rattling around in Brandy Hall. Posco and Porto are his only other Baggins relations and they took no interest in him whatsoever. I used to visit him there regularly, and I soon came to really love him, you know.’ Bilbo paused thoughtfully. ‘He has an almost Elvish air, if that is possible for a hobbit. I think him the best hobbit in or out of the Shire, and I’m never happier than when he comes to stay and we tramp the countryside together.’
Gandalf quietly watched Bilbo as he sat musing, staring into the depths of the glowing logs. He privately thought that Frodo reminded him very much of Bilbo. ‘So when are you going to adopt him?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Bilbo looked up quickly and met Gandalf’s eyes. ‘How did you know I was thinking of doing that?’ he asked in astonishment.
‘It seems the obvious solution - I know your views on the Sackville-Baggins family!’
Bilbo shuddered. ‘Odious Otho in my beautiful Bag End! But I don’t know if Frodo is ready to come and live here permanently, or would even want to be my heir.’
‘I think you should ask him and see what he thinks,’ Gandalf said, and changed the subject. ‘By the way, who was that young hobbit that rushed away as though Smaug were after him?’
Bilbo’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘That was Samwise, Hamfast Gamgee’s son. He may be small, but he’s already started learning gardening from the Gaffer. When the Gaffer retires, Sam will no doubt be old enough to take over. He adores Frodo - follows him everywhere when the Gaffer allows it - and loves to listen to his stories.’ Bilbo suddenly laughed, ‘You know, I’ve just realised, Sam may well be Frodo’s gardener one day.’
There was no response from Gandalf. He had a far away look as though he was gazing down the years to come.
‘Gandalf?’
Gandalf stirred and laughed back. ‘But first, my dear Bilbo, you have to ask Frodo if he would like to be adopted and come and live here! And if you would like my opinion, I think the sooner the better.’
Authors note: For those of you who are Primula fans, my only excuse is that I am a Hobbiton hobbit, not a Buckland one, and so am bound to believe the general tittle tattle in The Ivy Bush.
My opinion of Drogo is based on the fact that he was described by the Gaffer as ‘decent and respectable’ (here quoted by Gandalf) and that seems to indicate he was everything Bilbo was not. A dull, boring hobbit who could always be expected to prosaically do what his neighbours expected. One of the herd. He would want a wife with looks, but not brains. A thinking wife would be unsettling, she would challenge all his nice little conventional views. The Hobbiton view seems to be that Drogo and Primula were behaving foolishly, and that this lead to the drowning accident.
Primula was the daughter of Mirabella Took, but Tookishness was not present in all members of the family (although it generally appeared somewhere in every generation). In addition she was the youngest child of Old Rory and may have been spoilt, certainly having parents who were in their 80s when she was a tween may have given her more freedom than was good for her.
I do not see any incongruity in their producing such an exceptional hobbit as Frodo; these things can skip generations, and the combination of Baggins and Took genes seems to have had a remarkable outcome. Frodo was said to be very like Bilbo “and in more than looks” so they obviously looked alike. Frodo’s development was partly genetic, and partly environmental, Bilbo and Gandalf being two powerful influences on his character. While the loss of parents at such a young age as twelve (equivalent to eight years old) would have had a profound effect on Frodo, I do not believe that their beliefs and values would have made much impression on him by that age.
I am always delighted to read other takes on Primula and Drogo, and whatever they were like, I believe they loved their son very much.
Chapter 5: “Glory and Trumpets!”
The next day dawned bright and clear. The garden looked fresh and green after all the rain, and the Gaffer got to work early. Bilbo, working in his study, could see Sam helping his father with the deadheading: removing not only the dead flower heads but also those damaged by all the rain, to encourage new flowers to open and keep the garden colourful. Bilbo liked to have plenty of flowers in the garden around the time of his birthday, some for cut flowers to arrange in the house and the rest to keep the garden looking beautiful for visitors. This year he was hoping for an extra reason to celebrate and thinking about an extra special party.
Bilbo had long ago given up asking the Gaffer to bring cut flowers up to the smial because he would just bring anything that was flowering, without regard to colour or form, so in the past Bilbo had usually chosen the flowers himself. After offering to teach Sam and tell him ‘stories’ - education in disguise - Bilbo had found that he only had to appear in the garden, and Sam would be there trotting at his heels.
‘Come on my lad, make yourself useful,’ Bilbo had said to him one day, and Sam had taken the flowers and laid them in the shallow baskets ready for carrying up to the house.
Bilbo sat remembering a morning when Frodo had been expected. Coming into the garden, he had found Sam waiting by the steps, and in the small hobbit's hand had been a posy of flowers. There were only a few of each type, but the colours blended harmoniously, and they had been arranged with thoughtful care, taller spikes at the back. Sam had even added a few sprigs of rosemary as a contrast. Bilbo had been surprised.
‘What’s this, Sam?’ he had asked.
‘You said you were expecting Mr. Frodo today or tomorrow, Mr. Bilbo, sir,’ came the answer. ‘I picked these for his bedroom. I know sweet peas are his favourite an' all sir, but there aren’t any yet awhiles.’
Bilbo had looked down at Sam’s anxious face. ‘That’s really thoughtful of you Sam.’ He smiled, and seeing how well planned the little posy was, had added, ‘Would you please go and cut me some tall flowers for the sitting room, Sam?’
He still didn’t know what had prompted him to delegate to Sam, and he’d expected a Gaffer selection, but Sam had returned with flowers that were exactly what Bilbo wanted, and had gone rather pink when Bilbo praised his choice. Now Bilbo always asked Sam when he wanted any flowers.
The Gaffer himself didn’t hold with flowers; he was perfectly competent in planting and looking after them, but to him they were so much wasted space that could have been used for growing taters, onions, cabbages and carrots. Why! There wasn’t a sweeter flower than those of broad beans! His Bell used to bring a few wild flowers into the house, but all of his garden in Bagshot Row was given over to the right and proper business of vegetable growing.
The Gaffer finished the dead-heading, tied back some stems that had been knocked down by the rain, and as the grass had dried in the sun, set about cutting it. Sam scurried after him, raking up the cut grass into piles, and collecting the piles into his wheelbarrow. The barrow was no longer the toy one his brother had made for him, but a full sized version. He wheeled it with difficulty to the compost heap where the grass would later be mixed with farm manure and other waste, to get it working its magic. The barrow was rather large for Sam, and it tended to have a mind of its own, so that he struggled to keep it heading in the right direction.
Bilbo watched Sam and barrow wobble out of sight of the window. He looked down at his papers, threw down his pen, and got up with sudden resolution.
Frodo was enjoying a second breakfast in the kitchen, but jumped up when Bilbo came in, to get another plate and pour some more tea. Gandalf sa in the old easy chair in the corner, keeping Frodo company and drinking tea.
‘No, no, sit down, lad, and finish eating,’ said Bilbo, ‘I don’t seem very hungry at the moment.’
Frodo looked at him in surprise, and Gandalf raised his eyebrows. Bilbo read the unspoken question and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Gandalf stood up and stretched. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my friends, I’m going to go out and get some fresh air,’ he said, and shortly after Bilbo heard the front door close. Still standing, he looked down at Frodo.
‘When you’ve finished eating, will you come and join me in the garden?’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’ He noted with satisfaction the way Frodo’s eyes flicked towards Gandalf’s empty chair. ‘Smart lad,’ he thought to himself, ‘he’s just realised Gandalf went out deliberately!’
In the garden Sam had been released from chores. He would normally have run straight up to the kitchen, but he had no intention of running into Gandalf without Mr. Frodo or Mr. Bilbo being present. The Gaffer had laughed at him the previous evening when he’d rushed home.
‘Gandalf? Naught to fear with old Gandalf, though I reckon it’s him as started Mr. Bilbo off on his mad adventures. It’s him as brings those fireworks I’ve told you about.’
Sam gasped. ‘Do you think he’s brought some for The Birthdays?’
‘Had he walked or did he come in a cart?’ asked his father.
‘Walked, I think,’ answered Sam. ‘He were very muddy.’
‘There ain’t going to be no fireworks, then. He brings them in a cart.’ The Gaffer ruffled Sam’s hair. ‘Dry yourself off, lad and eat some supper. And cheer up! You’ll see them fireworks one day, I reckon.’
So instead of heading for the kitchen Sam slipped into his special place and pretended he was Beren the outlaw, in hiding. After a while he heard voices. Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo were in the garden. He slipped silently out, pretending they were orcs and that he must creep up on them without their hearing him, to seize his father’s ring back and avenge his death. With his hobbit skills he made no sound and slowly moved a branch aside so that he could see better without being seen. The two hobbits were sitting on the garden bench, with their backs against the wall warmed by the sunshine; Bilbo offered Frodo his pouch of pipe weed.
Sam watched them. Now he had succeeded in getting so close there was no need to go on pretending they were orcs. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, and the scent of thyme filled the air. The sun made the old garden wall glow behind them, and it seemed to Sam that his two heroes glowed in the warm sunlight too, Sam felt a wave of love and longing engulf him. He would follow them to the ends of the earth if need be, and fight wolves and orcs and anything else that got in their way.
Frodo lit his pipe and leant back. Bilbo was silent, and Frodo wondered again what Bilbo wanted to tell him. That Gandalf had left them together seemed to indicate something out of the ordinary. Bilbo cleared his throat, and Frodo looked at him quickly.
‘I’ve been thinking how quiet it is when you go home, Frodo,’ the old hobbit said rather gruffly. ‘I’ve got my one hundredth birthday coming up, and I need to look to the future.’
Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but Bilbo held up his hand for silence.
‘No! Let me finish. I need to know that Bag End will have a good master after I’ve gone. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think you had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, and then we can celebrate our birthday parties comfortably together. I’d like you to be my heir. What do you think, would you like that? Of course, you would be able to visit Brandy Hall as often as you liked. And you would be welcome to have anyone to stay here.’
Frodo stared at him open mouthed, unable to speak. He was overwhelmed by such a generous offer. Then, seeing how anxious and vulnerable Bilbo looked - his dearest friend and relation - he sprang up to throw his arms around the old hobbit and hug him. As he let Bilbo go, he thought he heard a squeak from the bushes but he was too busy fighting back tears. ‘Bilbo! I don’t know how to thank you,’ he cried. ‘Of course I’d love to live here with you. I’d love it more than anything.’
Bilbo wiped his own cheeks and beamed at Frodo, but before he could say anything there was a commotion in the bushes, and Sam shot out to fall at their feet, gasping.
‘Sam?’ said Frodo, laughing and crying at the same time, ‘what ever are you doing?’ He hauled Sam to his feet, but Sam seemed to be almost incoherent with some emotion. Finally he managed to gasp out, ‘Mr. Frodo is coming to live here, sir? All the time, sir?’
Bilbo laughed, ‘Yes, Sam. He is. One day Bag End will be his - but not too soon I hope. What do you say to that?’
Sam knew just what to say to that. He grabbed Frodo’s hand. ‘Mr. Frodo, sir!’ he cried, ‘Oh! Mr. Frodo, sir! Glory and Trumpets! Mr. Frodo, sir!‘ and leaping high in the air he clapped his hands together and burst into tears.
Gandalf, leaning quietly against the other side of the garden wall, smiled quietly to himself and set off for his walk.
Authors note: Bilbo's words: " I think you had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, and then we can celebrate our birthday parties comfortably together" are of course a direct quote from Fellowship of the Ring: A Long Expected Party. We are told Bilbo is 99 when he adopts Frodo. I have chosen to make the adoption close to his 100th birthday, a milestone birthday that was likely to have got Bilbo thinking about the future. The fact that he says "here" shows that Frodo was visiting Bag End at the time.
Chapter 6: EPILOGUE
Sam ran down the Hill to the bridge and leant over the parapet, his stomach flat on the wide wall. As he had guessed from the noise, his friend Tom Cotton was there with the twins Rosie and Jolly, and his own sister Marigold. Sam had come from a visit to his Aunt May’s, well-timed to coincide with baking day, and he carried a metal can with its lid pressed down firmly, to prevent spillages as he ran, and a large paper bag.
On the far side of the bridge, the river bank sloped down to a gravel shoal where they often paddled. On the Hill side, the bank was steep, and the river was deep and fast as it ran under the bridge to the mill race, but the shallows were safe for hobbit lads and lasses. This was one of their favourite places, second only to the Pool at Bywater. As Sam leant further over he saw the reason for the shrieks and laughter. Tom had caught a frog and was chasing Rosie with it, while Jolly and Marigold threw water at him. Nets and jam jars lay discarded by the water’s edge.
Sam put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and Tom looked up and grinned, waving his trophy in the air. Sam jumped back down, raced across the bridge to the top of the bank and slithered down it, holding the can and bag up high. As he reached the bottom and stood up, Rosie ran behind him, using him as a shield to protect her from her brother. She clutched the back of his shirt, and he could feel as well as hear her giggles. Tom made a half-hearted attempt to get past Sam, and then gave up.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked Sam.
‘I got caught by Aunt May to do some chores, but she gave me these!’ replied Sam, happily. ‘Elderflower cordial and squashed fly buns!’
Marigold looked daggers at her brother. ‘That was ages ago I called them squashed flies!’ she said, crossly.
‘Well it’s a good name, midget!’ said Tom. He caught Marigold as she flew at him, and swung her into the air, before hanging her upside down over his shoulder.
‘Oh do stop teasing her, Tom!’ said Sam.
‘She likes it really!’ answered Tom, grinning.
‘Do not!’ came the muffled reply.
They climbed the slope and sat on the grass at the top to enjoy Aunt May’s generosity. Rosie sat by Sam, keeping a wary eye on her brother. She and Jolly together were - as yet - no match for Tom, but Sam could always better him in a wrestling match, and usually came to the rescue of the smaller Cottons. Rosie licked the sugar from her fingers and tugged Sam’s sleeve.
‘Tell us about the party, Sam. Marigold says you helped.’
Sam grinned. ‘Mr. Bilbo asked me special,’ he said proudly, ‘knowing how pleased I was about Mr. Frodo coming to live an’ all. He asked me to help hand things around and clear away dirty plates and such.’
‘Was there lots of people?’ asked Jolly.
‘Was there fireworks?’ shouted Tom.
‘Course there weren’t, silly!’ said Marigold scornfully. ‘We would’ve heard them!’
‘No, there weren’t no fireworks,’ said Sam sadly. ‘Though Mr. Gandalf was there, so I kept hoping.’
‘Who else was there? Who else was there?’ cried Rosie bouncing up and down. ‘We saw all the ponies and traps go rattling through Bywater!’
‘Well,’ said Sam, thinking hard, ‘I don’t rightly remember all the names, but there were a good number of Brandybucks, seeing as Mr. Frodo lived at Brandy Hall.’
‘That’s forever away!’ said Jolly, impressed, and Rosie nodded.
‘There was Mr. Merry Brandybuck, he’s ‘bout your age Marigold, and Mr. Frodo is very fond of him, and Mr. Merry’s parents and old Mr. Brandybuck - Master of Buckland as is. I heard him ask Mr. Frodo if he was sure he knew what he was doing!’ Sam looked indignant, ‘but Mr. Frodo dealt with him! “Yes, sir,” he says, very respectful, “I’m very grateful to you, sir, and I hope I can come and see you all often, but Bag End is my home.”
‘Old Mr. Brandybuck, he pats Mr. Frodo on the back and sends me off to get another glass of wine.’ Sam looked over imaginary spectacles and put on a deep voice. “Stop standing there gawping, lad, and get me another glass of that excellent red wine!”’ They all giggled.
‘Mr. Merry, he followed Mr. Frodo around all the time and wanted to be shown everything: Mr. Bilbo’s sword over the fireplace and Mr. Frodo’s room and everything! He didn’t stop talking and asking questions. He wanted to see the garden, but Mr. Frodo was busy helping Mr. Bilbo, so Mr. Frodo called me over and asked me to take Mr. Merry out into the garden.
‘Mr. Merry, he didn’t look too pleased, but Mr. Frodo told him to go with me and gave us some food and sent us out in the garden. I showed him all Mr. Frodo’s favourite places, and we sat in my special place to eat the food.’
‘You’ve never asked me to your special place,’ said Tom crossly.
‘Don’t be daft, Tom!’ said Marigold, quickly. ‘You know he can’t ask you up to Mr. Baggin’s garden!’
Sam looked at his sister gratefully, ‘Course I can’t,’ he said, ‘but I tells you some of the stories, don’t I? Me and Mr. Merry, we both like the dragon stories, and Mr. Merry collected up loads of pebbles and pretended they was precious stones and jewels and such!’
They all looked down at the pebbles shining under water in the shoals and nodded their heads. This made sense, and later they would make another dragon hoard, but for the moment they were still eager to hear about the party.
‘Did the wizard do any magic?’ asked Tom, and Marigold squeaked with laughter.
‘I heard our dad telling Aunt May that you was frightened of the wizard, Sam!” she put her hand over her mouth and giggled. Sam blushed.
‘I was not!’ he exclaimed hotly, ‘he just... he just surprised me first time I saw him! Me and Mr. Merry found him in the garden, smoking his pipe, and he was very polite. “Master Samwise,” he says “I hear you do the gardening here,” he says.’
Tom snorted, and Rosie glared at him.
‘He pats the bench either side of him, and me and Mr. Merry sits down next to him, and he looks at me from under his great bushy eyebrows - like this - and he asks us if we’d like a story. He was just about to start when Mr. Merry’s mother comes looking for him and when she sees his dirty knees - ’
‘What, Gandalf’s?’ interrupted Tom, grinning.
‘No! Mr. Merry’s!’ said Sam, falling for Tom’s question. ‘When she sees his dirty knees,’ he continued as the others laughed, ‘she goes “Tsk! Tsk! Meriadoc! Can’t you keep clean for five minutes!” and she glares at Gandalf, and tells Mr. Merry that he must go in to hear Mr. Bilbo’s speech.’
The Cottons and Gamgees all look at their own dirty knees with satisfaction. Jolly’s were the best because he had a big graze from falling over on the gravel.
‘Mr. Gandalf, he hopped up as well.’ continued Sam, ‘and he tells me I’d better go in quick and be ready to hand the wine around, so’s they can drink a toast.’
‘How can you drink toast?’ asked Rosie.
‘It means they all hold up their glasses and say “To Frodo,”’ explained Sam, who had the advantage of having seen it done. ‘But first Mr. Bilbo talked and talked, all about his adventures and Bag End and Mr. Frodo, and at first everyone listened, and then they started fingering their wine glasses, and then they started looking around the room and out of the window,’ said the observant Sam. ‘And there was a baby there, and he started crying, and his mother had to sit down and feed him, to stop him making so much noise while Mr. Bilbo was talking.’
‘Sounds like Nibs!’ said Tom, ‘he’s always crying.’ Sam ignored him.
‘Finally, Mr. Bilbo said all about how it was his and Mr. Frodo’s birthdays, and how he had adopted Frodo and how pleased he was an’ all, and he asked every one to drink a toast to Mr. Frodo, and they did, and Gandalf clapped, and they all joined in!’ Sam stopped to take a breath.
‘Then they all wanted to hug Mr. Frodo, and he was given the baby to hold, an’ the baby looked just like a little shrivelled apple. Mr. Frodo, he laughed and said, “ I don’t know about Peregrin; he looks just like a pippin to me!” and then the baby was sick all down his best waistcoat! And Mr. Merry jumped up and down shouting “Pippin, Pippin, cousin Pippin!”’ Sam paused for another breath as they all laughed over the baby Pippin’s timing. Mrs. Cotton always carried a muslin cloth over her shoulder when carrying Nibs.
‘Mr. Bilbo laughed, an’ he mopped Mr. Frodo with his handkerchief and told him it looked like the new name was going to stick. And Mr. Frodo told the pippin’s mother that it didn’t matter at all, and he was looking forward to his new cousin being old enough to come and stay. And Mr. Merry got very excited, and said he was staying now! but his mother had other ideas!
‘And when everyone had gone, I helped tidy up, and Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo sat together in the kitchen and grinned at each other, they were that happy!’
Sam would have liked to tell his friends more about his heroes, but they were losing interest. Tom jumped up. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Lets see who can collect the most jewels!’ And they slithered down the bank, shrieking with laughter.