FIC: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show - G to NC17 3/?
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Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the First - Morning (3/?)
Summary: In which Frodo and Sam fail in one area but succeed in another, all unintended; and a question is almost asked
Rating: Still boringly G. Except for the clinch, of course
AU, remember!
Extra A/N: (for enquiring minds that need to know)
Biddy is actually of the same breed as Bland’s friend Pig-wig. (Transatlantic readers might like to note that the difference is of letters and not of vowel sound)
A milk float did not always come in a tall glass
Til's trials have nothing to do with his romantic tribulations and everything to do with Meg
My Travellers are, of course, loosely (but respectfully) based on the Romany peoples. This, on the subject of names, is from George Borrow’s Word-book of the Romany (1905)
My wonderful beta Notabluemaia has been through a worrying, busy and tiring time since her mom's accident, and beta for me should have been at the very bottom of her list of priorities, but somehow she found time for this. It's great to know that Mama is making such courageous progress - endless hugs to both of you, and thank you, dear, for everything!
~~~
Sam walked Beechnut from between the shafts of the trap, but had hardly time to begin removing his driving tack before Frodo was there to lend a hand. He took the bridle and reins to wipe the bits and stow all safely in the driving seat-box, whilst Sam latched on the pony’s halter.
‘Did you finish in time, Sam? How does your rose look? I’d have come over but Bilbo needed a quick word.’
‘I did, sir, thank you - and that I did was mostly thanks to you, putting all my things where I needed them. You saved me a fair bit of time, there! And-well, it looks all right, I think.’ Sam had revealed only that the new rose would be unveiled to the interested of the Shire today. He hadn't mentioned that it would be entered not in a single bloom class but as part of a corsage - and definitely not why.
What I put together looks well enough. Of the other, I'd not like to say... But perhaps he needn’t mention the spare rose at all?
Frodo smiled. ‘Of course it does! And you were as flustered as Bilbo with Lobelia rat-tatting at the door - I had to do something to help!’
Sam hid his helplessly pleased grin in Beechnut’s mane as he clipped halter to rope, and then made the proper hitch to the back of the trap. Frodo checked the brake and brought stones to wedge under the wheels too, just in case, then fished out an empty haynet and unslung the bucket. ‘Water or grass, Sam?’
The pony was soon settled with one net generously filled by Frodo with grass from their early cutting, the second of crisp hay brought from the home, and with his bucket of water set where Sam knew it would remain shaded all day. Sam’s mind turned next to the needs of his masters. ‘What about the lunch basket, sir? Is it to stay here, or have I to take it to the judges’ tent for Mr Bilbo?’
‘No, Sam - Bilbo said he’ll be so full of sweetcake samples and thimblefuls of wine that he’s quite looking forward to plain bread and cheese and a cup of tea from the refreshment tent. Whatever is in there is for you and me, though he said that there’s far too much even for us, and he suggested that the Gaffer and your sisters might like to join us. I caught up with the lasses on my way and said I thought we’d eat here at about midday.’
‘That’s very good of him, sir,’ Sam said, with yet another moment of silent thanks, brief but heartfelt, that Mr Bilbo and no other were the Master at Bag End. ‘And of you, of course,’ he added, as he pushed the basket right underneath the trap, to stay as cool as possible. He wouldn’t put it past Frodo to have had the idea himself and just credited it to Mr Bilbo for his kindness in bringing such another treat for them; which reminded him that yesterday’s basket had never been emptied and ought to be, for Mr Bilbo to take home with him today.
‘Right, I think Beechnut should be happy enough for now. What next?’ Frodo asked, his expression studiedly casual.
‘Well now, what did you have in mind, sir?’ Sam asked, knowing the answer full well; there were few lads, teen or tween, whose first stopping place would be any different on this first day of the Show.
‘You know, Sam, over there, they have these things called Rides…’ Frodo was grinning openly now, the anticipation bright in his eyes.
‘My thought exactly, sir - lead on!’
They’d scarce heard it from where Beechnut was tethered, but as they neared the gate, the sound of the great music box came louder and louder, announcing that the Rides had commenced for the day. Whilst ever they were running it was kept wound tight, and its insistently memorable jangle added to the fun.
Sam had once been given a peep inside, and it seemed to work just the same as the small and beautifully Dale-made casket that lived in the parlour at Bag End, for he’d seen the inner workings of that, too. When it was opened, a slender maiden pirouetted to a silvery tinkling, and from the time he first heard the tale as a youngster, Sam had always been convinced this must be Lúthien in her moonlit glade.
Here was no such delicate work. To all intents and purposes this was merely a broad, upright box on wheels, with a large key sticking out of the back; decorated, to be sure, but in a hearty and no-nonsense manner, for the workings were what really mattered. And, best Sam could tell, what was inside was simply a very much bigger brass cylinder, with bits sticking out here and there, just the same. When it went round, these bits’d catch and twang against a huge comb with teeth of different lengths; and somehow all those tings and tangs joined up to make a warbling tune that tumbled from the sounding chamber to echo clear across the Show-ground. There were several different cylinders so that the music could be changed, but here were no silvered chimes; these were brash and brazen - all jolly, rhythmic variants of well-known Shire songs that set every hobbit’s toes a-tap before he knew it. These tunes were guaranteed to keep the queues forming and the pence rolling in.
By now, morning was well on its way to the full, and the Show-field was abuzz; the aisles were crammed with a noisy, colourful heave of hobbitry, and you were best to move with care should you want to avoid your toes being painfully trodden on, or an inadvertent stomachful of elbow as someone tried to force his way along. Progress was slow, even if you travelled down the centre, thus foregoing any chance to see such delights as the stalls on either side might have to offer.
Frodo seemed to slither ahead through gaps Sam could barely see, like a tiddler through the tiniest rent in your keep net, but his own wider bulk was a drawback that caught against every stray shoulder. Quite why having to push through noisy, heedless crowds of hobbits (each and every one of them obviously bent on stopping to chat just exactly where he were intending to walk) should make Sam feel so wellingly happy inside, he couldn’t have said. But every few yards, Frodo would halt and look back, to grin at him for the impossibility of the situation; and Sam knew it was worth every step of the way, every single crushed toe and jabbed rib.
When they reached the Rides, the throng thinned and formed into itself queues for each. The merry-go-round would be out of the question for a good while yet - the line swept twice around and back again. At the swing-boats it was less than half as long, but for the Joywheel, you scarcely queued at all. There was simply a mad scramble to get aboard once the wheel stopped after spinning off its previous load of hobbits.
‘I used to be good at that when I was younger,’ Frodo said, a little wistfully.
‘Yes, sir, Mr Greybeard, sir!’ It came out before Sam thought about it - before he could remind himself that this wasn’t just one of the lads from Hobbiton he was teasing. But when Frodo just grinned broadly, taking no offence, Sam added, ‘‘Course, I’ve only bin a tween since Astron, so I’m still young enough to enjoy it proper! Do you think your poor old limbs could manage it, sir, if I were to give you a hand up?’
‘Sam Gamgee, I regard that as a challenge!’ Frodo’s lips gave the distinct twitch that was the sign that he was on his mettle. Sam had seen it many a time as Frodo stood up to Mr Bilbo in a contest of wits; that it was usually Frodo who must concede, he would - once he caught his breath from laughing - put down to the fact that Bilbo had had so many years in which to collect more tricks with which to trip an opponent. (There were definitely things that twitch did to Sam that he wouldn’t want Mr Bilbo knowing about, though.)
As the wheel slowed to a halt (empty as usual) and they were rootling in pockets for the coins, Frodo said, ‘A wager, Sam! The one who falls off soonest must stake the other’s ride? I’ll just show you who is too old for this!’
Sam grinned. ‘I hate to take your money from you, sir, but if you insist!’
They slapped hands on it then clambered onto the huge wooden disc, and Sam turned to concentrate on getting himself into the very centre. He’d done this often enough over the years to work out that the only place you might be safe from the speed that was trying to fling you off, was right in the middle. Not possible now, though, as there were others with the same notion; he settled as near to it as he could, Frodo close beside him.
‘It seems to be more than we who know the ‘secret’, Sam!’ Frodo said in an undertone.
He should have known, Sam thought. No-one who watched and studied as much and as often as Mr Frodo could possibly have failed to divine the solution to the Joywheel’s trick of scattering its patrons willy nilly.
The wheel was thickly crowded now with lads of all ages from too small, really to old enough to know better (many were far older than Frodo). There were only a very few lasses, and they young and unconcerned with showing their long white drawers, setting aside how ungraceful they would look, when they - inevitably - tumbled off. Pence were collected, and the wheel began to turn, slowly at first, as the pair of hobbits working the crank got into their stride. Then the speed increased, and those hobbits on the very edges dug in their toes and leaned back, hastily. To no avail - seconds later they were picking themselves up and climbing over the bales, out of harm’s way.
Faster still and faster sped the wheel. Interested onlookers, so clearly seen just moments before, were no sooner past than come around again - here-gone-here-gone-here-gone - until their faces merged into one dizzying blur. Sam felt rather than heard the quiet moan from the lad squashed up behind him who had managed to get the very centre spot. It was Lester Catesby, a very young teen to whom Sam owed the ritual toffee apple for his help that morning; he was beginning to look rather unwell.
‘Tuck your head in!’ Sam advised in a sort of low bellow, for his voice seemed to be whipped away from him. ‘And it might be as well to keep your eyes shut, so’s you can’t tell how fast we’re going!’ Lester didn’t reply, but must have heard, for he abruptly transformed himself into a ball, tighter than a dormouse in its hazel thicket.
Even as Sam spoke, came the slight click and jerk of a new gear engaged - and the wheel spun impossibly faster. He was still fairly hopeful of success himself, but hobbits near to him were slipping away rapidly now, ending up in unceremonious heaps between the wheel and its guard rail of straw. And push down as he might, the sleek warmth of polished wood was treacherous beneath his feet and trousers. It began slowly - merely the awareness that he was moving, no more; but then in an inexorable slither he was being swept away as though by a huge, unseen hand. His fingers struck out of their own will it seemed, desperately seeking some hold - and what they seized upon was Frodo, also struggling to stay aboard. In a sliding clutch and a tangle of legs, they skidded together and tumbled into a tight embrace.
Before Sam could do so much as blink, they were rolling over and over each other, right off the wheel to land as one up against a particularly prickly (Sam might have sworn, had he not had other sensations on his mind) bale of straw. Several of those protuberant stalks were sticking somewhat painfully into his left ear, but what was beginning to push into him elsewhere was what Sam noticed and responded to. There was nothing painful about that, whatsoever, and Sam’s sudden breathlessness had little to do with the Joy to be gained from wheels and everything to do with pleasure to be obtained in quite other places.
There was a distant shout which seemed to be of commiseration, and it was borne in upon Sam that he really should open his eyes, and that he definitely could not continue to lie here like this, or in any fashion which might so pleasantly continue a theme which was developing so very satisf-
Oh!
The same thought had obviously occurred to Frodo at precisely the same moment, for he was scrambling hastily if awkwardly to his feet, loudly proclaiming something about being, ‘Winded, just for a moment, there,’ and that he was, ‘Sorry Sam!’
Sam kept his eyes down as he pulled himself up to rest on the unkindly bale for a moment. He’d blurted out, ‘That’s all right, Mr Frodo, sir, I lost me own breath for a minute, there,’ before he’d really thought how it might sound, though no-one nearby seemed to have noticed; and Sam could no more have looked Frodo in the face right then, to see if he had, than fly. Indeed, he kept his eyes fixed firmly in the centre of Frodo’s chest for there weren't no sense in looking further and getting his hopes up, too. ‘Twouldn’t have been meant, not like Sam’s was meant; must have just been the friction as did it. And reliving the sensation right now were not a good idea. Sam discouraged such thoughts firmly - but it weren't so much his thoughts as were most in need of restraint.
Concentrating hard on the hobbits around him, he discovered the commiserations to be for poor Lester, who just hadn’t quite made it to the end after all, and was in fact currently disposing of his second breakfast rather noisily in the convenient trench, dug over by the hedge.
Frodo suddenly sat down heavily on the bale beside Sam; a quick sideways peep revealed that he was now wearing a slight tinge of green over a noticeable pallor.
‘You all right, sir?’ Sam asked, abandoning all consideration now of what he might or might not have felt - couldn’t have, not when Frodo were looking so poorly all of a sudden. It'd likely just been his own wishful thinking.
Frodo swallowed hard. ‘I was all right, until I let myself listen to young Lester. I think I shall be rather better if we move away, because from the look of it, there will be other lads doing exactly the same thing before too long!’ The wheel had started its implacable spin once more, and from the look on Frodo’s face, just watching it might be enough.
‘Thought for a bit that you was going to manage to stop aboard, Samwise!’ said a friendly voice.
Sam looked up to see Til standing there, a smile on his face and as light-hearted as ever he had been. And Sam realised that the sober demeanour he had taken for the effects of growing up had its cause elsewhere; that this Til looked younger and happier than Sam had seen in a fair while.
‘Hello, Til! You on your own?’ Sam said, for there was no sign of any Traveller, lad or lass; all would be busy with the stalls and sideshows, he supposed.
‘Aye, for now. Dad’s arrived for the day, and he’s checking over our stock, so I thought I’d take a walk round the field and give him chance to find what I’ve missed doing!’ From some lads this might have been a bitter complaint at their parent’s harsh perfectionism, but Sam knew - as did Til and his Dad - that any good stockhobbit would have done the same, that there would be no fault to be found, and that censure was no part of it.
Til’s eyes flicked aside then, and Sam realised that Frodo had got to his feet.
‘Morning, Mr Frodo, sir.’
‘Good morning, Til, how are you? Enjoying the Show?’ Frodo had turned his back resolutely on the Joywheel, and his colour was slowly returning.
‘Oh, yes, sir, very much. You’re looking a bit better nor you was a minute or two ago, may I say?’’
‘I am simply not used to whirling on top of such a large breakfast - or at all, if it comes to that! I think that next time, I shall try it fasting.' He paused for a settling breath. 'So, what stock do you have here, Til?’
‘We’ve brought one or two of the cattle, sir, and Biddy’s done us proud with her last litter, so she’s here again.’ Biddy the Darkshire sow was justly famous for her ease of farrowing so many lively black piglets. ‘We’ll be fair busy with them all tomorrow, and Dad's been redding up the milk float for the turnout class. And I’ve Meg in the trials heats this afternoon, of course.’
‘I still reckon you two were unlucky getting that balky ewe last year,’ Sam said, remembering.
Meg had been a novice with the sheep, back then; she and Til had been doing right well up until the final, when they’d come up against one of those rare ewes with no respect for a dog. Though Meg had penned her at last she had cost them points and the rosettes had gone elsewhere.
‘She’s a good eye, has Meg - she were just a mite young still, to use it right last year. But since then me and her’s practised with the most headstrong sheep to be found anywhere in the Farthings - ours and other folks’s. We’ll cope with whatever the draw throws at us, this time!’ Til had a quiet pride in his dog, and Sam knew that this would be no idle boast.
‘The way we’re slated for the heats, I should think we’ll be off not that long after lunch, so I’d best get on,’ Til said.
Sam suddenly had the distinct notion that this ‘walk round the field’ was to more purpose than the one Til had given. He raised one eyebrow. ‘Anything special in mind?’ he asked. ‘You’d have no time to join a queue, that’s for sure, though you could take a turn on the wheel.’
‘No, I-fact is, I thought I’d just go along and say hello to a friend of mine. He helps on one of the stalls, and he’s in the Little Show. He-he’s a Traveller.’
‘I think I may have seen you with him last night,’ Sam said gently.
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ Til blushed, realising what Sam must have seen. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.
‘Naught to be sorry for,’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘He looks a nice lad.’
‘He is that!’ Til’s agreement was swift and heartfelt.
‘What does your friend do in the Show?’ Frodo asked; and Sam remembered that Frodo had also seen them together. Was he just being tactful now, to spare Til further blushes, or was he changing the subject because he had misliked (as some did) the sight of two lads, kissing for love in the dark? Sam thought not, for Frodo’s smile to Til was as open and friendly as ever.
‘Well now, if I tell you that, sir, it’ll spoil it for you,’ Til said with a grin. ‘You pay your pence and see for yourself, Mr Frodo. It’s very clever, what he does - what they do - and how it’s done. Well worth going to see!’ There was pride in Til’s voice again, Sam thought, but this time there was tenderness too, and a soft smile to go with it. There could be no doubt how very much Til was in love, not to Sam’s mind, anyway; he’d to guard against using that tone and that look himself. Til obviously lacked the practice that Sam had, not being with his lad for most of the year.
‘We’ll certainly make sure not to miss him, then,’ Frodo said. ‘What is his name?’
‘He’s called Rafe,’ Til said almost shyly, and Sam could tell he was unused to being able to name his love aloud. ‘Rafe Boswell.’
‘We shall hope to meet him, perhaps,’ Frodo said, ‘but we will make a point of watching the Show, won’t we, Sam? Maybe we’ll see you there, Til, and you could introduce us afterwards?’
‘I’d be proud to, sir, and thank you. I must be off now, time’s getting on! Goodbye, Sam!’
Sam returned the farewell and watched as Til disappeared into the ferment of hobbits. No, Frodo obviously had no problem with Til and his Rafe. But it were a long step from accepting something that touched you not at all, to wanting the same for yourself. Sam wanted to cry out, Yes, Til loves a lad - but so do I! I need to know what you feel about it, sir - whether you could feel that way yourself. If you might ever feel that way for me…
When he turned back, Frodo was looking at him.
‘Sam, I-That is-’
Then Sam's stomach gave a great flollop, for Frodo’s eyes were suddenly so gentle and his face bore a look that Sam had never seen - or been allowed to see? - there before. He almost thought…it almost seemed…it reminded him…of Til. Of Til and Til's face when he talked of his Rafe, the look Sam knew so well from the inside…
'Sam, could you-’ Though the words were hesitant, they roused that small spark of hope Sam nurtured deep within him.
But at that very moment, a name was called by someone in the crowd; and Sam was never to hear the end of Frodo’s half-formed question.
~~~
Chapter 4: Day One - Mid-morning.
Chapter 2 was here and the story began with The Prologue
~~~
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the First - Morning (3/?)
Summary: In which Frodo and Sam fail in one area but succeed in another, all unintended; and a question is almost asked
Rating: Still boringly G. Except for the clinch, of course
AU, remember!
Extra A/N: (for enquiring minds that need to know)
Biddy is actually of the same breed as Bland’s friend Pig-wig. (Transatlantic readers might like to note that the difference is of letters and not of vowel sound)
A milk float did not always come in a tall glass
Til's trials have nothing to do with his romantic tribulations and everything to do with Meg
My Travellers are, of course, loosely (but respectfully) based on the Romany peoples. This, on the subject of names, is from George Borrow’s Word-book of the Romany (1905)
My wonderful beta Notabluemaia has been through a worrying, busy and tiring time since her mom's accident, and beta for me should have been at the very bottom of her list of priorities, but somehow she found time for this. It's great to know that Mama is making such courageous progress - endless hugs to both of you, and thank you, dear, for everything!
~~~
Sam walked Beechnut from between the shafts of the trap, but had hardly time to begin removing his driving tack before Frodo was there to lend a hand. He took the bridle and reins to wipe the bits and stow all safely in the driving seat-box, whilst Sam latched on the pony’s halter.
‘Did you finish in time, Sam? How does your rose look? I’d have come over but Bilbo needed a quick word.’
‘I did, sir, thank you - and that I did was mostly thanks to you, putting all my things where I needed them. You saved me a fair bit of time, there! And-well, it looks all right, I think.’ Sam had revealed only that the new rose would be unveiled to the interested of the Shire today. He hadn't mentioned that it would be entered not in a single bloom class but as part of a corsage - and definitely not why.
What I put together looks well enough. Of the other, I'd not like to say... But perhaps he needn’t mention the spare rose at all?
Frodo smiled. ‘Of course it does! And you were as flustered as Bilbo with Lobelia rat-tatting at the door - I had to do something to help!’
Sam hid his helplessly pleased grin in Beechnut’s mane as he clipped halter to rope, and then made the proper hitch to the back of the trap. Frodo checked the brake and brought stones to wedge under the wheels too, just in case, then fished out an empty haynet and unslung the bucket. ‘Water or grass, Sam?’
The pony was soon settled with one net generously filled by Frodo with grass from their early cutting, the second of crisp hay brought from the home, and with his bucket of water set where Sam knew it would remain shaded all day. Sam’s mind turned next to the needs of his masters. ‘What about the lunch basket, sir? Is it to stay here, or have I to take it to the judges’ tent for Mr Bilbo?’
‘No, Sam - Bilbo said he’ll be so full of sweetcake samples and thimblefuls of wine that he’s quite looking forward to plain bread and cheese and a cup of tea from the refreshment tent. Whatever is in there is for you and me, though he said that there’s far too much even for us, and he suggested that the Gaffer and your sisters might like to join us. I caught up with the lasses on my way and said I thought we’d eat here at about midday.’
‘That’s very good of him, sir,’ Sam said, with yet another moment of silent thanks, brief but heartfelt, that Mr Bilbo and no other were the Master at Bag End. ‘And of you, of course,’ he added, as he pushed the basket right underneath the trap, to stay as cool as possible. He wouldn’t put it past Frodo to have had the idea himself and just credited it to Mr Bilbo for his kindness in bringing such another treat for them; which reminded him that yesterday’s basket had never been emptied and ought to be, for Mr Bilbo to take home with him today.
‘Right, I think Beechnut should be happy enough for now. What next?’ Frodo asked, his expression studiedly casual.
‘Well now, what did you have in mind, sir?’ Sam asked, knowing the answer full well; there were few lads, teen or tween, whose first stopping place would be any different on this first day of the Show.
‘You know, Sam, over there, they have these things called Rides…’ Frodo was grinning openly now, the anticipation bright in his eyes.
‘My thought exactly, sir - lead on!’
They’d scarce heard it from where Beechnut was tethered, but as they neared the gate, the sound of the great music box came louder and louder, announcing that the Rides had commenced for the day. Whilst ever they were running it was kept wound tight, and its insistently memorable jangle added to the fun.
Sam had once been given a peep inside, and it seemed to work just the same as the small and beautifully Dale-made casket that lived in the parlour at Bag End, for he’d seen the inner workings of that, too. When it was opened, a slender maiden pirouetted to a silvery tinkling, and from the time he first heard the tale as a youngster, Sam had always been convinced this must be Lúthien in her moonlit glade.
Here was no such delicate work. To all intents and purposes this was merely a broad, upright box on wheels, with a large key sticking out of the back; decorated, to be sure, but in a hearty and no-nonsense manner, for the workings were what really mattered. And, best Sam could tell, what was inside was simply a very much bigger brass cylinder, with bits sticking out here and there, just the same. When it went round, these bits’d catch and twang against a huge comb with teeth of different lengths; and somehow all those tings and tangs joined up to make a warbling tune that tumbled from the sounding chamber to echo clear across the Show-ground. There were several different cylinders so that the music could be changed, but here were no silvered chimes; these were brash and brazen - all jolly, rhythmic variants of well-known Shire songs that set every hobbit’s toes a-tap before he knew it. These tunes were guaranteed to keep the queues forming and the pence rolling in.
By now, morning was well on its way to the full, and the Show-field was abuzz; the aisles were crammed with a noisy, colourful heave of hobbitry, and you were best to move with care should you want to avoid your toes being painfully trodden on, or an inadvertent stomachful of elbow as someone tried to force his way along. Progress was slow, even if you travelled down the centre, thus foregoing any chance to see such delights as the stalls on either side might have to offer.
Frodo seemed to slither ahead through gaps Sam could barely see, like a tiddler through the tiniest rent in your keep net, but his own wider bulk was a drawback that caught against every stray shoulder. Quite why having to push through noisy, heedless crowds of hobbits (each and every one of them obviously bent on stopping to chat just exactly where he were intending to walk) should make Sam feel so wellingly happy inside, he couldn’t have said. But every few yards, Frodo would halt and look back, to grin at him for the impossibility of the situation; and Sam knew it was worth every step of the way, every single crushed toe and jabbed rib.
When they reached the Rides, the throng thinned and formed into itself queues for each. The merry-go-round would be out of the question for a good while yet - the line swept twice around and back again. At the swing-boats it was less than half as long, but for the Joywheel, you scarcely queued at all. There was simply a mad scramble to get aboard once the wheel stopped after spinning off its previous load of hobbits.
‘I used to be good at that when I was younger,’ Frodo said, a little wistfully.
‘Yes, sir, Mr Greybeard, sir!’ It came out before Sam thought about it - before he could remind himself that this wasn’t just one of the lads from Hobbiton he was teasing. But when Frodo just grinned broadly, taking no offence, Sam added, ‘‘Course, I’ve only bin a tween since Astron, so I’m still young enough to enjoy it proper! Do you think your poor old limbs could manage it, sir, if I were to give you a hand up?’
‘Sam Gamgee, I regard that as a challenge!’ Frodo’s lips gave the distinct twitch that was the sign that he was on his mettle. Sam had seen it many a time as Frodo stood up to Mr Bilbo in a contest of wits; that it was usually Frodo who must concede, he would - once he caught his breath from laughing - put down to the fact that Bilbo had had so many years in which to collect more tricks with which to trip an opponent. (There were definitely things that twitch did to Sam that he wouldn’t want Mr Bilbo knowing about, though.)
As the wheel slowed to a halt (empty as usual) and they were rootling in pockets for the coins, Frodo said, ‘A wager, Sam! The one who falls off soonest must stake the other’s ride? I’ll just show you who is too old for this!’
Sam grinned. ‘I hate to take your money from you, sir, but if you insist!’
They slapped hands on it then clambered onto the huge wooden disc, and Sam turned to concentrate on getting himself into the very centre. He’d done this often enough over the years to work out that the only place you might be safe from the speed that was trying to fling you off, was right in the middle. Not possible now, though, as there were others with the same notion; he settled as near to it as he could, Frodo close beside him.
‘It seems to be more than we who know the ‘secret’, Sam!’ Frodo said in an undertone.
He should have known, Sam thought. No-one who watched and studied as much and as often as Mr Frodo could possibly have failed to divine the solution to the Joywheel’s trick of scattering its patrons willy nilly.
The wheel was thickly crowded now with lads of all ages from too small, really to old enough to know better (many were far older than Frodo). There were only a very few lasses, and they young and unconcerned with showing their long white drawers, setting aside how ungraceful they would look, when they - inevitably - tumbled off. Pence were collected, and the wheel began to turn, slowly at first, as the pair of hobbits working the crank got into their stride. Then the speed increased, and those hobbits on the very edges dug in their toes and leaned back, hastily. To no avail - seconds later they were picking themselves up and climbing over the bales, out of harm’s way.
Faster still and faster sped the wheel. Interested onlookers, so clearly seen just moments before, were no sooner past than come around again - here-gone-here-gone-here-gone - until their faces merged into one dizzying blur. Sam felt rather than heard the quiet moan from the lad squashed up behind him who had managed to get the very centre spot. It was Lester Catesby, a very young teen to whom Sam owed the ritual toffee apple for his help that morning; he was beginning to look rather unwell.
‘Tuck your head in!’ Sam advised in a sort of low bellow, for his voice seemed to be whipped away from him. ‘And it might be as well to keep your eyes shut, so’s you can’t tell how fast we’re going!’ Lester didn’t reply, but must have heard, for he abruptly transformed himself into a ball, tighter than a dormouse in its hazel thicket.
Even as Sam spoke, came the slight click and jerk of a new gear engaged - and the wheel spun impossibly faster. He was still fairly hopeful of success himself, but hobbits near to him were slipping away rapidly now, ending up in unceremonious heaps between the wheel and its guard rail of straw. And push down as he might, the sleek warmth of polished wood was treacherous beneath his feet and trousers. It began slowly - merely the awareness that he was moving, no more; but then in an inexorable slither he was being swept away as though by a huge, unseen hand. His fingers struck out of their own will it seemed, desperately seeking some hold - and what they seized upon was Frodo, also struggling to stay aboard. In a sliding clutch and a tangle of legs, they skidded together and tumbled into a tight embrace.
Before Sam could do so much as blink, they were rolling over and over each other, right off the wheel to land as one up against a particularly prickly (Sam might have sworn, had he not had other sensations on his mind) bale of straw. Several of those protuberant stalks were sticking somewhat painfully into his left ear, but what was beginning to push into him elsewhere was what Sam noticed and responded to. There was nothing painful about that, whatsoever, and Sam’s sudden breathlessness had little to do with the Joy to be gained from wheels and everything to do with pleasure to be obtained in quite other places.
There was a distant shout which seemed to be of commiseration, and it was borne in upon Sam that he really should open his eyes, and that he definitely could not continue to lie here like this, or in any fashion which might so pleasantly continue a theme which was developing so very satisf-
Oh!
The same thought had obviously occurred to Frodo at precisely the same moment, for he was scrambling hastily if awkwardly to his feet, loudly proclaiming something about being, ‘Winded, just for a moment, there,’ and that he was, ‘Sorry Sam!’
Sam kept his eyes down as he pulled himself up to rest on the unkindly bale for a moment. He’d blurted out, ‘That’s all right, Mr Frodo, sir, I lost me own breath for a minute, there,’ before he’d really thought how it might sound, though no-one nearby seemed to have noticed; and Sam could no more have looked Frodo in the face right then, to see if he had, than fly. Indeed, he kept his eyes fixed firmly in the centre of Frodo’s chest for there weren't no sense in looking further and getting his hopes up, too. ‘Twouldn’t have been meant, not like Sam’s was meant; must have just been the friction as did it. And reliving the sensation right now were not a good idea. Sam discouraged such thoughts firmly - but it weren't so much his thoughts as were most in need of restraint.
Concentrating hard on the hobbits around him, he discovered the commiserations to be for poor Lester, who just hadn’t quite made it to the end after all, and was in fact currently disposing of his second breakfast rather noisily in the convenient trench, dug over by the hedge.
Frodo suddenly sat down heavily on the bale beside Sam; a quick sideways peep revealed that he was now wearing a slight tinge of green over a noticeable pallor.
‘You all right, sir?’ Sam asked, abandoning all consideration now of what he might or might not have felt - couldn’t have, not when Frodo were looking so poorly all of a sudden. It'd likely just been his own wishful thinking.
Frodo swallowed hard. ‘I was all right, until I let myself listen to young Lester. I think I shall be rather better if we move away, because from the look of it, there will be other lads doing exactly the same thing before too long!’ The wheel had started its implacable spin once more, and from the look on Frodo’s face, just watching it might be enough.
‘Thought for a bit that you was going to manage to stop aboard, Samwise!’ said a friendly voice.
Sam looked up to see Til standing there, a smile on his face and as light-hearted as ever he had been. And Sam realised that the sober demeanour he had taken for the effects of growing up had its cause elsewhere; that this Til looked younger and happier than Sam had seen in a fair while.
‘Hello, Til! You on your own?’ Sam said, for there was no sign of any Traveller, lad or lass; all would be busy with the stalls and sideshows, he supposed.
‘Aye, for now. Dad’s arrived for the day, and he’s checking over our stock, so I thought I’d take a walk round the field and give him chance to find what I’ve missed doing!’ From some lads this might have been a bitter complaint at their parent’s harsh perfectionism, but Sam knew - as did Til and his Dad - that any good stockhobbit would have done the same, that there would be no fault to be found, and that censure was no part of it.
Til’s eyes flicked aside then, and Sam realised that Frodo had got to his feet.
‘Morning, Mr Frodo, sir.’
‘Good morning, Til, how are you? Enjoying the Show?’ Frodo had turned his back resolutely on the Joywheel, and his colour was slowly returning.
‘Oh, yes, sir, very much. You’re looking a bit better nor you was a minute or two ago, may I say?’’
‘I am simply not used to whirling on top of such a large breakfast - or at all, if it comes to that! I think that next time, I shall try it fasting.' He paused for a settling breath. 'So, what stock do you have here, Til?’
‘We’ve brought one or two of the cattle, sir, and Biddy’s done us proud with her last litter, so she’s here again.’ Biddy the Darkshire sow was justly famous for her ease of farrowing so many lively black piglets. ‘We’ll be fair busy with them all tomorrow, and Dad's been redding up the milk float for the turnout class. And I’ve Meg in the trials heats this afternoon, of course.’
‘I still reckon you two were unlucky getting that balky ewe last year,’ Sam said, remembering.
Meg had been a novice with the sheep, back then; she and Til had been doing right well up until the final, when they’d come up against one of those rare ewes with no respect for a dog. Though Meg had penned her at last she had cost them points and the rosettes had gone elsewhere.
‘She’s a good eye, has Meg - she were just a mite young still, to use it right last year. But since then me and her’s practised with the most headstrong sheep to be found anywhere in the Farthings - ours and other folks’s. We’ll cope with whatever the draw throws at us, this time!’ Til had a quiet pride in his dog, and Sam knew that this would be no idle boast.
‘The way we’re slated for the heats, I should think we’ll be off not that long after lunch, so I’d best get on,’ Til said.
Sam suddenly had the distinct notion that this ‘walk round the field’ was to more purpose than the one Til had given. He raised one eyebrow. ‘Anything special in mind?’ he asked. ‘You’d have no time to join a queue, that’s for sure, though you could take a turn on the wheel.’
‘No, I-fact is, I thought I’d just go along and say hello to a friend of mine. He helps on one of the stalls, and he’s in the Little Show. He-he’s a Traveller.’
‘I think I may have seen you with him last night,’ Sam said gently.
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ Til blushed, realising what Sam must have seen. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.
‘Naught to be sorry for,’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘He looks a nice lad.’
‘He is that!’ Til’s agreement was swift and heartfelt.
‘What does your friend do in the Show?’ Frodo asked; and Sam remembered that Frodo had also seen them together. Was he just being tactful now, to spare Til further blushes, or was he changing the subject because he had misliked (as some did) the sight of two lads, kissing for love in the dark? Sam thought not, for Frodo’s smile to Til was as open and friendly as ever.
‘Well now, if I tell you that, sir, it’ll spoil it for you,’ Til said with a grin. ‘You pay your pence and see for yourself, Mr Frodo. It’s very clever, what he does - what they do - and how it’s done. Well worth going to see!’ There was pride in Til’s voice again, Sam thought, but this time there was tenderness too, and a soft smile to go with it. There could be no doubt how very much Til was in love, not to Sam’s mind, anyway; he’d to guard against using that tone and that look himself. Til obviously lacked the practice that Sam had, not being with his lad for most of the year.
‘We’ll certainly make sure not to miss him, then,’ Frodo said. ‘What is his name?’
‘He’s called Rafe,’ Til said almost shyly, and Sam could tell he was unused to being able to name his love aloud. ‘Rafe Boswell.’
‘We shall hope to meet him, perhaps,’ Frodo said, ‘but we will make a point of watching the Show, won’t we, Sam? Maybe we’ll see you there, Til, and you could introduce us afterwards?’
‘I’d be proud to, sir, and thank you. I must be off now, time’s getting on! Goodbye, Sam!’
Sam returned the farewell and watched as Til disappeared into the ferment of hobbits. No, Frodo obviously had no problem with Til and his Rafe. But it were a long step from accepting something that touched you not at all, to wanting the same for yourself. Sam wanted to cry out, Yes, Til loves a lad - but so do I! I need to know what you feel about it, sir - whether you could feel that way yourself. If you might ever feel that way for me…
When he turned back, Frodo was looking at him.
‘Sam, I-That is-’
Then Sam's stomach gave a great flollop, for Frodo’s eyes were suddenly so gentle and his face bore a look that Sam had never seen - or been allowed to see? - there before. He almost thought…it almost seemed…it reminded him…of Til. Of Til and Til's face when he talked of his Rafe, the look Sam knew so well from the inside…
'Sam, could you-’ Though the words were hesitant, they roused that small spark of hope Sam nurtured deep within him.
But at that very moment, a name was called by someone in the crowd; and Sam was never to hear the end of Frodo’s half-formed question.
~~~
Chapter 4: Day One - Mid-morning.
Chapter 2 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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